Please Don't Put Candles On My Pumpkin Pie

March 25, 2007 was one of the most surprising and exciting days of my life.  The amazing news was first reported to my BFF (who had provided the necessary test) with a phone call that went - verbatim - like this:

Me: Dude, there's two lines.
Her: Holy shit, dude.

I remembered I should tell my husband and there was general happiness all around. And then... we did a little math and cringed.

It was going to be a holiday baby.

Not that I cared for my sake - after seven years of failure and infertility, you take what you can get.  But I was sorry for my child's sake.

See, my birthday falls between Christmas and New Year's.  Two of my cousins' fall a few days before Christmas.  My uncle's: Christmas Day.  I know a thing or two about how much it completely and totally stinks to be a holiday baby.

Seriously, if I never hear the words "Merry Birthday" again it will be too soon.

Other kids got actual birthday parties and actual birthday cakes and actual birthday gifts in actual birthday paper.  If - and that's a big IF- I got separate Christmas and birthday gifts, they were always. Always. AL. WAYS. wrapped in Christmas paper.


And I'm not saying I was a greedy kid who wanted more presents.  We didn't have a lot of money and I was always grateful for what I had.  But it's hard to grow up with any self esteem when the overwhelming message from every adult in your life that the most important day in your young life is, for them, an afterthought.
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