Courtesy of the author
Growing up, I often gave my parents low-key guilt trips about my birthday. Being born in the week between Christmas and New Year's meant I never got to have a celebration at school and rarely had parties since my friends were usually out of town.
While I understood at some level that my parents hadn't chosen that particular day on purpose, I carried a lingering resentment that I'd been born at the worst time of year.
My "special" day always seemed to be overshadowed by the rest of the holiday season.
I got over it eventually. As a young adult, I threw parties for myself in late January or spent the day hitting post-Christmas sales with friends. Sometimes, when days of nonstop family time had drained all my energy, it was a treat to gift myself a trip to the movies — alone.
While I eventually made peace with the situation, a holiday birthday was one family tradition I had no intention of handing down. After I got married and my new husband and I started talking about children, I was careful to make the nine-month calculations and ensure I didn't get pregnant in March.
My first child, Clara, was born in early September, a date that came with its own issues but was well ahead of the holidays. But things weren't as straightforward when we started trying for a sibling. Eventually, I started IVF, and any attempts to time my next pregnancy went out the window. I was at the mercy of shots and cycles that were very much out of my control.
The first attempt at IVF didn't take, but a few months later, the second one did. Soon I found out I would be having twins in early February. Crisis averted! Or so I thought.
Pregnancy being pregnancy and twins being twins, I should have known the due date was an estimate, not a guarantee. Throughout that fall, as I started coming to my doctor for more frequent checkups, she reminded me that twins tend to arrive early. After some signs of possible early labor, I was put on bedrest in early December. A few weeks later, I was moved to the hospital.
And early on the morning of December 23, James and Alan arrived.
My first emotion was overwhelming relief that they were healthy, and my second reaction was an overwhelming sense of guilt.
"I'm so sorry, little guys," I thought to myself. "I never wanted you to get stuck with a December birthday."
The one consolation, I hoped, was the fact that they had a mother who could commiserate and help them make the best of it.
From their very first birthday, I made sure the day was its own distinct occasion, with balloons and streamers and cake. I discreetly suggested to well-meaning family members that it was better to buy the boys two separate, smaller gifts rather than a single, combined "Christmas/birthday" present.
No matter what other holiday events were planned during that week, my boys got to choose whatever activity they wanted on their birthday and whatever kind of food. Christmas cheer would take a 24-hour pause.
That doesn't mean my boys are any happier about their birthday timing than I used to be. They've missed birthday-at-school shoutouts; birthday sleepovers with friends have had to be pushed into January; and despite my best efforts, I'm often so busy doing last-minute shopping and baking that I don't always make the day as special as it could be.
But I like to think this experience has taught my boys a lesson it took me a long time to learn. In a culture where people are constantly curating versions of themselves online, it's easy for children to think that anything they don't like about themselves can be airbrushed or exercised away.
But there are certain things about your life you can't control. Getting pregnant is one of them. Having a healthy child is another. And if you've ever worried about either of those things, you quickly realize how little an actual birth date matters.
The whole point of a birthday celebration is to make a person feel appreciated and special, to let them know they're loved. And you can do that any day of the year.
