It’s my birthday. One year older, one year wiser, that’s what they say.
I think it may have been Jane Fonda who said, “it’s a privilege to get older, because what’s the alternative?” I guess that’s true, if you’re truly grateful to be alive. Sometimes I feel that way.
I used to LOVE my birthdays. I had so many parties growing up; here are a few I remember: Plaster Palace, like a Color-Me-Mine around age 8, my roller rink birthday around age 6, and of course I’ll never forget my 10th birthday at the hair and nail salon. There’s a photo that will live in infamy of all the girls with feather boas and grossly too much stage makeup for 10-year-olds.
Then I got older, and birthdays in college revolved around to-do lists, or oversized poster-board scavenger hunts of things to find and do out at the club. This included, “kiss a police officer,” and other things I’d literally never do as a grown adult with a brain. All of this was of course captured on our digital cameras, which never left our hands, and those photos appeared on Facebook in an album of 60 pictures within 12 hours of getting home and waking in a hangover stupor.
Then came the next phase of birthdays, the themed extravaganzas. There was 24 Ready to Score, where my friends dressed as sports players and I was the ref. There was 29 Neon Sign, which was a boat party, on a not-private boat, but it became that because we kind of took over. Then things became a bit less outrageous but still themed, and instead of a bar crawl we moved the party to the rooftop of my building with Nerdy Thirty.
That was 2017. I’m not sure what happened in 2018 and 2019, but once Covid hit, my birthday celebrations really took a hit.
It could have been because I was older, or it could have been because my friends’ group was smaller, or because my hangovers got worse, or because my energy continued to dwindle (probably all of the above), but I also think it’s just because aging became less fun.
I used to adamantly say my favorite holiday was my birthday because it was special, and it was just for me (disregarding the other 20 million people worldwide who have the same birthday). Now, it feels like a cruel demarcation of time that shouldn’t be celebrated. I am pretty sure this feeling is worse when you’re a woman, since our societal value decreases with age, not to mention our waning fertility, but maybe I’m wrong and men feel this way, too.
This year I’m 37 and I mostly spent the week leading up to my birthday thinking about what I thought my life would look like versus what it actually looks like. I thought my family would be complete by now. I thought I’d be in my forever-job. Instead I have a dead kid, multiple degrees I don’t really use, 100K in student loans from my dumb decision to go to law school, new health issues from a pregnancy that resulted in a dead baby, and an uncertain future as far as location, family size, and work are concerned. Basically, everything is “TBD” which is a strange place to be in and celebrate.
I have one piece of the puzzle, my sweet husband, but I’m still figuring out the rest and time is ticking. I’m hopeful I’ll have a living baby this year, and that would be another huge piece of the puzzle. But because of Maliyah, I feel like no matter what puzzle I end up with, there will always be a missing piece and it’s disconcerting.
Every time I don’t think about my age, my doctors bring me back to earth. I was considered “geriatric” even before my first pregnancy, so what does that make me now? Super-geriatric? The more p.c. term now is “advanced maternal age,” but to be honest, that does not make me feel great either. Every ultrasound photo says my age in years and months on the top of the photo, and sometimes I actually forget how old I am until I see that. It seems like the last two years passed in a cloud of grief and anxiety, and the 3 years before that were Covid-years, which we’ve collectively agreed to pretend didn’t happen.
Turning 37 this year, I really feel 32, but I also feel like I’ve lived 100 lives since then.
Two weeks ago, I was at an ultrasound and the tech wished me a happy early birthday and asked if I had any plans. I didn’t. Yesterday, my MFM wished me a happy birthday and semi-scolded me for not having any plans, saying (with a bit too much optimism, IMO) that we should take advantage before our lives change even more.
Honestly, I hadn’t made plans because I just assumed I’d be either in the hospital, or grieving the loss of a second baby by now. Last year I was supposed to be 38 weeks pregnant on my birthday, instead I was 0 weeks pregnant and crying. My big hope and birthday wish for this year was that I’d still be pregnant on my birthday. I really didn’t think it would happen but here I am. Since my ultimate wish came true, I’m happy with that and I don’t need a party.
I’m in a weird spot where every day, I’m one day older, which is kind of depressing, but I’m also one day more pregnant which is great news for the little one who’s still marinating.
This year, that was the only gift I wanted, and so far I have it. Sometimes I miss the big celebrations, the pomp & circumstance, the themes and the dedicated day-of-me, but most times, I’m just chilling on the couch thankful to be pregnant. So, happy birthday to me! From me, in my living room.
