So it was already a good day.
I expected it to become an even better day because today is my birthday.
Birthdays aren’t as big of a deal to me as they used to be. What’s another year when you’re over 45.
But when I was younger, and my kids were younger, birthday mornings meant my kids would rush into my arms all sweet-sleepy smelling and kiss me and hug me and wish me happy “birfday”. They would give me hand made cards with mis-spellings and anatomically-incorrect drawings.
And I loved it.
I don’t expect the same kind of affection from my now-teenagers.
But I expected more than I got this morning.
Especially after I made an early morning grocery store run to buy pancake mix. I didn’t even look in the mirror before I left. I wasn’t wearing a bra. And I hadn’t brushed my teeth. That’s how I roll. At 47, no one’s looking at me anyway.
(Thursday mornings in my house are Pancake Thursdays, a long standing tradition. I didn’t want to let them down today. Sucker mother.)
So I was making pancakes when my kids came downstairs. Their hot chocolate already at their seats. One kid wanted to know if I’d brought the newspapers in yet. (No, I hadn’t. But feel free.) And the other one wanted to know if she could have her iTouch back. (No, she couldn’t.)
Helloooooo children. It’s my mother-fucking birthday today.
I didn’t say it like that but there was a touch of sarcasm in my voice when I mentioned it. I got, “I just woke up” from one kid. And, “Oh, yeah, happy birthday” from the other.
Then I spit in their batter. (Just kidding.)
But I was upset. Really upset. My feelings were hurt but worse than that was the thought that I’m raising self-centered teens. Not acceptable.
They’re pretty good kids. When they’re not fighting with each other. They treat their friends, teachers and most grown-ups with respect. They get good grades and still like hanging out with me most of the time.
So when they get home from school today, we’ll have a little talk about it. They need to know how their actions, or lack of, affect others, including their mother.
And in the meantime, to make myself feel better, I wrote a little birthday poem:
My ass is getting droopier.
My hair is half grey.
My wrinkles are increasing.
My metabolism is slowing.
My period is whacked.
And my c-section stomach is pooching.
I am getting wiser about the world.
I’m learning more about myself.
I care less about what others may think of me.
I stand up for what I believe in.
And I am true to myself.
Tonight, I’ll be drinking Costco champagne.
Knowing that I am loved.
Even by my self-centered teens.
Lucky, happy, old-as-dirt me.