It’s weird. My birthday, I mean. I wrote a post about it yesterday, and I want to continue musing today. My mother called me yesterday on my actual birthday and said, “I wanted to call you and wish you a happy birthday even though it’s not yet your birthday.” I laughed and said that it was actually my brithday, and she was mortified. She explained that she had the flu and was so tired and stressed, and I hastened to assure her that I was fine with it. I don’t care about my birthday, and to be frank, she cared about it much more than I did. One year, she got upset because I was dismissive about it, and then I had to comfort her so she would calm down.
I just thought it was funny that of all the people to get my birthday wrong, it would be my mother. I didn’t care, though, and I made sure to let her know it was fine. She had been sleeping all the day before because of the flu. Well, maybe the flu and maybe COVID. She refused to take the COVID test because–I’m not sure why. She did not want to know because—again, I don’t know. At any rate, she’s not feeling good. But of course she had to call me because it was my birthday. She would not dream of not calling me for my birthday, no matter how many times I told her it was not necessary.
Then I talked to my father, and he was not able to keep it together. He seemed to understand that it wsa my birthday, but he drifted off after asking what I was doing for it. My brother mentioned that the last time he talked to my father, he (my brother) could not track what my father was saying. My brother said my father kept talking about some program or agenda or something like that.
It was the same with my birthday. He kept asking what the program was. In part, it was him asking what I was going to do with my friends. When I said nothing (in part because it was ten at night, but mostly because I don’t celebrate my birthday), he scolded me for not wanting to do anything for it.
I said I’d have a cupcake and ice cream, and he laughed scornfully. Apparently, that wasn’t good enough. Honestly, I don’t understand why other people get upset about me not celebrating my birthday.
I don’t get it in general. Why other people cared how I celebrated holidays. As long as you get to enjoy your holidays, why should you care what I do with hime?
That’s how I feel about a lot of thing,s though. Like having children. I don’t understand why what I do matters to other people. I mean, I get it on a philosophical sense why my mother lost her fucking mind when I decided not to have children, but after a year or so, she should have made like Elsa and let it go. The fact that she nagged me about it for fifteen years tells you everything you need to know.
Side note: That was one reason I hated my birthday, by the way. It just dredged up all the expectations my mother (among other people) had for me. Every year was a milestone I missed or bypassed or ignored.
The worst was when I turrned 26 bec;ause that was when my mother started complaining about the fact that I ‘refused’ to have kids (in her eyes). She could not accept that I just did not want to have them. It was beyond her comprehension, which boggled my mind.
How can you go through your life with such rigidity? I really can’t fathom believing that your way of thinking was the one and only way–the one true way. Yes, I know that’s the very definition of a narcissist, but you have to understand that I did not think of my mother that way for decades.
Why? Because she was my mother. She was supposed to love me and want what’s best for me. She was supposed to be selfless, putting me before herself. That’s the definition of a parent. She and my father never got the memo, though. I had no illusions about my father. He made it clear from the start that he didn’t care about anyone other than himself. He had no way of hiding it nor did he think he needed to hide it. He was all about himself; why would that be a problem?
My mother, on the other hand, she was a bit more canny about it. She acted like she knew that she was supposed to care about me and my brother. And she tried when we were kids. She bought my brother his first PC when he was having trouble with school. She came to my schools when I was being bullied. She planned me a nice birthday party when I was ten or eleven. Maybe earlier than that.
She cooked us hearty meals, my favorite being a chicken curry (Indian curry) with what I called camel humps. Not sure what they were, but some internal organs of a chicken. Maybe kidneys? They were delicious.
My mother also made dresses for me when I was a little kid. I hated them. I liked to run and climb trees, and it was hard to do that in a form-fitting dress. I was told over and over again that I was not acting like a girl, and my mom was constantly monitoring my food intake.
This year, I am very glad to have another year on this earth. I don’t care about my birthday in particular, but I’m not unhappy about it, either. I am not actively hiding it even though I’m not shouting it from the mountaintops, either. It’s just another day that marks my time on earth. I actually care more about my rebirthday, but I don’t care much about the specific day, either.
It’s just that I’m here. That’s the important part. I am alive and I’m living my best life. I like myself so much better now than I did twenty years ago. Life is, indeed, good. I’ll settle for that.