I’m starting to hate birthdays.
This year, my husband got me a book, a tradition that has become so predictable it’s almost comical. He is taking me out to a fancy dinner tonight, though, so that sort of makes up for it.
My other presents include getting my period and crossing over that invisible line into advanced maternal age.
I’m actually happy about the period. A day later than I was expecting, but still in plenty of time to keep this upcoming IVF on track.
The other thing? Ugh. I don’t even want to talk about it. It’s not how I ever, ever, ever pictured my life turning out, let’s just put it that way.
Maybe it’s the cramps talking. They’re making me crabby.
We went shopping today, and I bought myself a birthday gift–a pink scarf with fat little birds all over it–which made me feel a bit better. I might wear it to dinner tonight. I’ll take what little scraps of joy I can muster, just to get through what would otherwise be a reminder that I’m only getting older, and we still don’t have a baby–or even a pregnancy–to celebrate.
Summer is hard. Between Mother’s Day and Hubby’s birthday, we have three months of these reminders. Father’s Day is coming too soon for there to be a change, but maybe–maybe–by our anniversary, I won’t feel the urge to cross certain days off the calendar.
That’s the only birthday wish I’m making this year.