Those Sad Birthdays

When I was eight years old I asked my mom what it was like to have a real birthday, to have everyone be so excited for you that they would never want to miss your party, to stand up in front of the class wearing a cheesy birthday hat and have people serenade you with the birthday song. And she looked at me like I was crazy, as if I had grown an extra head between the time I asked her the question and the time she finally looked up at me. But I wasn’t crazy. I knew how it felt to get shafted on my birthday, to see everyone else get to enjoy theirs but to have mine crowded into the shadows of a brighter sun by which all other days merely orbit instead of shining in their own right. Because, you see, I was born on December 27th.

I remember relating this story to others as I got older, and telling them all about the massive disappointment I felt every year on the anniversary of my birth. I told them stories of getting presents wrapped in Christmas paper that were obviously just Christmas presents that were siphoned off and given to me two days later for my appeasement. It was obvious one year when I got a remote control car for Christmas and the remote control to actually use it on my birthday, both wrapped in identical Santa Claus paper. It was so bad at one point that I recall shouting at someone (it might have been my Uncle Michael — sorry), and saying how if they were going to get me Christmas presents and misrepresent them as birthday gifts that I didn’t want any presents at all. And I know you’re thinking I was spoiled, but I really wasn’t. I just wanted to be recognized on my special day, like so many others are without question.

Don’t get me wrong. Christmas is a magical time with gingerbread dreams and visions of sugarplums, you know, all that jazz. And I love it for the most part, the time spent with loved ones, the warm environs, the hot chocolate, and the presents too. When I was young we didn’t really celebrate with a plethora of gifts because we didn’t have much money. So usually when we did have presents they were practical ones that were useful rather than frivolous. There was one year, though, when I got this amazing electric train that my mom and dad went in together on, and I knew it was a stretch even then. Then they told me it was a joint gift for both Christmas and my birthday, and that immediately soured it. It shouldn’t have, but by then I had this huge chip on my shoulder about my birthday being lumped in with the Santa Claus holiday. And that ruined the holidays for everyone. Now, looking back on it, I feel horrible, but perspective changes a lot of things.

And I had birthday parties on my birthday, but in the vast majority of years it was the immediate family and not many more. I would invite several people from school, but I didn’t have many friends so that was another issue, and the ones I did have were usually busy with their own families and couldn’t make it. When I was 12 my mom let me have a sleepover, and that was amazing. It was me, and these three guys from church, and we made our own pizzas, we had ice cream, and we played Nintendo until the early hours of the morning on the 28th. It was almost as magical as Christmas, just knowing that I was the one being celebrated by more people than just myself, that other people had taken time out of their schedules to spend my special time with me.

I think that’s why even now my birthday is my favorite day of the year, because for so long it was overlooked and set aside. And I know that a lot of that was in my head, that people weren’t purposely avoiding me on my day, that wrapping my presents in Christmas paper wasn’t an intentional stab at me, but it was what they had at the time. Convenience is usually at the forefront of why most people do most things, but for a young boy who already felt inadequate and friendless, it was just one more brick in the wall. And as the years have gone by I have worked hard to tear down that wall brick by brick and reveal what was really going on back then. I blamed my parents for so much then, but they did what they could to make sure I was given what I needed when I needed it, particularly my mother who raised us most of the time by herself. And it is to her that I apologize for being selfish and making her feel as inadequate as I made myself feel.

When I first met my wife, I told her the entire story of my emotional birthdays and she completely understood. While she knew it wasn’t all reality that I presented to her, she also knew that it’s not only reality that shapes our thoughts and feelings. She held me close while I cried, remembering the loneliness and desperation I felt, and she comforted me. Then she told me that no matter how irrational my feelings might have been, it was okay, that she would never belittle them. And she gave me the best birthday gift ever that first year, too, by telling me she was going to give the idea of us a real, solid chance, that she was in it for the long haul. Which turned the day from one of disappointment to one of joy, and one I will forever share with her too. Maybe that’s what I was looking for all along.

Sam