A Day Set Aside

Birthdays are very important to me.

Nothing pleases me more than planning a big party for one of my kiddos to celebrate the day they were born. In the case of my four youngest, it’s even more special, because I wasn’t there the day they actually made their grand debut. My late husband and I adopted all four of them.

While we don’t do big parties every year, I’ve always wanted to make the milestone birthdays even more special — if the kiddo we’re celebrating actually wants a big to-do, that is. The ones that tend to earn the extra effort are the 10th, 13th, 16th, and 18th.

I’ll research ideas on Pinterest, then spend hours hunting down the perfect party-food recipes to match the theme, of course. I settle on decorations and work hard to either make them myself or find them for the lowest possible price. For me, part of the fun is finding an economical way to still throw a really special bash for a really special kiddo.

It took me years to understand why I was so intent on making all holidays special, but birthdays most of all.

As a January baby, my birthday was often overlooked or barely celebrated when I was growing up. The reason my parents gave was that it fell just after Christmas, and there simply wasn’t money left to do much else. I only vividly remember two of my childhood birthdays: my 5th and my 13th. The 5th was at a local Pizza Hut, and I thought getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the kitchen was about the most special thing in the world.

My 13th stood out for a different reason. We were deep in dysfunction, at the beginning of what I’d later realize was the end of the family I’d been raised in. My dad had spent months in a mental health facility, and he was home for a short visit and brought gifts for my birthday. My favorite was the first cassette tape I ever owned. A lot of you reading this have probably never held one.

I’m sure they celebrated my other birthdays. I guess they did. But the memories simply aren’t there.

As I got older, the excuse I’d been given landed differently. Yes, my birthday followed the most expensive holiday of the year. But it fell on the same date every single year, and I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just plan for it. Couldn’t they budget for it like ordinary parents?

The truth is, my bitterness was never really about the missing gifts or the party. It stemmed from not feeling special. From not feeling important enough to be celebrated. From believing I wasn’t worth even one day set aside for just me.

So I made myself a promise: whenever I had children, I would never let them feel “less than” on their birthday. I’ve tried hard to keep it. Now that some of my children are older and married, I’ve handed that privilege off to their spouses, as it should be — and thankfully, they all do it well.

As an adult, my birthdays have been hit or miss. In the years I had a husband, my day was treated as exactly that — special. My solo-parenting years, not so much. The exception was my 40th. It was my first birthday as a widow, and a handful of dear friends pulled off the most epic surprise party. I’ll never forget it — especially how cherished I felt.

I had always pictured my 50th being a grand event. Even without a party like my 40th, I imagined a special trip, or something over-the-top to mark the milestone. I’d thrown my own mother a surprise party for her 50th — I even pulled the last of it together from a hospital room, next to my very sick three-month-old daughter.

Instead, it passed like any other day. To say I was disappointed — and, truthfully, a little hurt — would be an understatement. One precious local friend did stop by with a surprise cake and a few goodies. I couldn’t believe she remembered. Had she not, you’d never have known anyone in my house was having a birthday, let alone the big 5-0.

As I’ve entered this season of rebuilding my life again — after decades of grief, trauma, and mistakes — I’ve chosen a different stance on my birthday. If I hadn’t, the ache of feeling forgotten would rob the day of any joy at all.

I noticed I’d start sinking in the days leading up to it. Knowing it would probably pass like any other, I think the low was my body’s attempt to protect me from the letdown. It mostly failed. The bitterness was all-consuming, and I’d catch myself getting short with my kids in the days around it. I’m not proud of that. I’m just telling the truth about where I was.

I still believe birthdays are meant to be special. It’s the one day of the year set aside to celebrate someone simply for being born. To honor them for being here. To cherish that they exist. And yet — I can’t let the absence of a card or a cake derail the day, or the ones around it.

I know God sees me as the apple of His eye. He knew that day well — the one He knit His handiwork into existence. I don’t think He’s asking me to pretend the hurt isn’t there. I think He’s asking me not to let it harden into bitterness.

Rebuilding in these years after 50 has meant taking intentional steps to celebrate my birthday, however I feel led to. I choose to make it memorable — maybe a pedicure and lunch at a favorite restaurant. Maybe a little overnight trip. Maybe something spontaneous. Whatever it is, it’s my way of making the day special, regardless of what anyone else does or doesn’t do.

My choice is intentional. It has to be. Otherwise, bitterness would take root again, and nobody wins when that happens.

For you, it may not be a birthday at all. Maybe it’s another kind of overlooking — a wound someone handed you, or one you handed yourself. Whatever it is, bitterness works the same way. It puts down roots. And roots have to be dug up before anything new can grow where they were.

So take the next right step. Forgive, if there’s forgiving to do. Celebrate yourself — your survival, your small wins — even if you’re the only one who shows up to do it. You are worth a day set aside. You always were.