This morning, the first thing Jeremy said to me was "Happy Birthday" and gave me a big hug and kiss. That would have been really nice, except, today is not my birthday.
For those of you who care, it is tomorrow, but I will celebrate until February 8 just in case anyone is confused or late.
I love my birthday and I love to celebrate my birthday. However, this has been a bit of a challenge my entire life. Note, I was born in Chicago, in the dead of winter, exactly two weeks after Christmas. My mom claims it was the coldest day of the year in Chicago. When I looked that up via our internet gurus, it turned out that the coldest day of 1966 was January 29, with a low temperature of -19°F. Mom wasn't that far off. And considering she was in labor with her first child, I'm betting it felt a lot colder than it actually was that day. She was later elated to find that she had given birth to me on Elvis's birthday. Much later, I was more excited to realize I shared it with David Bowie and Stephan Hawking.
Since the weather in Chicago usually was terribly cold and snowy, I didn't have a lot of birthday parties. Most people really didn't want to bring their kids out in the nasty weather, and mom wasn't excited about having a house full of kids in our tiny home. As I got older, we didn't even discuss the option of a party. I did like to do things like go out to dinner, the movies, and get a gift or two. But I would then hear things like,
"But we just bought you all those Christmas presents!" or
"You celebrate your birthday like a Russian wedding. It just goes on for days and days!"
How my mom knew the details of a Russian wedding I'll never know. But I did know that I envied the kids with September birthdays. They got parties and presents.
When I was pregnant with KZ, some wise person told me,
"It's all about you now, but once the baby is born, it is all about her. People won't even remember your birthday."
And true to form, my first birthday after having KZ, no one remembered -- not Jeremy, not my parents, not even one email. Jeremy and I were in New York City, looking for apartments. We had been told days earlier that we needed to move to New York from London. KZ was with my parents in Florida. I got up the morning of my birthday, had breakfast with Jeremy in New York, then took a flight down to Florida. While having dinner with my parents in a local pizza place, it came on the TV news that today would have been Elvis's 74th birthday. My parents just stopped eating and went silent. My dad then said, "Hey, how about we pay for the pizza today for your birthday."
Ok, dad, how about.
Jeremy only remembered two days later when I asked him if he had forgotten anything lately. It took a bit of work, like telling him what the date was. He tried to make a few lame excuses, but once he got it, he said, "Sorry, I just forgot."
Since that birthday, he's hit the date, but just cannot seem to get my age correct. For some reason, he keeps thinking I'm a year older than I am.
I guess that is why I look so good for my age in his eyes.
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