Happy birthday to me?

Why I learned to love birthdays once I turned thirty-six

Birthdays are weird. We spend the day behaving like we’re God’s gift to the world. But in actuality, shouldn’t the day be a celebration of our mothers’ sacrifices? Those saints give up alcohol. Sushi. Their bodies. And for what? A crying freeloader who won’t learn to say thank you until much later in life. (Mind you, my perspective on birthdays has changed greatly since the birth of my daughter. But more on that later.)

Perhaps, birthdays—like married names—are an excuse to strip women of their contribution by attributing the moment to someone else. Or, perhaps, I’m just feeling reflectively saucy because my birthday was last week. Regardless, it’s safe to say I’ve never been big on birthdays. Or least I wasn’t in the past. Albeit for different reasons.

Ask my mom, and she’ll tell you I developed Peter Pan syndrome at a young age. It just seemed like kids stopped being nice after eight.

By fifth grade, I already yearned for a time when my friends didn’t break off into cliques or sneak cigarettes at the mall. That’s not to say I didn’t do both of those things. (Sorry, Mom.) Like any young girl, I just wanted to belong.

As a pre-teen, I remember standing outside a Baskin-Robbins in South Florida with my elementary school best friend, who (unlike me) had boobs and an immediate cool factor because of them. Maybe I was meant to be a leader, but when you’re tiny, you follow… until you can “Game of Thrones” your reality. (And hello! She had boobs. She clearly knew much more about the world than I did.)

My friend had stolen a pack of menthol cigarettes from her older sister and lit one up for each of us. I didn’t inhale. But only because I didn’t know what I was doing. The odd looks from passing adults only added to the fun.

There I was — a rebel. Who knew? Watch out, world.

In truth, I was afraid one of those strangers might actually know (and tell) my parents. But the thrill of getting caught or being viewed as cool was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

When you’re still the size of a second grader in fifth grade, you’re desperate to find ways to fit in. (Nothing new there. It’s a tale as old as time. Just ask Chip Potts.) I knew I was seen as a sidekick or kid sister, but I was just happy to be asked to tag along. Sure, sometimes kid sisters are the emotional punching bags for others’ insecurities, which I experienced (A) personally and (B) by witnessing how my friend’s older sister treated her. But I was just grateful to have a friend. Especially one who would introduce me to all things that were cool. You know, like shoplifting.

By high school, I became a lone wolf with a stronger sense of self. I had no real group to call my own, which suited me just fine as I was eager to move out to Los Angeles with all of the other outsiders. I never outgrew being tiny. Or uncool. But I learned how to make both work for me by my twenties. Or so I’d like to think, anyway.

Even so, I still despised birthdays. It always seemed to me that the annual milestone marked a loss of innocence, who we once were, and who we thought we would be by any given age. (Cynical? Absolutely.) As a result, I rarely hosted birthday parties — having never shed my childhood fear that it was entirely possible no one would show up. I mostly kept my head down and worked right through my twenties and early thirties. As a red carpet reporter for various legacy media outlets, the only celebrating I typically did was of other peoples’ launch parties, premieres, and award season wins.

One year, I remember being assigned to cover the premiere of a Will Ferrell film on my birthday. Between cast interviews, I, inexplicably, looked at the reporter next to me and said, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I feel like I should tell someone — it’s my birthday.” To my delight, the girl exclaimed, “I can’t believe it. It’s my birthday, too, and I hadn’t told anyone.” It was weird and wonderful, and I’ve never forgotten the immediate connection we felt by simply sharing that it was our day to be celebrated.

It wasn’t until many years later that my perspective on birthdays, life, and everything in between changed with the birth of my daughter, Miss Evan.

Miss Evan was diagnosed with a rare disease when she was just four months old. We were given the advice to “live one day at a time” with the understanding that tomorrow was never promised. Instead of focusing on the challenging elements of her reality (and, believe me, there were many), we threw ourselves into making each day the happiest day of this beautiful little girl’s life though songs, books, cuddles, and anything we could do to make her smile between shots, constant blood work, doctor’s appointments, therapy sessions, and frequent hospital stays.

Every child is a gift. But Miss Evan is the gift that keeps on giving. During her short time on earth, she taught me — and everyone in her orbit — everything we need to know about life. Without ever having said a word.

I will never again take a single birthday for granted… which is why I blurted it out on social media last week. “Hi! It’s my birthday!” I wrote. “In previous years, I didn’t feel the need to announce it because I didn’t want to be that person. But you know what? We all deserve to be celebrated! So, happy birthday to me!”

As my husband and I enjoyed a spa day in Koreatown, hundreds of notes trickled in wishing me a HBD. I should have known the birthday announcement would be viewed as an invitation for well wishes from friends, colleagues, acquaintances, and strangers. But I was genuinely surprised and tickled.

The response reiterated what I should have known all along.

We should all shout out our birthdays, accomplishments, wins, failures, fears, and everything in between. We deserve to celebrate and be celebrated each and every day — while also making time to celebrate those we love and appreciate.

Because tomorrow is never promised.

I will forever lament not having the opportunity to catch my daughter doing something as stupid as smoking cigarettes — among every other milestone Evan deserved to experience. But I’ll spend every day of my life finding new ways to share her legacy.

In the meantime, I want to take this moment to thank my mom for raising me to be the best mother to Miss Evan. (And, yes, I did stupid things when I was young. But I’m pretty sure you did, too. Maybe, one day, we’ll compare notes.) Here’s to celebrating mistakes, milestones, and every moment. Happy belated birthday to us, Mom!