Birthday Pity Party
It’s so selfish and ridiculous… I know. I know! But, it is what it is, and having a 9/11 birthday is crappy.
There, I said it.
I admit, it has gotten better over the past several years. The airwaves haven’t been inundated with traumatic, soul-crushing videos of the aftermath from 9/11 attacks. When it was still fresh, even a few years after 9/11, it seemed you couldn’t escape the visuals, the reminders, everything, beginning about a week before the anniversary of that horrible day.
There lies the conundrum for me: That horrible day… is one of my favorite days.
I enjoy my birthday. I love tacking on that extra number. Tomorrow, I’m going to be 28 and I love that. No longer am I sort of in that mid-twenties realm. I’m solidly in my late twenties. There’s a certain amount of, I don’t know, authority? Maturity? Being taken more seriously? Whatever it is, I’m happy to bid adieu to my mid-twenties, the awkward “tween” age for adults.
Ever since the 9/11 attacks, my birthday has been pretty depressing. On that day, I had planned a trip to the mall, the movies, and a ferry ride. All of those things were shut down, and instead, Clint and I ate Mexican food and stared mindlessly at the TV for the entire day. I still remember getting dizzy, reading all of those headlines that spewed across the screen at break-neck speeds. I remember crying, like everyone else cried and not understanding, not being able to even comprehend how the victims’ families must’ve felt.
Must still feel, nine years later.
It was such a horrible thing. We should always remember, for sure. I know I won’t forget.
Yet, every year, on my once favorite day, everyone is subdued. Everyone is reminiscing where they were on that day. Radio and TV remind us throughout the day of the past events. We feel a twinge of that shock, sadness, and grief, that we felt on 9/11/2001.
I don’t want to be sad on my birthday.
I’ve tried celebrating the day before or the day after. It’s not the same. I’ve tried ignoring the news, but it’s inescapable. Every year, though I tell myself to knock it off and get over it, I can’t help but have a little pity party that my birth date sucks butt.
This year, I thought I was going to get by without getting sad. Then, today came. Today, when I realized that tomorrow is my birthday and I’m going to be home alone with my kids, like any other day. Clint is going away for a very much needed guy trip, one that I encouraged him to go on… told him to go on, even though he asked me numerous times if it’s okay that he’ll be gone for my birthday.
“It’s just another day,” I smiled.
But it’s not.
It’s my day. The one day I feel like I get to be just an eensy bit selfish. I work hard, and I want an excuse to do nothing but sip coffee, maybe go out with friends, spend time with Clint, whatever, so long as it doesn’t involve a single diaper or an ounce of kid-disciplining.
So, I’m a tad bummed out. I’m not going to guilt trip my husband who has had this weekend scheduled for months now. I will make the best of it, because really, I have nothing to complain about. I have my family, safe and healthy. I have wonderful friends. Heck, I even get to sleep in tomorrow because Clint’s parents are taking the kids overnight and I get to eat dinner alone with Clint tonight.
Tomorrow, I’ll drive through Starbucks and take a couple of turns around the block to pretend it’s time to myself. I’ll bring the kids to Red Robin to cash in my birthday burger so they can watch Mommy get completely embarrassed by the clapping Happy Birthday song. I’ll use paper plates so I don’t have dishes, and I’ll pretend dirty diapers are the coolest things ever. I won’t turn on the TV or the radio.
Then, I’ll tuck the kids into bed, eat some German Chocolate cake, and pour myself two drinks at once (you know, so I can toast to myself). It’ll be good. It’ll be just fine.
And in the end, even if the day is filled with blow out diapers and temper tantrums, I’ll still get to be 28.
