I’ve always loved my birthday. I realize that might be egocentrical or perhaps just a given but, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed more and more of my friends seem to shun their birthdays or ask that the day go quietly by, unnoticed and uncelebrated. As if by not acknowledging their birthday with fanfare, they aren’t aging.

While the passing of time doesn’t go unnoticed by me and I sometimes am bewildered how I’ve gotten to my current age – my freshman year of high school was 20 years ago – I can’t imagine letting the one day that is all about you – about me – go unnoticed. I am that obnoxious person that has a countdown going two months before my birthday, and I typically remind my family and friends daily as we enter into the 30 day and below mark (“Hey, only 29 days until my birthday.” Or “Just a reminder…only 17 days until my birthday.”) Yesterday six-year-old niece, who turns 7 on March 7, (12 days after my birthday), started talking about her birthday and what she wants for her birthday. And I blurted out, “Yeah…let’s not get in front of yourself. Remember, my birthday comes first.” I said this. To a six-year-old. Then proceeded to ask her what she was getting me for my birthday. When she tried to turn the table on me and ask what I was getting her for her birthday, I immediately brought the conversation back to myself. I obviously am up for the Best Aunt of the Year award. J

I blame my mother, really, for my obsession with my birthday. She always did her best to make the day as special as possible for each of her kids. As a working mom, she always had to leave early in the morning to make the 35-plus mile drive to Sioux City to ensure that she was in her classroom or, later, counselor’s office, well in advance of the first bell of the morning and before her students started arriving. Due to her early schedule, she usually didn’t see us on the morning of our birthday before we left for school. So she would leave out the Birthday Breakfast for us: doughnuts or our favorite sugary cereal (which we normally didn’t get), a favorite candy bar, a card or small birthday gift, and the Birthday Balloons. Two small Mylar balloons that she recycled and saved for years, putting out for my brother, my stepdad, and me on our respective birthdays. When not in use, the Mylar balloons were stored in the cupboard above the refrigerator. She would also leave treats out for us to take to our elementary classmates when we were grade-school age. The birthday kid would then be able to choose what restaurant we ate at for dinner, and my brother and I would each be able to bring a friend with us to have dinner. My mom also made these elaborate birthdays cakes for us. Smurfs, unicorns, Popples, sports – she made the best themed cakes. She’s always laughed off her cake decorated skills, saying that she’s sub par at best, but I always loved her birthday cakes and the decorations – to me, they were perfect. I don’t know where she found the time to make them or to even figure out how to make the icing decorations – it was a time before Pintrest, YouTube, and AllRecipes.com; she had to use whatever  she could find – sometimes a stuffed animal to look at, sometimes a comic book. It was incredible.

One weekend last May, when brother and I and our families were home visiting my mom and stepdad while my stepdad was sick and dying, I opened the cupboard above the refrigerator to promptly have a stack of napkins fall on my head. My mother – who has always kept a well-maintained, clean, beautiful home – has a little bit of a dirty secret: she stuffs things into cupboards and drawers. So while the surface of the house is usually clutter free, sometimes the drawers look like an episode of hoarders. Well organized and clean, but still crowded. She’s sentimental and often struggles to rid items that are associated with positive and loving memories. My parents’ house is also an older home – built in like 1922, so there’s not much in the way of closet space, so every square inch of space is used to the best and maximum capacity.

I dragged a kitchen chair to the cupboard and proceeded to empty the two large shelves. As I went through the shelves, I pulled out napkins and paper plates from every holiday theme that one could possibly imagine; “Happy 60^th Birthday” decorations from years earlier; margarita glasses and cozies and party favors…the list of random items went on and on. Some things I just threw away, while others I knew had to go back in the cupboard. Others were piled into a box to take to Goodwill. When my mother discovered what I was doing, she flipped out. And suddenly I was on an episode of Hoarders. As I threw things into the trash can, she pulled them out and claimed she couldn’t part with them. So we then went into barter mode: out of the 15 can cozies, she could keep 5. She could keep the margarita glasses if she got rid of the mismatched bar glasses. This went on for a while, with my mom referring to me as “heartless” at one point. I prefer not heartless – just practical and a minimalist.

When it got to the Birthday Breakfast Balloons, I hesitated as to whether I should throw them away or keep them. My brother and I were no longer home on our birthdays for the special birthday breakfasts, and my stepdad wasn’t going to live to see his next birthday. At that moment, the Birthday Breakfast Balloons were a sad reminder of what growing up and becoming an adult can mean. So I threw them into the trashcan, where I imagine they ended up in a landfill outside of Correctionville, the Mylar likely having been crushed and the plastic sticks cracked and broken.

A week after cleaning out the cupboard, I woke in a cold sweat from a dream about the Birthday Breakfast Balloons.  I intensely regretted having thrown those damn balloons away.  I felt so guilty. Rather than throwing them away, I wish I would have brought them home with me so that I could have used them with my own husband or future family, sharing that simple but meaningful tradition with my own family. Now, two days before my birthday, I keep thinking back to those Birthday Breakfast Balloons and the family celebrations that we used to have. And I’ll miss being able to talk to my stepdad on my birthday.

