Every year I dread my birthday. It’s not an age thing, although I’m not pleased about that. It’s more a time thing. My birthday is sandwiched between Christmas and New Years. It’s really the worst time to have a birthday.
For the last twelve years, Adam has consistently made my birthday wonderful. He has given me countless amazing presents, thrown wonderful parties for me and generally treated me like the queen I like to be 🙂
Yet every December the gloom and doom of the upcoming birthday comes. I always start out with complaining how my birthday doesn’t matter, lets forget the whole thing. Its part of the ritual we go through each year. Somehow Adam spends the rest of the month pepping me up to get excited about my birthday.
This year, despite Adam’s efforts, I am again dreading the big day. For one, it falls on a week day where everyone in my family has to work. And although I love spending time with my kids, it doesn’t feel like anything different than your average day.
I’m not sure what I expect – fireworks perhaps? A parade would be nice. Maybe a concert might spice it up. I’m not an eight year old anymore. Nor do I need a party with streamers. I intellectually understand all of this. However no matter what I dread the day.
And Adam has been amazingly consistent. Every year he makes it special and makes me happy. Don’t I owe it to him to get over the birthday depression? Don’t I owe it to my kids to set an example? Don’t I owe it to myself to stop inflicting so much pity? Don’t I owe it to my mom to stop blaming her for having me during the worst week of the year?
I suppose it doesn’t help that I’m officially thirty something…