Have you ever had one of those conversations where both parties walk away thinking that they’ve established something completely different? Apparently, I had one of those a couple of weeks ago. Cue Wayne’s World like hand motions and wavy camera work as I take you back.
Today is Bastille Day, which means that tomorrow SHOULD be a national holiday–it’s my birthday–but the government has, so far, ignored it. After last year’s decidedly terrible birthday (of which in this post there is no mention of several other key factors against it. Like the fact that I hadn’t slept more than an hour in months and that Dave spent most of my waking hours hiding from the kids and I in the basement) and once I’d reached the conclusion that since NOT celebrating it wasn’t an option (Internet, meet my son Ben, who loves a party more than a drunken co-ed) I decided that I wanted to do something low-key.
I blithely asked The Daver to take *gasp* a day *gasp* off work *o the humanity!* so that I wouldn’t be stuck doing what I deemed to be “depressing” and “sad.” Basically, much as I love my children, I didn’t want to spend my day alone with them wiping poo-covered butts just like every other day on the planet.
The Daver, who would be a work-a-holic in any job, works the type of job that I can compare only to resident doctors (he is not a doctor) in that his hours are ridiculous and frustrating. For instance, most weeks he works 80+ hour weeks and is seldom home to see the kids when they wake up OR before they go to bed at night. I had to threaten him not to bring his Blackberry into the delivery room when Alex was born.
While it’s not a job I’m always peeing sunshine and roses over him having–I’m downright tired of being having a silent partner–it allows me to stay home with the kids, which beats the shit out of any nursing job I could score. Plus, he really does like what he does, which even I know is a rarity for most people.
I often compare his job to another, more neurotic (shut up) wife.
So for me to ask him to take the day off for my birthday is much more of a big deal than it sounds. For both of us. He might have to spend some time NOT WORKING and I might spend some time with another pair of hands around the house.
Well, in typical fashion for his job, we’d agreed that he’d take a couple of days around my hallowed day of birth off so that he could squeeze a mini-vacation into that time as well, but I found out last week that this wasn’t going to happen. But, I thought we’d discussed, he’d take my birthday proper off, save for a couple of hours in the mid-morning.
And you can guess what happened yesterday: he informed me that no, in fact, he wouldn’t be able to take my birthday off at all. But he might leave early. Maybe. (can I just say, yeah RIGHT?)
So I’m back to spending my birthday at home, alone with the kids, just like today and just like the day after today.
He doesn’t understand why I’m upset with him over this. In his mind, he’s absolved since he promised to either take another day off this week (yeah.right) and even take a week off at the end of the month (yeah.fucking.right), and while I am positive that neither of those would actually happen, it’s not the same. Tuesday, July 15 is my birthday, it is my only birthday and I will be 28 this year ON Tuesday.
It’s stooped so low for me that I had to beg my parents–whom I see every day anyway–to hang out with me on my birthday so that I don’t have to be alone. If that’s not the dorkiest, most pathetic thing I’ve ever had to do, I’m not sure what is. Maybe we can play Yahtzee or Monopoly while drinking some sparkling water! It’s going to be a fucking blast! I’ll be 28 going on 6! Hooray for hanging with my parents!
People always assume that I hate my birthday because I hate getting older, and that’s simply not true. I hate my birthday because no matter how much I beg, it’s just like every other day on the planet for me.