I’m turning 24 on Friday. I’m finally ready to admit to the
fact that I’m turning 24, though my body (and anyone brave enough to hazard a
guess at my age) tends to think I’m closer to 30. This is due to my child and
35-year-old husband, I think. Certain factors in my life have conspired to
ensure I feel and appear older than my years. That, however, is not the point.
Yep, I’m afraid I’m going to have a little birthday pout.
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I wish I looked this cute when I pouted. I'd do it much more often.
Sadly, I cannot rock a gingham dress.
Image Source |
Every year, I go into my birthday with no expectations. This
has been the case since I was 14 and my parents chose the day of my birthday
celebration to tell us that Mum was moving out. Since then, birthdays have
always been a bit meh. I don’t actually remember my 16th, my 18th
was memorable because my 2 best friends chose to leave my small party to hook
up with the pizza boy, my 20th I had a 10-day old baby and severe
sleep deprivation, my 21st both O and I had gastro and ended up in
the emergency room. So most of the ‘landmark’ birthdays have passed without much
in the way of excitement and I’ve learnt a valuable lesson about having no
expectations.
Last year, I managed to shoot myself in the foot a little
bit. I’m shocking for saying the very earnest ‘I don’t want anything, darling.
Just spending time with you is enough.’ Ladies, I’m here to tell you men
actually believe this!! And men: STOP BELIEVING THIS! Women love shiny things.
We love feeling special and getting presents. Especially as Mummies. We spend
our whole year celebrating everyone else. We do all the Easter bunny-ing, the
Santa-ing, we buy all the birthday presents and plan all the parties. We cook
every special meal for every event from birthdays to getting an award at weekly
assembly. And we do it all without minimum complaint.
There is one day a year that is all ours. And no matter how
much we protest, we love the thought of a special cuddle in the morning where
someone special whispers ‘Happy Birthday’ in our ear, then fetches our kids and
has the frantic, covert ‘remember to say Happy Birthday Mummy’ conversation. We
love the idea that someone other than us might organise a special cake, maybe
with a single candle (anyone who lights an inferno on my birthday cake risks
getting strangled) and handing us a special wrapped present, or a card –
especially one our precious babies have handmade and written themselves. At the
end of the day, the present isn’t actually the point. The fact that our
precious family thought about us and got us something to express that thought
is all-important.
Last year, B and I had only been seeing one another a few
weeks, and he took me deathly seriously when I said ‘no presents’. I ended up
cooking dinner for myself, him, my housemate and a friend. I bought myself a
cake from Woolworths, and another friend of mine came over for Midori
cocktails. It was fun, incredibly relaxed and I ended the day happy. But if B
had ignored my protestations, I would have felt that little bit special, and beyond flattered
at being the person he thought of enough to buy something for. Even a silly $2
store gift. I love that shit.
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| Last year's birthday cocktails. Amazeballs. |
Let it be noted, I got myself my very first tattoo for my last birthday. No-one else got me anything, but I felt hardcore!
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| Tara the BAMF. Never again attempting a selfie of the back of my own neck. |
It really is the thought that counts, unless the thought is ‘nope,
this woman may do so much for me during the year, but she said no fuss, so no
fuss it is!’
This year, if you heart me, keep your fingers crossed that B finds some way to make me feel a little special and spoilt.
