I love my birthday. Is that bad to say? I'm sure one of these years I won't enjoy celebrating it quite as much as I do now. But for now, I'm not old enough to dread getting even older.
And now, a letter to my mother.
Dear Mom,
Thank you for growing, birthing and raising me. I'm sorry I came too fast for you to get the epidural. Although, you were partially to blame for that one. If you hadn't insisted on those high school kids finishing up their badminton game after school even though you were in active labor, you might have made it on time to get the drugs. I'd like to think I was preparing you for how hard my teenage years would be. Here's a question for you. If you could go back in time, which situation would have you yelling, "give me the drugs!" at a higher decibel?
A. Giving birth to me.
B. Meeting my high school boyfriend.
C. All the above.
To make up for any trauma I may have caused you in these nearly 25 years of living on this planet, I gave you a grand baby with your namesake.
Kinda makes any memory of those labor pains drift away, doesn't it?
(It would probably take a few more grandchildren to exonerate me from my dating woes though.)
(We'll take it one birthday at a time.)
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