Why I Hate Birthdays

Today I turn the big 3-0. I've been dreading this for some time now. Initially, it was because I wasn't pregnant and I really didn't want to be thirty and not pregnant. Then it turned into this big drama of timing IVF so I have enough time to cope with it failing before the big day. Then there were those weeks when I couldn't plan anything because either I'd likely be not-pregnant-and-depressed or pregnant-and-still-hiding-it. Turns out I'm in the second camp. I'm pregnant. Life is good. I still hate birthdays.

Birthdays are a reminder of the gap between where I thought I would be at this age and where I actually am. By thirty, I was supposed to be a home-owner with one child and a second on its way. I was not supposed to living with my parents, having spent our life savings on one pregnancy. Home ownership still seems like a very far off goal and an actual child is still surreal.

Birthdays are are also a reminder of how small my social circle really is, and then I begin to feel lonely even though I'm normally very satisfied with the amount of friends that I have. But when you're trying to arrange a get-together and you have one couples friend, one close cousin, one good friend from work, and one friend from graduate school who may care enough to come to drive 45 minutes, it all seems very disjointed and piecemeal.

Mostly though, the actual day is usually just anti-climactic. It really is just another day. We will go out dinner and I will get a present, but then I'll go about my day like any other day. And life will go on, just like it always has.