I was due to be born on December 20, 1980.
I was, in fact, born on December 10, 1980, right in the middle of my parents’ move to their newly built home.
My feeling is that I dodged a nearing bullet with those 10 extra days. My mother, however, might have disagreed at the time.
Having a non-summer birthday is bad enough, but celebrating this close to Christmas makes it even less ideal. I have to stop and say – please don’t think that my birthday was ever over-shadowed, or that I’m to be pitied. My family and friends have always been more than generous, and I have every reason to be appreciative.
Still, the older I get, and especially after having Iris, it becomes harder to get excited about my birthday. The tree is up, gift lists are made and I’ve even given into the music (but not the sappy crap. I hate sappy, sentimental Christmas music, and there is oh so much of it…). And really, unless they raise the drinking age to 41, those milestones don’t hold the same excitement.
I suppose I should look on the bright side, count my blessings for those 10 extra days, and get over it. But in reality, I’ve got my eye on June 10. I am literally jubilant in May and June, and would probably make a better birthday girl then anyway.
For the moment, my birthday is still December 10, and I plan to celebrate with a donation, a dance party with my child (who has her own sense of comedic holiday timing) and probably pasta. Bring on 33!