It's My Birthday and I'll Cry if I Want To

Today is my birthday. It would be nice if my husband would change all the diapers, wash all the dishes, and make me a hot gourmet dinner. I would like for him to do the laundry and maybe even mop the kitchen floor. But I can’t ask him to do any of these things today because it’s his birthday too.

When we were still single (that is, after we were married, but before we had children) we used to take advantage of our shared birthday and go to a delicious gourmet restaurant for dinner instead of buying each other a gift; I didn’t feel so guilty about spending one hundred dollars on dinner since it was two birthdays for the price of one.

After our first-born came along and I stopped working outside of the home, I didn’t feel that we could justify this kind of expense, so we stopped going to our old birthday haunts. Then two years ago we bought a house, and when I’m tempted to reinstate this wonderful birthday practice I think about how much paint we can buy with a hundred dollars.

However, there is one thing that really stinks about our shared birthday. It is a tradition in my family for the birthday girl or boy to choose what they want Mom to make for their birthday meal. None of my sisters have to negotiate with anyone about what will be served; I, on the other hand, must consult and bargain with my husband. If he does not wish to partake in my selection I must either cry bitter tears and get over it, or lobby and draw up a power-point presentation on why he should agree to my choice. It really isn’t fair.

Even though I am to be twenty-eight today it seems as though I’ve still not learned to share nicely. I like food. A lot. I don’t like having to compromise with anyone in regards to my birthday dinner. I am ashamed to say that I have even been known to stab my husband with my fork if he attempts to take food from my plate without my consent. It’s a primal reaction and I can hardly help it. I guess I should work on that now that I’m supposed to be a grown-up.

Party Poopers

It's My Birthday and I'll Eat What I Want To

My baby girl tried to do every fun thing that she could think of to celebrate her first birthday. She climbed onto the chair and trapped herself under the table many, many times. She put her face in the path of her brother’s back swing and was consequently hit in the face by his plastic golf iron. An attempt was made to tip over the garbage can, and she tried to eat some mulch while out in the backyard. She insisted on crawling on the sidewalk instead of in the grass, even though she didn’t have shoes on, and she scraped one of her toes all up. Tops on the list, however, was the inquisitive sampling of a piece of fungus found outside.

Every day I am more convinced that I am going to die of stress: and I am quite sure that this child is going to be the death of me. During the minute it took for me to address whatever request it was that her brother made that caused me to turn my back, she plucked a mushroom out of the ground and as I again turned in her direction she took a bite.

It is rather unfortunate that I have, as of yet, not been given the chance to purchase, steal or otherwise gain any super-powers through skill, osmosis, or freak-accident. The longer that I am a mother, the more I realize that being able to fly or have laser vision wouldn’t be the wisest choice: having stretchy elastic arms would be, that way one’s child would always be within arms reach.

Needless to say, I called my friends at Poison Control. The other two times I found myself in need of their expertise, I was instructed to give milk to the child so I thought it would be a good place to start. The baby wasn’t interested in drinking milk; she wanted to go back outside and forage some more. I spoke to a very reassuring nurse, named Mimi, who informed me that since mushrooms are so hard to identify they treat them all as poisonous, just to be on the safe side.

Since the child had enough sense to spit out the fungi, Mimi didn’t think that she needed emergency care. (If a child actually ingests a mushroom found elsewhere than the refrigerator or the produce section of the grocery store, they need to be taken to the emergency room and given activated charcoal.) Instead, she cautioned me to be on the lookout for the usual signs: nausea, vomiting, abnormal behavior. Since fungal poisoning can manifest itself in many different ways, depending on the type of mushroom, she couldn’t be any more specific. She also informed me that Poison Control would be in touch over the next twenty-four hours to help monitor the birthday girl.

I’m sure that I do not need to expound upon the tension and anxiety that plagued me over the next few hours. Every time the baby cried or fussed, a great hand clenched and twisted all the organs in my chest. It didn’t help that the picture I found on the Internet that most resembled the slimy fungal antagonist had the label poisonous underneath it. When Mimi called during the afternoon she calmed my fears and told me not to let the incident ruin the birthday: “Write it down in her baby book,” she said, “it’s just going to be a birthday to remember.” Business as usual.

Okay.

We read some books.

I killed a freaky looking cricket (or something) in the kitchen.

Both of the kids fought over toys and grabbed and screamed.

The toddler commandeered the baby’s birthday present.

We ate; I cleaned; we slept.

The twenty-four hour mark has passed now, and the baby is no worse for wear. Poison control has placed their last phone call to check up on her. Another day, another disaster averted. Thank God for that. Now, on to year number two for the little monkey. I am quite sure that it would be foolish of me to hope that it’s not too exciting.

The Spirit of Birthday Present

It seems that when you get older a birthday ceases to be about receiving gifts and spending some quality time with your significant other. Instead it becomes another day to spend money on home repairs and trying to figure out whether it’s worth it to take the kids out or if it’s a better idea to just stay home. Okay, that may sound a little melodramatic but there is a tiny morsel of truth in there if you happen to be me - or my husband since we share a birthday.

First of all, I must hastily clarify that I received very special and lovely gifts for my birthday. It just happened that on Sunday, the day before my actual birthday, and the day of my birthday dinner made especially for me by my Mommy, we woke up to a cold house and a non-functioning oil furnace. I may be getting older, but there was still something fun about being all snuggly and bundled up in the house. That night all four of us slept together in an attempt to stay toasty. It was exciting because it was a deviation from the norm. (Not that it’s a ton of fun when it comes to payment for the repair to the furnace, but it helps to look at the bright side of life).

We awoke to a smattering of snow on our birthday and we all huddled on the couch to watch a DVD while the repairman tinkered away in the basement. After a while the decision was made to head over to our favorite diner for a late lunch. The baby slept the whole time and our son behaved very well. Until he tried to eat a french fry that he found on the diner floor on the way out. From there we coasted over to the mall to walk our post-lunch grogginess off. It was during this bit of exercise that we became suspicious that our two-year-old was coming down with a fever. Sure enough, by the time we got him home his temperature was well above normal. I suppose a birthday is just as good a time as any other to be sick.

All said and done, it was definitely not a boring day; there was the how-much-is-this-bill-going-to-be excitement, the satisfaction of an uneventful lunch out with the kiddos, and an evening full of cuddling with a sick toddler. The truth is, even though the birthday terrain has undeniably changed, the new terrain is just as wonderful as the old. Maybe even better.