happy birthday to the ground!

some birthdays rock. and others you want to smash a piece of birthday cake on the pavement like Andy Samberg. mine was somewhere in the middle, but leaning heavily toward Andy Samberg.
let's just say my birthday this year was less than idyllic.

it all started when i pulled on a pair of hot turquoise skinny jeans, looked in the dressing room mirror and asked myself this question: "mom?" i flash-backed to my good old days at Newhall Elementary and relived the frightening scene of watching my friend's mother--who worked in our classroom that day--sit down on the lunch benches with us and try to eat a piece of pizza with her jungle red painted, five inch long nails curling at the tips like Fritos and digging into the cheese smearing sauce and grease all over her fingers. for some reason it reminded me of a koala. i don't know. i think it was then that i formed a covenant with myself and my future children in heaven that i would never embarrass them with Freddy Krueger nails...and standing in the dressing room of American Eagle, those turquoise skinnies got added to the list as "not mom appropriate."

and i was sad. cuz pre-mom Cristine really liked 'em. and then i thought deeper--is American Eagle mom-appropriate anymore for me? it's a horrific conundrum, because i may or may not have rebelled and bought some other skinnies there: pink ones and white ones. light pink never did anyone harm, right? at least give me pink!

so really my birthday was good. i got some mom-appropriate skinnies.  i got lots of notes and well wishes and calls and texts. the hubby bought me flowers. i did a little shopping in Knoxville with a friend. i ate a little Japanese cuisine. good, right? but for some reason, birthdays take an emotional nosedive when you become a mother, and this reality sneaks up on you ever so quietly waiting until your special day to explode in your face.  

birthdays mean you get to sleep in right? birthdays mean you go shopping til your little heart explodes from the excitement of a new outfit, have no cares and fat out on the couch soaking in the splendor of knowing it's your day and telling yourself "aren't you just so darn special?" right?  birthdays give you a confidence high the whole day because it's all about you. right? and subconsciously --or consciously--you don't feel guilty repeating the "serve me it's my birthday!" mantra in your head a bajillion times throughout the day and feel entitled to whatever whenever however you want. and for one day you feel like you shouldn't--nay you deserve--to not change one diaper, or mix one bottle or calm a crying baby for that entire day.

right?

every mother reading this is--i assume-- resounding one word in their heads in a way that Walt Whitman describes as a barbaric yawp: NO.

it's a hard pill to swallow. and you usually don't feel that twirpy pill until the day--your birthday--when suddenly its hard to be so selfless on a day when all you want to do is be selfish. 1 day out of 365 seems fair to me.

then i get a text:
"Dear Cristine...Hope you had a special day!! First birthday with dear Jakey! Love, Grandma."

then i read this on pinterest:
"Motherhood is not a hobby, it is a calling...It is what God gave you time for."

reading those so true words didn't make me feel guilty (because natural man tendencies are annoyingly normal in this imperfect state) and they didn't instantly erase that nagging sad feeling, but they did flip the spiritual switch in my head and opened up my eyes to that eternal perspective that sometimes i don't recognize i've turned a blind eye to. i really tried to ponder in my mind that this is what I was given time for. to be a mother. not to live it up and go hog wild on my birthday. heavenly father didn't send me to earth with a pat on the back and a secret piece of advice that went something like, "Listen, Cristine, be the best mother you can be each and every day of your life. Except on your birthday. By whatever means possible be selfish and cry over turquoise skinnies and blog about it. That's the key. Don't forget it now."

no. though it be hard, that eternal perspective must be grasped onto for dear life. and so as penance for clinging to childhood ideals of birthdays i have resigned myself  to go sit on the couch and watch the same Mickey Mouse Clubhouse episode that i've seen for the umpteenth time.

moral of the story? a pair of turquoise pants reminds you that you are no longer a teenager. but a mom. and they also have the tendency to send you down a slippery slope of emotional nonsense that gets regurgitated onto a blog. in the end, its best to stick with pink and bypass the crazy.

and when all else fails...flip your hair back and forth and relish in your child's bright-eyed delight. who has time to throw birthday cake with this hunky chunk of baby in my life? he's the birthday gift that keeps on giving.

oh, and according to the hubby, the birthday card he chose for me
accurately depicted my mood on my day. (and he was right.)

smart alec.