Tuesday, December 1, 2009


My mother called to talk with me tonight and reminded me of something I'd forgotten.
My birthday next weekend
Seriously. Didn't even register.
I loathe my birthday. who wants to watch the years going by and celebrate that? Who wants to count the days of my mortality? ticking off the days until the end of my time?
As a mom, I spend much of my time worrying about my kids birthdays and holidays to worry about my own.
For example, Punk turns two after Yule, and with the holiday and birthday and normal everyday stresses, I don't think of much else.
Let alone my birthday.
Which seems to surprise everyone.
I often wonder if this forgetting is a protective measure, a sign that I am far too busy, or a sign that I have lost a part of myself to the monster called motherhood.
I suspect its an amalgamation of all three, but still.
It's always puzzling that I forget my birthday, that it sneaks up on me every year unexpectedly.
It's not like its not the exact same date every blasted year after ll.
It isn't like one of those Whack-a-Mole games. I know when it's going to rear it's ugly head.
But every year, it's a surprise.
Maybe the surprise is that I am really another year older.
And not so very much wiser most days.

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