Anyway, being Really Freaking Pregnant obviously gives me a new relationship with both my mother and my birthday. I somehow think that her memory of the weather may be some kind of complicated childbirth result that happened in 1980, who knows what May 20th was like for her but it was changed. I'm unable to think of it like any day because it's always been my birthday, I have all these memories from every year, fading back in time. She's unable to think of it like any day because she remembers the day. Maybe the weather was nice that day? Maybe there wasn't a window in sight, but she was so happy to not be pregnant she imagined it was a beautiful day? Either way it stuck, and overwhelmed all her May 20ths forever.
Last week I was telling my investment club ladies that I was tired of hearing all these bad childbirth stories. Why people do this to pregnant women, I'll never know. But my investment club is full of the awesomest most supportive women, and one of them just smiled and said, "You know that none of those stories really matter, right? Because soon you'll have your own."
My own story, my own birth day, my own crazy tainted changed-forever square on the calendar. Of course I will always have all the May 20ths to celebrate myself and how awesome I am, my celebration of years. But I'm curious and anxious to see what it's like to really celebrate birth.
Happy My Birthday, Mom! Love you. Have a glass of wine for me and pretend it's a perfect spring day.
I am 30.