My friends already know: I take great pleasure in my birthday every year.
To paraphrase the perfectly pompous Ron Burgundy, I don’t know how to put this but, I’m kind of a big deal.
Really. I own a plaque that says so (my daughter bought it for me for my last birthday) and I keep it in my kitchen where I can see it every time I’m standing at the sink. It makes me grin. Imagine how often YOU stand at your own sink. In just one calendar year of sink standing, can you even fathom how many times I’ve stared at this saying? It’s like brainwashing: I have shamelessly come to believe it.
(Side note: I was actually a much bigger deal a decade ago when I was the huge star of a reality TV show. I’ve written about that before but won’t speak of it again until I compose my 10th Anniversary Homage Blog about it …you must wait…)
I make a point to focus on my big-deal-ness on my birthday because I am unquestionably less than so most other days of the year.
I’d say most moms feel a lot like me.
When I realize my nails have stopped growing because of how much time they’re doused in detergents or ammonia or water… I don’t feel like a very big deal.
When I’m settled in for a private potty moment and — within nanoseconds — hear four twelve-year-old boys camped out to start a card game on the other side of the door, I don’t feel like one either.
When a conversation with my kid goes like this:
Where’s your report card?
I gave it to my coach like I was supposed to.
And I didn’t need it after that so I threw it out.
…”big deal” doesn’t exactly come to mind in the least.
When I find myself actually alarmed at just how thin my ponytail has gotten over the years, besides wanting to sob in an unflattering manner, no, I don’t feel like a big deal in any way whatsoever.
In fact, if I really wanted to dwell on logistics, most days would leave me feeling less than spectacular if I let them because – again, I imagine like most moms — I am helplessly flawed on a daily basis.
Some days I can assess that the dirty dishwasher hasn’t been turned on in three days.
Every once in a while the same load of laundry still sits wet in the machine after 48 hours.
And, oddly enough, there are moments when I just cannot handle the stress of figuring out one more clever way of camouflaging a muffin top (fashion tip: on these days, wear higher heels to detract the eye. Works every time.)
So my birthday is when I make a bold statement about my fabulousness because well, I think every woman should.
Getting older sucks in many, many ways. But birthdays shouldn’t suck at all.
Birthdays force you to pause a moment and reflect about what exactly is going on in your life at that precise time.
I may have thinning hair but I’ve also got a husband who adores me.
My waistline may have swelled but I’ve got kids who make my heart swell (oh, they also spike my blood pressure and routinely kill a good wine buzz but … perspective?)
I’ve got bills and college tuitions and fender benders and all the other stuff that definitely does NOT help crow’s feet ….but
I’ve also got a core group of friends who put the freak in freaking-awesome-out-of-control-teenage-wannabes.
And all of the above makes me a better person each and every day.
I think every Mom out there should stop worrying so much about aging and if only for one day, celebrate the wisdom that the year has bestowed on them. My own wisdom on this forty-seventh birthday is the awareness of how much I am loved. That is without question, a pretty big deal.
I suspect every mom out there is a pretty big deal in some way or another and I think there’s nothing wrong with taking a moment for some personal kudos.
Get yourself a plaque.
Pat yourself on the back.
Of course, delight in the chronological age of those born before you.
(Those teen sirens of my youth?
Them bitches are STILL older than me. Suck it, gals.)
go raise some hell with the crazy-ass folks that love you best (and be sure to cover up the double chins for Facebook pictures)
I sure as hell am.
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