Almost 29Posted: July 8, 2014
I have never been a huge fan of birthdays.
Having a summer birthday as a kid always sucked, because the other children were usually on vacation whenever I tried to plan a party, or we were the ones who were away.
Even as a kid, I knew not to expect too much. I never counted down the days or had trouble sleeping the night before.
My parents fought–they fought a lot, and this would not necessarily stop just because it was the anniversary of my birth.
As a teenager it was more of the same. There were the years when I was working so my family took vacation and left me at home by myself. There was the year, after having moved out of my parents’ house because I couldn’t breathe under their constant anger, I was kicked out of the friends place where I was staying–ON my birthday. There was the year we were in Florida and I made friends with a girl at the resort and went to her suite to watch a movie. And then my father lost his shit because I hadn’t asked permission (that was the year I turned 16), and yelled at me all the way back to our suite. There was my 18th birthday when my boyfriend didn’t call because he’d got back together with his ex.
In college I remember casually mentioning that it was my birthday, and having my roommates be shocked that I hadn’t said anything earlier.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said, puzzled. “It’s only the day I was born.”
Fast forward a few years and I had my son, his birthday four days after mine. And now it is all about him. We don’t have a ton of money, so I prefer to give him a really special day, rather than wasting money on myself. We have cake on his birthday, so I don’t need cake on mine. Family takes the time to celebrate his birthday, so I don’t expect them to be around for mine too. It just kind of falls through the cracks, and I never really cared. It’s just a birthday.
And then Sugar Daddy offered to spend mine with me.
I took the day off work.
I bought a new outfit.
I let him plan it because I didn’t care what we were doing, I just wanted to be with him.
It was so much more than just a day–it was something in my life drastically changing. Something so small, yet so significant. In this stage of my family’s life, it is all about the kids, and it should be. But finally, out of the blue, I had someone who would take the time to make sure, for once, that I had a good day–that I could just be a woman.
Not a kid pretending it didn’t matter that her parents were dysfunctional and she had no friends.
Not a harried mother rightfully putting all of the focus onto her son.
Just a woman, a normal fucking woman, spending her birthday with someone who loved her.
It’s in the back of my head. It lurks in my sub-conscious. I wake up with it on the tip of my tongue and my eyes fill with tears because there’s nothing more terrible than crushed hope.
It’s not my birthday I care about. Just…the thought that maybe someone actually cared that I was born.