Today is my thirtieth birthday.
And it is turning out to be the worst birthday that I can remember.
Actually, the past couple of weeks have been pretty horrible overall.
This past Friday, I discovered that J was planning a surprise party for later that night and I became furious at him.
How dare he plan a party at home when the house is a mess and he knows that I’m in no condition to entertain? That whenever we have more than two guests at a time, and/or they stay past 8pm, the baby gets overstimulated and becomes particularly difficult when it comes time to put her to sleep?
How dare he plan a party for 8:30pm when he knows that the baby’s fussy time is between the hours of 8pm and midnight? When the only thing that keeps her from screaming bloody murder is to be held tightly by her mommy, and that even then she’ll cry and fuss?
How dare he plan a party for the day that the baby is scheduled to receive her 2-month vaccinations? Doesn’t he know that she might have an adverse reaction to the shots? Doesn’t he know that she might develop a fever and will most likely be extra cranky? (Which turned out to be true.)
Crying baby, crying mommy, flustered dad.
I loved him for the effort, but I couldn’t get over the overwhelming sense that my own husband must not know me — our family — well enough to plan such a poorly thought-out shindig.
And that was just one night.
The rest of the week was a flurry of dark emotions and mini breakdowns. I lost 5 lbs in one week. Which is great for my post-partum weight loss plans. But you can see the toll that my thoughts — the pressure of being a new mom, turning 30 and my life not being what I had imagined/hoped it to be, the realization that my life and my body will never be the same again, irrepressible guilt over everything, especially for having these thoughts — had on my body.
So yes. I have a roof over my head. I have a loving husband. I have a healthy baby. I have a dog who goes ballistic at the mere thought of losing me. I have others who obviously care for me and want me to be happy.
I have nothing that indicates I should be having a horrible birthday, yet I am.
I didn’t have to cancel the party. I could’ve asked for a quiet dinner out with close friends and leave the baby with J’s parents. I could’ve asked for at least a birthday cupcake and a candle to blow out. I could’ve asked for a celebratory glass of wine and a toast in my honor.
Instead, I am getting nothing as a result. And I am well aware that it is my own damn fault.
Pity party for one, please.