Thoughts on turning the big 2-8

When I was younger I always anticipated my birthday for MONTHS before the actual day arrived.  I remember bugging the crap out of my poor parents asking them every day, “How many more days?”  Finally, they just started lying to me to shut me up.  “Oh, honey.  We already celebrated your birthday this year.  But you slept through it and we didn’t want to wake you.  Better luck next year, kiddo.” *

You would think that I would eventually outgrow that anticipation of turning another year older.  But it actually got worse as I went to high school and, eventually college.  I even started celebrating my half-birthdays.

Which is January 14, in case you didn’t feel like doing the math.

I have a sickness.

Then I started having babies and apparently my kids will only be born in the months that make their mother wish for death rather than be 9-months pregnant in the God-forsaken heat + humidity that is central Missouri in July/August.  Because of the kids’ birthdays being so close to mine, I’ve kind of backed off on the birthday festivities.

Or so I thought.

Apparently I started telling people at work about my birthday a few months ago.  I’m not really sure how it started or why I do it.  It’s almost like an involuntary Tourette’s tic.

Some people stop their foot or flick their head.

I inappropriately blurt out, “Hey!  It’s my birthday in 3 months!  Better start saving now!”  ::sigh::  I really wish I was kidding.

You think I’m kidding.  This is what happened this morning.  I work with a guy that brings in the most delicious cinnamon rolls that you will ever eat.  They aren’t even regular cinnamon rolls.  They are this awesome hybrid of a cinnamon roll and a glazed donut.  A few months ago, he brought them in for somebody’s birthday and the doctor doing his rotation in our department ate one and fell in love.  I called that same doctor today to let him know that the cinna-donuts were here and he said, “Oh yeah!  For your birthday!”  When I greeted him with stunned silence, he said, “You told me about your birthday months ago, remember?!”

Did I?  Apparently so.  Because that’s what I do.  I constantly draw attention to myself.

You would think that at the age of 28, I wouldn’t need to make a big deal about my birthday.  After all, I am one year closer to the big (& apparently dreaded) 3-0.  But I love birthdays.  I love the fact that we each get one day/year that we are celebrated simply because we were born.

I did nothing but survive the past year and I got a free pastry from Panera.  My grandma sends me a birthday card with a check for $12 in it.  My kids say really sweet things like, “Huh.  You don’t wook owder, momma!” and then, just to be sure, they measure themselves against me.

That is a day full of winning, if you ask me.

So today?  Today I am going to celebrate myself.  I am going to eat a cinna-donut with reckless abandon.

I am going to eat an extra slice of homemade German Chocolate cake.

I am going to laugh at the limerick that my boss wrote for me (it’s becoming a tradition).

I am going to soak in all of the “Happy Berfday, Momma!” that I can today.

I am going to enjoy knowing that I am surrounded by friends and family that acknowledge my birthday.  Even if it is (slightly) forced on them.

Today I am 28.  And I’m just as excited about it as I was when I turned 10.

*That part was a joke.  Although, I’m thinking of tucking it into my parenting arsenal for when my kids do that to me.

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7 thoughts on “Thoughts on turning the big 2-8

  1. Well, sorry to say, that is from your momma’s side of the family. I don’t think your daddy ever celebrated his birthday until I came into his life! It is a special day, one God made just for you.
    For the record it was hotter than blazes the day you were born, today seems so much cooler! But we waited a loooonggg time for you to get here so we are going to celebrate every year that we can!
    Happy birthday to the first child I birthed without pain meds. I love you to pieces but you are still as stubborn as the day you were born.

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