It’s My Birthday (!)

birthday letterboard with confetti

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.

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A Letter For Maliyah

In the early days of my grief, I started to read a book called Saying Goodbye. It’s a 90-day support guide to walk you through baby loss and grief. On Day 11, the task of the day was to write a letter to the baby you lost. When I read that, I thought it was crazy. I could not imagine what I could write. She was gone. What else was there? She’d never read it, she’d never grow up, she’d never know. And I barely knew her. But the more I thought about it, the more all of those reasons seemed like reasons I needed to write the letter. I sat with it for a few months. More and more thoughts came to mind. I thought of memories of her, memories of us, memories of happy times. Sometimes, I feel that since I know the end of the story, it negates all of the pages before. But as I struggled to try to remember the days of hopes and dreams, I realized that there were times of happiness. I didn’t want to forget them. In June, I started to write.

Today, in honor of Maliyah’s first birthday, I want to remember the happy and hopeful times. Since I never posted on my blog about those exciting moments, I am going to share my letter.


Dear Maliyah,

I have so many things to say. I have a lifetime of things that I will never get to say to you while you’re physically with me. A lifetime of memories, both the ones I had before you, the ones I had with you, and the years of memories I will have after, but that you will always be a part of. I like to think you’ll hear/read/see this somehow, wherever you are, hanging out with all of your friends, hopefully having a lot more fun than we are in your absence.

Usually, in a eulogy, people talk about their memories they have of the person who died. When I first sat down to write this, I thought I had none. You never existed on your own, you were always part of me. But then I realized, I actually am fortunate, because I have every single memory you have. We were one. My memories of you are your memories too. For every second you existed, you and I were together. While I wish you grew up and had your own life and memories of your own, experiences, friendships, romantic partners, you will never have those things.

But during the time we were together, we had a lot of great memories. You were a world traveler. Your first place you visited was Sweden. I had no idea you were with me then, but your dad decided to be spontaneous and book a trip for the weekend. We ate meatballs and learned about the Nobel Prize. We saw Viking ships together, and danced and sang in the ABBA museum. The number one review of the ABBA museum said not to go alone, but I didn’t care, I went anyway. I thought I was there alone, but it turns out I wasn’t.

A few weeks later, after I knew you and I were on this ride together, we went to Australia. Together, we saw koalas and wild kangaroos, we watched as wombats came out at dusk. We saw the Sydney Opera House. We walked over the Sydney Harbor Bridge. We jumped out of a plane together. I wonder what you thought of that. Were you as nervous as me? Did you laugh when our tandem diver asked if we would have a beer after? I did. But you were still my little secret then, so I chuckled to myself. We were partners in crime. Together, we saw the Great Barrier Reef, one of the 7 natural wonders of the world. I remember feeling like I was The Little Mermaid, truly part of the ocean world. I wonder now if that’s how you felt about me, part of my world. Did you know that you would be part of my world forever?

We went all over the United States together too. We were in Los Angeles, we were in St. Louis, we were in Philadelphia, we were in Atlanta, and we were in Fort Lauderdale. You met coworkers, friends, family, and so many strangers. In all of those new places, I wondered if you would be friendly and extroverted like me, or thoughtful and intellectual like your dad.

At first, you were my little secret. I sent a photo of the pregnancy test to my friend. Those two lines were the first proof I had of your existence. But even before that, I had a feeling. I knew something was different and that’s why I took the test. Something changed in me, and I knew it would be changed forever. People say that when you are pregnant, your DNA makeup literally changes. I know my spirit has definitely changed, and maybe my physical composition has, too.

Slowly, I started telling people about you. I had more partners in crime, a friend who drank my wine at a birthday dinner so people wouldn’t notice. She ordered us a gin and tonic (hold the gin) during the Halloween pub crawl. Most of my friends had no idea you were hanging out with us during all of the important events of the fall. You were there at Halloween, while we watched the marathon, at the Macy’s Parade, during Christmas. I am usually a pretty good secret-keeper, but it was SO hard keeping you a secret.

I took pictures of us, but I didn’t post them. You and I had our own little world no one knew about. At the Macy’s Parade, there was a first-time balloon of a dinosaur and their kid little dinosaur. I had my sister take a picture of me and you, with the family of dinosaurs behind us. We took pictures at Christmas where your dad and I tried to make a heart at my belly. Right where you were. We were so excited for the next year to add a third to our matching pajamas tradition. I remember on Christmas Day I sat at the table and ordered us matching sets for 2024. And then at my friend’s wedding in Florida, when my best friend was pregnant too, I took a picture of the four of us. It would be the only time we all got to meet.

I wish I had real or mental pictures of you growing up and meeting and playing with my friends, laughing at their funny faces when you were a baby, or laughing at our old clubbing stories and rolling your eyes at us when you were a teenager and far too cool for us. The only memories I have of you and my friends are when they found out about you. I remember their excitement. I remember how they said they couldn’t wait to meet you. They bought you gifts and checked in on me (and you) often. I remember them thinking about how you would look and act, a combination of your dad’s big eyes, and my super tall self. I remember them joking about how some kids are no-screen kids, but you’d be an all-screen kid with a baby iPad because your dad lovesss his electronics so much.

I remember hating women who used to touch their bellies all the time, but it was so exciting to know you were in there. I refused to be “one of those people” in public, but I remember always feeling my stomach in the shower, making sure you were still safe in there, happy to be with your mom. I remember when I started to feel your kicks. It was really late in the pregnancy, and my doctor told me it was because of how you were positioned in my body. I only felt you moving around for a couple of short weeks. In hindsight, I think it was you protecting my heart. You knew that if I felt your presence for too long, it would be even more difficult to let go. I remember laying in bed at night feeling you dancing around, and putting my hand on my stomach to see if I could feel you from the outside and show your dad. Unfortunately, I never could. He never could. That used to make me sad, but now I prefer to think of you knowing, protecting his heart, helping him heal for the future. He never knew what he was missing.

Speaking of your dad, I remember the day I broke the news to him that you existed. It was his birthday. He loves when I write him little poems, and I used to write them all the time when we first were dating. I thought a perfect full-circle moment would be to write him a poem to tell him about you. I remember sitting across from him at dinner as he read the card. At first, he was confused, and then he was so excited that he cried. I remember him saying you were the greatest birthday present he could ever receive in his life. I remember the big hug he gave us. You should know your dad does not show emotion often, and definitely not in public. But your existence brought him to tears right there in the restaurant. Even while you were in my body, you had that huge power. You will always be that to me, the best gift ever.

I wish I could explain to the world how special you are. I wish I could tell them your favorite books, your favorite foods, your likes and dislikes. I wish I knew. The only thing I know is that you were in the safest place your whole existence. I was recently reading a text where someone signed it ILY. I Love You. I realized those letters are in both your name and my name. It was unintentional, but now that I know, it feels intentional. You had no enemies. Everyone who knew you, loved you. They loved the idea of you, they loved their hopes for you, and they will love you forever. Especially me.

Love,

Your mom

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