Day 14,610

In My Breakfast with Hobbes (originally written on June 26, 2007 ...) I described how I typically spend my birthday. It is, if you read through that post, traditionally a solitary event.

The introverted nature of how I spend “my” day is not because I have no friends, and it isn't because my family is remote (either physically or emotionally). I don't even know when I started celebrating my birthday alone, but I feel it is my right to spend this day as I see fit. (Interesting side note: WHY I feel entitled to this is puzzling to me. It isn't as though I DID anything to earn this so-called "right". In fact, I damn neared killed my mom and myself when I was born.)

It is a story that I've been told for years - when I was old enough to care to know, or to ask. I'd known that I was a c-section baby back when c-sections were NOT something scheduled for the convenience of anyone. They were used as emergency actions only - and I was in need of emergency action. Babies and mothers have an unwritten communication ... when the child is prepared to be delivered (or when a mom is prepared to deliver said child), notice is served by either causing massive discomfort (in the form of contractions) or by *ahem* lobbing a "water balloon" outside of Mom … either of which serves as an "I'm ready" notice to the parents and the kiddo.

If sitcoms are to be believed, either of these “notices” trigger 21 1/2 minutes of hilarity and amusing actions that result in 30 seconds of actual physical labor and a final "awwwwww" reveal moment where the newborn is shown, nicely cleaned up, save for a little grape jelly on the crown of their perfectly shaped 3-month old head. Roll credits, cut to commercial. I’m here to tell all y’all – it ain’t necessarily so.

It should surprise no one to know that I didn’t BECOME non-graceful at a certain age – I was born this way. As much as I can say that I’m a Catholic, or a ferociously private person, I am, always have been, always will be, and started out on this day many years ago as a klutz. I arrived two and a half weeks early, and was very underweight because, as it turns out, I was all kinds of tangled up inside of my mom. I won’t go into details, but my mom and I conspired and successfully wrecked the entire back seat of my grandparents car, along with several blankets, the hall carpet at my folks’ home, and the arrival carpet at the doorway to the ER. Upon my mom’s arrival to the hospital, the doctors had the Chaplin in the room, “just in case”.

I also don’t remember exactly how old the other birthday tradition that I have is, though I know it was something that I started doing somewhere in my early 20s. At the time, it was a fairly unique idea, but I know of many people – daughters mainly – who practice it now. On the anniversary of my birth, my parents get a dozen roses. After all … all I did was show up. They’re the ones that did all the heavy lifting to make sure I made it through that day and, happily (and with little thanks to me), so did my Mom.

I don’t know how old a person typically is when they realize that their birthday is NOT, in fact, a national holiday. I’d love to monitor the average child when they come to understand that, on Mom or Dad’s birthday, there are still chores and work to be done, deadlines and phones to answer, bills to pay and food to be put on the table at mealtimes. I guess I like the idea of decorating that table with a token of my appreciation. I get to celebrate my birthday in any way I’d like not because it’s my right to do so … but because my folks helped me through this day so many years ago.

Happy 40th birthday to me, with thanks to Mom and Dad.