It’s almost my birthday. I know what you’re thinking. Whoopdee Freakin’ Do! I had my first child when I was 26. Since then, my birthdays have become increasingly more dismal as the years have progressed. Before you leave me a nasty comment telling me how ungrateful I am, please know that you can shove it. Yes, I have a lovely life. Yes, I have wonderful children. Yes, I want someone to make me a damn cake. I’d prefer it not be me.
Birthday morning: Happy Birthday to ME! If I’m lucky, someone will cry/scream/sob, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAHHHHHHMYYYYYYY!” and spit toddler drool directly into my face as they pull my hair and tell me they’ve pooped. Who needs presents after a greeting like that? Since it’s my special day , they insist on pancakes and eat them. All. I might be able to salvage the few pieces that hit the floor. Hey, 3 second…or minute…or hour rule.
Birthday afternoon: Since my birthday is in the summer, I always have the distinct pleasure of having all four of the children home with me. Aren’t I the luckiest? The afternoon consists of them asking where I plan to take them on my special day. Wouldn’t I love to take them to the local pool? Who wouldn’t? I always hope it’s jam packed with young people with tanned, perfect bodies because I just don’t get enough opportunity to hang out with exceptional human specimens while I’m practically naked. Besides, my varicose veins could use some sun. I leave the pool exhausted, humiliated and with at least one screaming child under my arm. Before I load them into the car, I check to make sure the screaming child is mine. I also leave confident that I’ve done my part to help prevent teen pregnancy just by being there. Good deed for humanity for the year? Check.
Birthday evening: Red eyed and exhausted, the gremlins are hungry. I weigh the idea of having a “relaxing” birthday dinner out with all of the kids and then immediately slap my own face. How much chlorine did I swallow today? While I decide which kind of tasteless, delivery pizza to order, I get excited when I remember that one of the local chains sent me a coupon for a free, small cheese pizza. This day keeps getting better. As the delivery man is out front, inevitably a family will walk down the road in front of my house, see the pizza delivery man, the screaming, diaper clad children and me carrying a bottle of wine…in my teeth with the baby in the pack. I see the relief on their faces when they realize they don’t know us. I resist the urge to shout, “TAKE ME WITH YOU, (under my breath) you judgemental a-holes!”
Birthday night: Husband comes home and asks me if I had a great day. I am three glasses of wine in and mumble something about magic and unicorns. He then sets to task getting them ready for bed during which time I hear no more than 100 times, “What is WRONG with all of you? I hope you didn’t act like this all day on your Mother’s birthday!” I incessantly roll my eyes from my new residence on the couch. I open husband’s birthday card which is something along the lines of, “Hey sexy birthday lady! How do you stay so sexy? P.S. You are sexy.” and I shake my fist at the universe because, of course, MY special day is not over. Not by a long shot.
And, there you have it. A birthday deconstructed. On July 8th, think of me fondly, and, while you are drinking your morning latte, mimosa, Bloody Mary or tea, please take a moment to pour a little out on pavement for your soon to be fallen birthday comrade.
It’s my birthday and all I got was this lousy blog post. (Coming soon to a t-shirt on me!)
|Maybe for my 40th? A girl can dream.|
|If I get this cake this year, I might forgive all other birthday transgressions.|