It has been said (by me) that I am a “Birthday Snob.” While I’m somehow very bad at remembering other people’s birthdays and making a big deal about them, I expect everyone to remember mine and honor me and generally spoil me from start to finish. It’s fairly standard for young children to expect the world to revolve around them for their birthdays, but I’ve not outgrown this. I carried it into college and into adulthood.

I attended an all girls’ Catholic high school. It wasn’t a tiny school, but everyone knew everyone and for the most part, we were all pretty chummy. Birthdays (at least mine ‘cuz like I said, I’m focused on me here and no one else) were pretty great. Friends brought you flowers, decorated your locker, brought gifts, you went out after school or on the weekend to celebrate, etc. In general: people knew that it was your birthday and made an adequately big deal about it.

For some reason, I assumed that in college – in my 30,000+ students University – my birthday would achieve the same amount of respect and honor. Freshmen year birthday was rapidly approaching. In one of my French classes – it was a smaller class, not a huge lecture so I actually had a name, a face, an identity – the Professor announced that we would be having a test on May 24^th. I had somehow already made it known that that day was my birthday. I was appalled that he would knowingly schedule “un examen” for the anniversary of the day of my birth. Being quite proficient as a Freshman in a class full of upper classmen, I considered myself a bit of a teacher’s pet. I had completely convinced myself that the Professeur, as a birthday gift to his favorite pupil, would not actually give ME a test on my birthday. I didn’t study. I think I did OK, but it was wake-up call for the Birthday Snob #1.

#2 came when Matthew was a baby. It was my first birthday as a stay-at-home Mom. I really didn’t know how I’d handle a day of being home, by myself on MY day. Of course, the day was full of phone calls and marvelous tidings of joy from friends and family. It’s not like people tend to forget my birthday; I don’t let them. I had just decided (in a bit of self-pity) that maybe I would lie down and take a nap. It was the middle of the afternoon, Matthew was napping, I might as well sleep away my quiet birthday. All of a sudden, I heard the garage door opening.

“Oh great!” I thought. “Just what I need. Someone is going to break into my house on my birthday.” I prepared to defend myself against this armed robber. My plan? SELF-PITY. You can’t rob me. It’s my birthday!

I was surprised – and yet, not – when Mike walked in announcing that I had a massage to get to in the next 15 minutes. What can I say? I have him trained. He knows how important my birthdays are. Then, when I got home after an hour of marvelous massaging, about 15 people were sitting in our living room – friends and family had arrived for a bit of a surprise party. The man is good.

Last year, just four weeks postpartum, all I wanted for my birthday was a nap. I got that. (I’d also received my kick-butt double jogging stroller earlier). I also had a cold on my birthday, which was definitely reason to wallow a bit.

This year, I’m ecstatic for three reasons: I’ve taken special care to already plan out events throughout my big day. First, the boys and I are heading to lunch at Mom and Dad’s. Second, I get to go have therapy on my birthday. (Yes, I’m in a place in my life where I can think of nothing better than to go talk about myself and cry for an hour of therapy)! Lastly, my favorite Reality TV show is premiering that night. So, you think you can dance? Thank you, Producer, Simon Lythgoe! What a great gift. Mike will be bringing home thai food and once the boys are in bed we’ll be camping out in front of the TV. Hmmm, doesn’t sound all that different from many other nights, but it sounds oh-so good.