I would like to begin this post by saying that I am not, I repeat, I am not one of those full-of-herself girls that is birthday-obsessed. You know the one. Her day is her day and should be treated as such. She has to give you reminders for weeks prior to her birthday…
“Hey, my birthday is in like, two weeks, can you believe it?!”
“Like, I wonder what I will do next week for my birthday?”
“Ooohhh, I wonder what it will feel like to be XX <age> in a couple of days?”
We all know one of those girls. Or guys. Not meaning to be stereotypical. But we all know one.
Usually, I like my birthday to come and go quietly. A sweet sentiment from the kids and hubby is usually all I need to make my “special day” special. I don’t care about the age… I am a 38 year old mama of three who is able to out-run, -work, -think most of the younger generation that I know. I’m pretty bad ass. Actually, the older I get, the more bad ass I feel. Keep them coming.
But… This was the Worst. Birthday. Ever.
My husband deployed yesterday. On his birthday. Which could probably make a better “worst birthday ever” post, but this is my story, damnit, so let me tell it.
He is not going to be gone for long, but we are a married couple that actually like being around each other. He is my best friend. With amazing freaking benefits. He is the most talented, creative, strong, supportive, caring, awesome dad/husband that I know. I miss him. Hard.
So, that sucks. And only the beginning of my sucky story.
0430… the four-year old is crying because she pissed on the hardwood floor. No biggie… at least it wasn’t her bed. I break out the Swifter and the White vinegar laced with Four Thieves essential oil, do a quick little mop-a-roo, and we are both headed back to bed.
0555… the four-year old is up again. What the fuck?! Most days, I have to pry her out of bed to get her to daycare on time for me to head to work. My birthday, where I pleaded with the kids the night prior to let me sleep in? 0600. The birds aren’t even up yet. <grumble, grumble> We flip on the fireplace and some cartoons in my bedroom, and cuddle back in for maybe a few minutes more sleep.
…Maybe not. 0630… The nine-year old is up. He wants nothing to do with our cartoons, the little pretentious terd. He must watch his cartoons, loudly, in the living room. Kenz waddles off to watch “Johnny Test”, or whatever the hell it is called, I pull the pillow over my head and attempt to catch a few more minutes of shuteye.
0700… Marty calls me from overseas. Of course I’m going to take this call. He sounds exhausted. I’m exhausted. We sound like we should be exhausted somewhere together. But we are not. We talk for a few minutes then he tells me that he wants me to try to fall back asleep. He sweetly whispers his goodbyes and the call disconnects.
0730…. I can’t get my husband’s words out of my head long enough to try and fall back asleep. The kids are still occupied with the T.V. in the living room, so I lay quietly in the bed and….. think. Dangerous.
0800… the phone rings. My savior, actually. Thinking too long leads to nothing good, as long as my mind is involved. You see, the thing about anxiety is that I can take one teeny little thought, and before too long, that thought is snow-balling into something deep, dark and sinister. It fucking sucks. I wish I could turn my brain off sometimes.
But back to my phone call <see what I mean>… my little sister and her family: “Happy Birthday” wishes and a way overdue conversation with my sister. I miss that girl like crazy. It was a wonderful surprise, and one of a few silver linings in my day.
So… I am up. I jump in the shower and yell to the kids to get dressed and brush their teeth. You know those days, when the moon and stars all align and the kids actually do what you say, the first time you say it? Yeah, this was not one of those days.
A few hours later, I finally herd them out of the house and corral them into the car to a head to a nearby town’s Pumpkin Fest. I blow a bunch of money on rides, the kids both won a goldfish <freaking great>, they had pumpkin-themed snacks, but still…. it wasn’t enough. Enter whiny, bitching kids.
We head to the store to pick up some apple cider. Per an earlier conversation, apple cider is what would make their day great. Really? While walking through the store, my little brother, who I hardly ever talk to, calls to wish me a Happy Birthday <silver lining # 2>. I am enjoying the conversation… the kids, obviously, are not. They are playing “race cars” up and down the aisles with the kid-sized shopping carts, getting into people’s way, knocking shit off the shelves, and I’m getting the same dirty looks that I would be giving if some dumbass was on her phone when her kids were acting like that. On top of it all, the nine-year old started going up and asking the workers for off-the-wall items… <Note… If I wasn’t about to lose my shit, this little act on his part would have been hilarious. Right now? No.>
We finally make it out of the grocery store and I lose it in the car. I start bawling my eyes out, and cry all the way home. Is it bad luck to cry on your birthday? Well, I am fucked. I haven’t cried like that in a long time.
I make it home, and call my dad. <Silver lining #3> He talks me down, like he always does, and puts my mind on a different path. We talk about the predicted frost warning and covering my garden with a sheet to prolong the growing season, what the meal plan is for the week, the news, the weather, he gives the kids a stern talking to and we hang up…
I have to pee…. I am the type of girl who waits until the last possible minute to urinate, and when I do… Stand back!! I fly into my bathroom, whip down my drawers, and my phone <that was resting comfortably in a back pocket> goes flying into the toilet water. Fuck, fuck, double-fuck!
I had splendid plans. I’m turning a spare room downstairs into a workout room. We purchased the flooring before Marty left, but it still resided upstairs in the garage. I moved the flooring down to the basement. I prepped the trim and doors for paint. Earlier, I was ready to tackle my project. Things change…
…I opened bottle of wine. Okay, that is a lie – I already polished off a half of a bottle that Marty and I had left from “Anniversary Night”. Now I’m starting on a mulled “witches brew” I picked up last Halloween. So, I’m apparently drinking tonight.
…Add dog barf, spilled wine, a sick kid, a stuck washer, low propane, a stinky dog…
I deserve it, right? Damn right I do. I have already given in, and the kids are <again> watching Johnny Test and leaving me alone long enough to write this post. The remainder of this so called “Happy Birthday”?
I’ve going to drink my bottle of wine, devour what is left of this Econo-sized tub of cheese-balls, and try to forget the day that I turned 38.