I’ve always been a big birthday person. To me, birthdays are seriously special days. They say, I made it through the year; I’m entering into a new year of my life…people should celebrate me, love me, cherish me and dote on me all day. This is MY day!!
My whole life I can’t remember a bad birthday, it’s b/c I love them so much, I think that the people around me can’t help but get excited. One year when I was little, my mom made a life-size drawing of me so that all my little five-year-old friends could play “pin the nose on Anne-Marie.” When I was 10 my parents set up a volleyball net in our front yard and we also had three-legged relays. I know there were a few Disney birthday weeks. One year, my parents took a friend and me to a cheerleading competition in Daytona Beach, b/c that’s what I wanted to do.
Your birthday is YOUR day. You do what you want…this is my birthday motto.
Last night though, I had a revelation…well, it wasn’t like I hadn’t noticed this before…but I told Rob that having a child makes nothing about us, it makes things about her, especially during the newborn stage. What would happen to MY day? MY birthday? Would it ever be the same?
Typically, the countdown to THE DAY starts about a week before the day arrives. I tell Rob what I want during the month of March, usually a few weeks beforehand. The past few years my birthday wishes have consisted of a mini-shopping spree at Anthropologie.
It’s my favorite store ever…and during my birthday month I get 15% off. My entire family knows, this is what I want…I only want to go shopping and I want to descend on the mother ship and spend money on amazing clothes. Shallow? I don’t know, but I do know it makes me happy to have brand new clothes to cut the tags off of.
When I was younger, my mom and I would go shopping for my birthday and when I’d get home, I’d have a fashion show for my dad to see what all the days expenditures looked like.
But this year, we have a baby…I can’t take her with me. She’s too little and with her condition it’s too big of a risk. Plus, the only crying I want in Anthropologie is me crying b/c something is either too tight, they don’t have my size or is too expensive and I have to go out of the dressing room to find another option.
Like normal, I told Rob about my standing birthday wish. He said, “I thought you might want to get a massage instead.” Most women would be ecstatic. My first thought was, “Oh no…is my awesome wardrobe going to dwindle? Will I trade fashionable outfits in for a back that feels like it’s fully functioning and not like it’s been beat with a police baton?” Is this the first step to “mom jeans”?
Rob had a point. My back was killing me, I’d done a lot of tossing and turning and reaching into the bassinet from weird angles to shove a pacifier into Reagan’s mouth. It’s not that I didn’t want a massage…I could certainly use one. But in my mind, motherhood for me always included looking awesome with the latest cool clothes from my favorite store. And sure, I purchase items throughout the year, but April…April is my month. It’s my shopping spree.
I can understand at this point you might be thinking “what a snob Anne-Marie is…” and if it were any other month, I might agree with you.
There was really only one thing to do. Let Rob know that I’d love to have a massage, as well as a toned down mini-mini shopping spree at Anthropologie, give him a huge smile and pepper in some funny jokes so that he says OK. I asked Rob what he thought of me wanting both things for my birthday…
“Do you think I’m greedy?”
“No…greedy isn’t the word”
He said, “I think you’re a princess, and I think I’m in trouble when Reagan learns from you.”
Annnnd…the tradition continues. Happy birthday to me. And thank you to my most amazing husband for loving me.