Nothing much happened. My mom was exceedingly pregnant with little old me. Well, not so old. I was quite young then. Fetal one might say.
Every year since I can remember, in the days leading up to my birthday, my mom tells me exactly what was happening "____ years ago today." My dad did the annual Run for the Zoo. We have a photo of him in very tiny shorts sporting a handlebar mustache to mark the occasion. He and their friends went to the Hyde Park Arts Fair. My mom went home feeling not quite right. And then things got exciting and I burst on to the scene on June 8, 1982. There are many other minute details that I could recite. My mom's elaborate ritual of celebrating my birthday always feels so sweet. I'd like to do it for my own kids eventually. This year I'm not so into it.
I've never been one to mourn the passing of years. If anything, I've always felt like I was "catching up" to the old lady I am at heart (did I mention I knit for fun?). Again, this year is different. I was 29 when we started trying. At 30, it felt like it just hadn't happened yet. At 31, it feels like I'm entering into a some kind of childless lifestyle. This birthday is a reminder of how interminable this infertility shit is. Also a reminder of my loss. I should be in my second trimester now. I should be celebrating two lives. Ugh, could I be more depressing? Yes. Yes I could. I used to be much more of a sad sack about all of this. I really am well into moving on. My birthday just feels sad. Also, I've been battling a cold for over a week now and am completely swamped at work. I'm having trouble mustering much enthusiasm for anything other than my sofa.
Sigh. Anyways, I am eschewing my inner mope and doing deliberately happy things on my birthday. Brunch with one set of friends followed by dinner with another. I will eat my way through this blessed occasion. On Sunday I'll celebrate with my family. That will be the kicker. Frankly, this is more for them than for me. We'll do brunch. A finite, food-centric event. Oh, I'm dreading it. How many mimosas does it take to drown out mom's painful concern and my sister's maternal glow? 2 or 3? Or perhaps one for every candle...