But I still look forward to the one day that’s all about me. To telling my friends and co-workers and complete strangers “It’s my birthday!” and then doing one of my silly dances that looks like Elaine from Seinfield. I plan to embrace my day and my age. Because, if you think about it, there’s no real alternate to getting older – you either get older or you’re dead. So why not celebrate and acknowledge the day? My Grandma Bernie recognized that. She survived cancer at the age of 39, during a time when survival rates from cancer were small and unusual. She knew that every birthday after being remission was a gift, and she never shied away from telling someone her age when asked. She was proud of that number, knowing that her number could have ended at 39. She had another 40 years of life, and she was remarkable.

So on Tuesday, you might want to avoid me if you don’t want to hear repeatedly me discuss my birthday or how the day is all about me. I don’t want gifts – I just want to spend time with my family and friends, a reminder how fortunate that we are to have each other. As obnoxious as I might be shouting out, “It’s my birthday, biotches!” and making them give me high fives. Because it’s all about me. Well, and my parents for giving me life. So they get to celebrate and be acknowledged as part of the day that’s honoring my birth. 

I’ve always loved video games. I blame it on having an older brother who is a total geek, who loves all things gamy and electronic and gadgety. The first game I remember ever playing is Frogger, on an old Apple black computer that was hooked up to a small TV screen. We’d have to load the floppy disc into the computer, being careful not to touch the inside circle rim of the floppy disc. The computer base was heavy, and I remember we were always careful not to bump it. There were also joysticks that we could plug in and use to play games…but I don’t remember what games we played. I just remember that the joysticks were often difficult to navigate. I’m not sure what happened to that old Apple computer base – I think my brother had it in his basement for the longest time. It’s still probably there, gathering dust. Or it's since been thrown out by his wife, who doesn't always appreciate his desire to hoard old devices on the thought of "some day" or "what if" thoughts.

When I was in middle school, my parents bought my brother and me a Sega system. Not a Sega Genesis or Nintendo, just a basic Sega system. So we missed out on hours spent playing Super Mario Bros. and The Legend of Zelda – those games were special treats when we visited friends who had the more expensive Nintendo system. But our parents had told us that the Sega had better graphics and images; that the system was higher quality. While I still don’t know a ton about gaming systems today – just that I like to play and the differences between certain platforms and megabits – my brother holds to the statement that this is true: that we were better off having a Sega than the Nintendo. My favorite games to play on the Sega were Safari Hunt, Ghostbusters, Wonder Boy, Double Dragon. Video games appeal to my obsessive side of being able to dive into something, and then just sit and play and think and strategize. With Safari Hunt, I loved the soft “pew, pew, pew” sounds the system made when you shot a panther or how the armadillo rolled into a ball and bounced off screen when you hit it. Ghostbusters had weird driving scenes where you would navigate the Ghostbuster hearse through the streets of New York City, trying to vaporize ghosts that were flying through the air. And I loved Wonder Boy -- navigating through maps, jumping to stab things with Wonder Boy's sword, gathering coins and potions. Double Dragon was a special treat when we went to visit my dad in Michigan. He had purchased a Sega system as well, and we had different games that we played. My brother was always the black-haired guy dressed in red, and I was the blond guy dressed in blue. My brother occasionally would turn on me and beat the shit out of me in Double Dragon, but more often than not we would team up to defeat the bad guys as that was really the only way you could win the game. To this day, whenever I see a Double Dragon video game in an arcade, I stop to play. While my round kick skills aren’t quite what they used to be, I always find myself drawn to that game. When we were in college, my brother lent the Sega to one of his friends, and we never saw it again. I imagine if one of us still had it, we would probably spend hours sitting in the dark, deeply caffeinated on Mountain Dew, smelling slightly like BO and basement, playing Double Dragon and Safari Hunt. Our spouses would love it.

Since then, we’ve graduated to Wiis and X-Boxes and adult-geared video game bars like Dave & Buster’s and Gambols. I try to avoid video games as much as possible as I’m slightly obsessive when it comes to those things. Years after the popularity of it came and went, I still wish I had purchased Guitar Hero, but I’m pretty sure I would never sleep or leave my house if I did own it and as I tried to master the “guitar” riffs of legendary songs by The Beatles, Tom Petty, and Pink Floyd. The only games I have for our XBox are games that need to be played connected to the Kinnex, meaning that it requires moving my heavy ottoman in the living room so that I can stand up to play. It’s too much of an effort, so I can safely say that my time is not spent playing video games.

