Member-only story
It’s My Birthday and I Want Everyone to Know It
Because rewriting the past means celebrating the now
I spent my 17th birthday at home, alone.
It was 1999, back before Facebook — so no prompted happy birthday messages or cake emojis every hour. There was no texting either, just a phone base on a wall with a long, curly cord that rang once when my grandmother called.
Because my hometown had a burgeoning population of 250, and because my childhood home was eighteen cornfields outside of that town, this particular birthday felt especially secluding. I remember skimming the scum off the above-ground pool, still in my pajamas, balancing my toes on the edge.
My parents, sister and brothers eventually came home late in the evening from their various Saturday activities, presenting me with a Dairy Queen ice cream cake — our family birthday tradition. And I thanked them all, and the lonely feelings subsided. But I didn’t let anyone know how I’d felt spending that day alone. I didn’t know how to. Birthdays just weren’t a big deal in my family.
I’ve overcompensated by making a huge deal out of my kids’ birthdays, even when they don’t want me to. Last year I imploded with actual tears when my daughter said she didn’t want to reschedule the party I’d planned for her, which got cancelled…
