A Cancelled Birthday

It was my birthday today.

I gotta tell ya, it’s been a rough couple of weeks. Some of you may have noticed that I have posted less lately. Between pregnancy, fostering obligations, homeschooling, therapy, medical appointments, documenting, family events, and being a (lousy) home maker, I’ve just been zapped.

I put a stop to birthday dinner plans with my family. I deleted my birthday on Facebook the night before, so people wouldn’t feel obligated to wish me half-hearted, internet mandated birthday greetings. I told Milkman to just forget about it. I wanted to cancel my birthday.

This has nothing to do with fear of growing old. I admired new wrinkles this morning, rejoiced over a few more gray hairs, and remembered how much I can’t wait to be an old lady. I have no issue with aging.

It just felt like… I dunno. Too overwhelming. Since becoming a mother, my birthday is often overshadowed with just that— being a mother. Perhaps it was petty to cancel my birthday. Perhaps selfish. Perhaps a pity party. Actually, probably all of the above.

Milkman still did his best to make me feel special. Home made enchiladas (my annual birthday meal since elementary school), gluten free cinnamon rolls with birthday sprinkles, and telling me to go do whatever I wanted to. My kids missed the be nice to mama on her birthday (even if she did cancel it!) memo. They fought extra today, were particularly hurtful a few times, and no one napped.

So here I am. It’s 6:26pm on my self- cancelled, 30-something birthday. I’m sitting in the van parked outside of our old house, listening to Buffalo Springfield, eating a giant bag of Cheetos (my birthday gift to myself. Nothing says self care like dyeing my insides with yellow and red dyes), tapping away on my phone, and feeling pretty pathetic.

But the truth is, I’m not JUST pathetic. I texted Milkman yesterday that I felt fragile. I typed the word, back spaced, typed it again. Stared at it, and sent it. I do not think I have ever used that word to describe myself. I am his strong woman. I am a strong mother. I am a strong advocate for my foster children. I am a strong sister. I am a strong friend. I keep my softer emotions in check 99% of the time. I don’t like people to see when I’m feeling weak. But lately? I’m fragile.

Maybe it’s the insanely low lows, the really high highs emotionally we’ve experienced lately with fostering. Maybe it’s this baby who is currently kicking away at my bladder throwing my hormones out of whack. Maybe it’s the lack of quality sleep. Maybe it’s my kids going through their own feelings and testing me. Maybe it’s all in my head.

But today, on this, my forgotten birthday, I’m telling myself it’s just gonna have to be okay to be fragile. Perhaps my gift to myself is letting myself cry buckets of tears that I’ve held in for too long. Letting myself realize that even the strongest of people have weak days and weeks. Putting aside my pride that says I’m better than those who show their delicate side. Maybe this is the year that I can take down another layer of stone from my many walls that I’ve built throughout the years to insulate myself from my feminine side. Maybe my fragile birthday will be forgotten by myself in a few years, but I’m holding out hope that it’ll be remembered as the year I said it was okay to not be strong all the time. Because guess what? It’s okay to be fragile sometimes. For me. For you. For us all.


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