It's My Party

When my birthday rolls around every October, I have no qualms about letting people know. “It’s my birthday present,” I say to the boutique owner, and point to the ankle boots I’m about to buy, like guilty pretext for the purchase. “Today’s my birthday,” I blurt out randomly to the woman at the movie theater ticket counter. “It’s my birthday today,” I announce to the waiter at the fancy restaurant on top of the RenCen, one part hoping for special treatment, the other part just wanting to hear myself say it one last time. You see, I absolutely love my birthday. Perhaps it’s because I hail from a family of five children, so it was the one day of the year when the attention was mine alone. Or, perhaps I simply love indulgence—and my birthday is the ultimate excuse for abandon excess.

Last year, pregnant for my 30^th birthday, I felt cheated by the wildly extravagant and narcissistic 30^th birthday party I never got to throw. This year, I was determined to make up for it. What I didn’t expect was exactly how that might manifest itself, now that I have a 6-month-old. There was no party. No guest list. No 2am last call. Instead, Ryan ducked out of work for the afternoon, and we took Cass for a long walk, leaves crunching under our feet, the crisp fall air making me feel like a student on my way to class. We had lined up someone to watch Cass, so we could carry on with birthday activities, planned to make me feel: a) special and b) as social and interesting as I was pre-pregnancy. These activities ranged from a movie at an actual movie theater to attending the opening night of the Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit. About 35 minutes into the latter—a thumping, fantastically-hyped, packed-house event bringing out the city’s young and interesting in droves—I was ready to go home. I had been looking forward to this affair for weeks, building it up to be a post-pregnancy coming-out/birthday party of sorts. But once I was there—casually mingling and staring at obtuse shock art—my head went completely vacant. I was pining for home. I wanted to be planted on the couch, curled up next to my husband, discussing the minutia of our delicious dinner, Cass’ current sleeping patterns and the Tigers’ unpredictable pitching program, while watching the last few innings of the 4th game of the World Series.

So we left and did just that. And I can’t remember a better birthday. Ever. That's saying a lot, considering I still can't have cake (darn dairy allergy).

That doesn’t mean, however, that my birthday was without overindulgence. Early that morning, Cass and I sprawled out on the bed, staring at each other. I was trying to convey a sense of significance, but he was riveted by a toy giraffe. His chest was bare, and I wanted to capture that tiny, perfect body that seems to be growing so fast. I grabbed my camera, thinking about how my Dad and brother are constantly ridiculing my photographic excesses. At least once a week, Colin will ask how many pictures I have taken of Cass so far on that particular day. I usually lie, and say five or so. But today I tell the truth: I took 33 photos of Cass within a half hour.

Glorious excess indeed. But, hey, it was my 31^st birthday—and I refuse to erase a single one. [If you click through them really fast, it’s kinda like a video]

It's My Party Slideshow