But my all-time favorite video game is Ms. Pacman. I realize that that probably makes me a typical girl, but I love the power pellets. Inky, Blinky, Pinky, and Sue. The different fruits at the different levels. I am completely obsessed with that game and love to play it whenever and wherever I can. There are a couple bars in my neighborhood that have either the upright video game or the tabletop video game, and I love to play. I’ve started carrying around quarters for that sole purpose, and will randomly pop in places just to take a whirl on Ms. Pacman. While I have yet to be able to get the high score on any of the Pacman machines around town, I take pride that I recently blew the mind of one of my co-workers who had no clue that I could own Ms. Pacman. A self-proclaimed video game nerd, I believe he thought that it would be an easy victory to beat me in high score, at which he failed miserably. Despite multiple attempts, he has yet to outscore me on Ms. Pacman.  

I imagine it’s the escapist element of playing video games that I’ve always enjoyed. In a video game, you can take on a different persona, explore a different world, eat things and blow things up and win things without ever a) having to leave your own home and b) not having to worry about the impact or repercussions (I mean, you play Grand Theft Auto, you don’t have to worry about going to jail, right?). And for a nerdy, tomboy girl like myself, it makes it an easy way to bond with my brother or talk with my guy co-workers or friends. And there’s nothing better than an intense game of Ms. Pacman, eating all those power pellets and avoiding Sue.

This morning my husband made a comment about me having freakishly small ears. Without thinking, I blurted out, "Jerry used to always tease me about my small ears." And then I teared up to the point that they just...leaked out of my eyes. I turned my head and said quietly, "I miss him." while trying to get them to stop, pressing the palms of my hands roughly into my eyeballs. Because pressure seems like a great way to make yourself stop crying, right? My husband sat there, quietly, and finally said, "If you go take a shower, you'll feel better." The shower didn't work -- it just distracted me.

It's always strange how certain things in your life can be going so well, while the most important aspects -- the things you really care about -- go to shit. For the longest time, I felt angst about my job and what I was doing. But then I switched positions at work and now find myself in a position that was literally created just for me -- and I love it. I love the people I work with, I love the activities and projects I get to work on, I'm happy and can see myself doing this job for years to come. The anxiety I've felt in previous years has abated. Even if I were to lose my job, I now feel like I could deal with that -- I'd find something else. My work life and career has had a shift that I find myself incredibly confident and comfortable with. Finally, it feels right.

I finally feel confident in my body and who I am. By the time I was 14, I was 5'11". By the time I graduated from high school, I had willed myself to be 6'0". All awkward, uncoordinated, gangly joints -- with the added complexity of crazy-curly auburn hair, freckles, and acne. When we played the game of "Which celebrity do you like?", I always said that I looked like what Julia Roberts' and Howdy Doody's lovechild would look like. But it's amazing the difference time and age can make...and realizing the impact that hair gel and not brushing curly hair can have. And embracing my height to the point that I'm comfortable rocking a pair of high heels. I'll never be the most beautiful person in a room, but at least I know that I won't cause the room to empty in disgust. My personality is still slightly off, with a love of all things nerdy and quirky, but I don't worry about stifling my lame jokes to make others like me; instead, I look at it's their job to keep up with me. So maybe only 2% of the population finds me funny...that's probably the best percentage to know.

I love my family and friends. I've been blessed to have so many kind, caring, passionate people be a part of my life. My family is crazy and dysfunctional...but it's a good dysfunction that I've finally figured out how to navigate. We often judge each other and make statements that are perhaps not realistic, but we love and support each other. And when a crisis arises, we will fight for each other like no other. This was proven as my stepdad went through his battle with liver cancer, when my biological dad went through his second divorce, and I plowed through the worst four months of my career two years ago.

So while one portion of my life is spinning out of control, I focus on these things above. And it's all compounded because I continue to miss and grieve for my stepdad. I mostly think my feelings of sorrow are under control, and then there's a small incident that happens -- like a comment about my tiny ears -- that makes me think of my stepdad and sucks the air out of me, causing me to tear up and feel a twinge of grief so painful it feels like a hot poker in the stomach. Over the last week, every night I've had a nightmare that involved my stepdad dying. In one dream, my stepdad's death revived my family's pet cocker spaniel, Snickers, who died when she was hit by a car when I was 13. In the dream, Snickers came back to life as she was prior to dying until my brother hugged her, causing her body to squish in half in one long strip...the rest of the dream was so horrible and graphic that I can't write about it without gagging.  It makes me feel guilty when I think of those of my friends who have lost their own parents over the last few years who I didn't reach out to or didn't keep checking back in to see how they were healing. I don't think you can comprehend the swirl of emotions that come with the death of a parent until you have experienced it yourself. The guilt and sorrow and just genuine despair that comes with it. And how all you want is for someone to hug you and ask how you're doing or just to share one of their favorite memories of your parent with you, just to acknowledge the pain that you're feeling and to know that someone else is thinking about this person who had such an impact on your life. Because seven months after Jerry's death, I still grieve for him and my mom and the years of marriage that he and my mom were supposed to have. I still miss him.