Mother’s Day is in 2 weeks. That day also happens to be the 30th anniversary of the date I was expelled from my mother’s uterus. (Oooo, back-to-back posts mentioning the word “uterus.” Nifty.)
Anyone who knows me knows I’m not a big birthday celebrator. Daniel and I don’t really do anything for our birthdays: no gifts, no balloons, no dinners out. We do try to do something nice for our anniversary because, as he says, everybody gets a year older, but it takes a whole lot of work for a marriage to keep aging. I don’t even do it up for my kids (yet. . . don’t worry, no clowns or firetrucks or mini petting zoos in the backyard anytime in our future). The past three years we’ve managed to have “booze-fests” for the kids, where we invite all of our friends, tell them to not bring presents, and after we’ve given them beer, we ask them to gather ’round for the candle-blowing and the birthday jingle. Frankly, before kids turn 3 or 4 it seems pretty pointless to waste all the energy and themed paper products celebrating what they don’t understand anyway. Hence the beverages for the adults and a token cupcake for the kiddos (feel free to disagree, just don’t do it in the comment section below). I know, I know, I’m a horrible mother for robbing my children of the joy blahblahblah.
So, 30 seems like a big deal. I’ve been excited about it for years after my friend Angela told me how much she liked it. She said it was just nice to tell people when they asked, “I’m in my 30s.” There’s just a different weight to the number, like people take you more seriously. Well, I hope I don’t take myself more seriously, but it’s nice to think of saying goodbye to my 20s. (I know in another decade I’ll think I’m crazy for saying that.) I doubt I’ll have anything more figured out at my new, more mature age, but maybe I’ll feel less pressure to get it together and decide what I’m going to be when I grow up. Hopefully I won’t be so worried about being noticed and just go on being me.
For my birthday I was hoping to have a big party in my new (old) house, but we won’t be in it yet. So instead of having a big birthday party, I’ll just wait and have a big house-warming party (save on the themed paper products). Daniel asked me this morning what I want for my birthday. My list seems only to prove what we all already know: I am a worn-out, over-worked, tired and sorta cranky mother of small children. What I want for my birthday:
2. The house to myself
3. The body of a girl half my age
4. The wisdom of a woman twice my age
5. That trip around the world
6. To have already read all the books I currently want to read
7. A weekend-long massage
8. Time alone
9. For everything and all projects to just be finished and my life to be organized
10. The house to myself so I can sleep and read and organize
I said, “Oh, did you mean like a gift? A thing?” Yeah, I’ve got no ideas. Not a one. Except a nice skillet that I can also use in my oven. But I don’t ask for household items for gifts. (You never know with Mama, though, she might just send me more hangers.)
BUT, I do know one thing I’m getting for my birthday. On May 9th, one of my MIP (Most Important People) just happens to be playing a show on the south side of town. Most might see this as a very random coincidence. But I think it’s just a little too coincidental that his tour, which could take him anywhere in the world, just happened to schedule a show in my city on my birthday. I think maybe God winked at me and said, “I like you. I’m glad you’re here. Happy Birthday.”