They Say It’s Your Birthday? It’s My Birthday Too, Yeah!

It was my birthday last week which means it was Daughter 2.0’s birthday as well. Her sweet sixteenth. On the very same day as mine. Daughter 2.0 arrived on my 30th birthday (I’ll let you do the simple math) ass backwards (literally), usurping my day, taking it for her own, little stinker. What a great birthday present! people will inevitably say when I tell them we share a birthday. Best ever! I chime back enthusiastically. And yes, she was, best ever; and not, little stinker.

All through my pregnancy with Daughter 2.0 I was certain she was Son 1.0. All the way up until the day before she was born and we discovered she was breech, rock hard ass, fully engaged. (Really, her buttocks was so hard and round that the venerable, older OB who checked me just before it was discovered, by ultrasound, that she was pointed the wrong direction proclaimed, with confidence, that the head was fully engaged, wouldn’t be long now.) That was when I knew, with complete certainty, that I had been mistaken, and she was a girl. Only a daughter would make things so interesting. Even during the eventual delivery, in the wee small hours of the morning I turned 30, when the resident who had the privilege (and it was a privilege, they sent out a general page through the hospital for anyone and everyone to watch the vaginal breech delivery – standing room only in the OR), of squatting between my legs to cradle and catch my baby’s bottom asked my Husband if he wanted to see his son’s scrotum (turns out swollen labia look a lot like scrotum when presented to the world ahead of the rest of the body), even then, I knew the resident was wrong, I knew she was a she.

And so my birthday became her birthday. It has it’s advantages. I am someone who has always LOVED my birthday. I love a day (ok, there were times I insisted on an entire month) of being fussed over. My Mum always made birthdays special, even half birthdays, which I happen to share with my Big Sister’s birthday. Getting older, celebrations around birthdays diminished, no parents planning parties, no homemade paper mâché pinatas or lemon birthday cake. So the advantage of sharing a birthday with your kid is that you can inform (remind) people that it’s my birthday too. Parents dropping their children at Daughter 2.0’s birthday party would stay for a glass of wine because, did you know? it’s my birthday too?

Boy, the birthday does seem to be all about me still, doesn’t it? Could be Daughter 2.0 resents having to share HER special day with her MOTHER. Perhaps she too wants a day (month) all her own? Seems to be a thing these days, all the adults, parents, grandparents, finding it hard to get out of the way. Will the Babyboomers EVER retire? And in our never-ending pursuit of longer, healthier lives, when will we (or our parents?) ever step aside for the next generation? How will we know when it’s time to fade quietly into the background? And really, how will we ever afford to, living to be 85, 90, 95, 100 years old? And how will our children, grandchildren, ever step into the spotlight when we can’t seem to find our graceful exit? And I don’t mean death, just, like maybe water aerobics and golf instead of holding onto that full time ruler of the world position.

It was my Little Sister who came up with the way to make Daughter 2.0’s birthday special this year (it was her sweet sixteenth after all). We surprised her throughout the school day with 16 items (balloons, packs of gum, tulips, packs of Swedish fish). It was fun, and all about her. As for my special day, there’s always Mother’s Day.  Or wait,  maybe that’s supposed to be all about my Mum and Mom-In-Law?


This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s