My almost birthday

July has always been my favorite month. Fourth of July is pretty much a guaranteed good time, even if it rains. Cicadas are in full force. Swimming holes are especially inviting. Lush greenery engulfs buildings, sidewalks and roads. But I like July mostly because my birthday falls in its middle. I’ve always loved my birthday and feel quite possessive of it. I imagine this is a shared emotion, except for you birthday-haters out there. I haven’t met too many of you that are down on your birthday just like I haven’t met too many people who have my birthday (or, whose birthday I have, depending on how you look at it).
I’m very aware that this is the first year I’ll see that Troy didn’t. I’m also aware that this is my first birthday as a mother, a fact that seemed to interest Ian more than me until just recently. My first birthday as a mother, who very recently experienced the birth day of her first child. But unlike birthdays from age 3 or so on, baby J won’t remember a second of it. I, on the other hand, can still feel most of the agonizing seconds of January 25.

Birthdays are such a nice way to celebrate people, but maybe they should also be a day to celebrate their mothers. It’s almost as if mothers, when celebrating the day of their children’s birth, are also quietly celebrating themselves. For the nine months they watched what they ate not to lose weight but to gain it in order to sustain, carry and eventually bear the child. For the hours and hours of what is widely accepted to be one of the most painful physical human experiences. For the months they were dedicated to being a human milk machine. Then for the years of making all of life’s boo-boos better and guiding this once wee thing into a well-rounded, caring, responsible and loving adult.

I’m still in the milk machine part of that equation, but I can imagine that in the future, when January 25 rolls around, I will be celebrating Julian, but I’ll also be celebrating me, probably more so than on my own actual birthday. Being a mother is really one of the biggest lessons in selflessness. Your kid really becomes more important than everything else. Even, most days, the all-important you. Now, don’t start sending me emails about how important it is to take time for me and don’t take care of others are my expense and all those other things we have to remind mothers who become slaves to their families. It is almost needless to say that I’ll always have a self-centered streak in me (just ask Ian if I’ve lost the ability to put myself first when needed), but being a mom has severely toned that down, for the better if I may say so myself. I am no longer the center of the universe. I’ve had to make room for others, and I love the company. But thank you all for making me feel like a queen, right now. And if you really want brownie points, email my mom and remind her that it’s also a day to celebrate her.