Widowed Parent Birthday Blues
I got ‘em.
I get that birthdays are for kids. I get it. But it’s not presents, cake, a nice dinner, or even drinks that I miss. (OK, I miss the drinks, but that’s a conversation for another day.)
What I’d really love is the chance to chill. I miss my late husband taking over the parenting duties and just letting me put my feet up for the day. I’d really love for someone else to wipe up the puppy pee when the li’l shit goes right beside the potty paper, do the housework, give the teenagers their pep-talks (It gets better, guys, I swear!) and do the grocery shopping. Having someone cook me dinner and do the dishes sounds fucking heavenly.
But, since I don’t get any of that stuff anymore, I’m going to do the next best thing: have myself a nice bitch-sesh. This year’s b-day has been a doozy.
- I woke up in a cold sweat after a terrible dream where I caught my husband in bed with my best friend. I was as ferociously pissed off at them both for their stellar physiques as I was the sex, as in this dream I had gained around 100 pounds. For some reason I was wearing a perfect replica of Homer Simpson’s muumuu. I hit my husband over the head with something that shattered, and when I woke up, I realized that he was just dead, not nailing by friend. Thank goodness??
2. My son was already crying when I woke up. He’d let me sleep in, but his Nintendo Switch quit on him. He’s a good kid, but he’s also nuerodivergent (like his mama) and not great with change. Every kid hates when their stuff breaks, but its even harder for a kid who doesn’t do well with change. He knows this particular item isn’t going to be replaced. So, there was a lot of moping, some loud whining, etc that pissed off his older sister.
3. Which brings us to my eldest. She woke up super sick. Fever, snot, sore throat, the whole nine. She’s ND, too, so she’s got some sensory issues. Everyone hates when their nose seems crammed full of cotton and their throat is hot and scratchy, but she cannot handle it. She’s been very on edge for a few days, and the whole day of my birthday, she was muttering, just loud enough for me to hear that she was talking, but not at all loud enough to hear what she was saying. She wouldn’t even write down what she wanted to say, and… she was being a bit of a turd. I said it. Her brother’s loudish ways weren’t helping.
4. My middle kid pulled an all-nighter to draw me a birthday present. So incredibly sweet, and she’s such a talented kid, but now her mood was worse than mine when I don’t sleep, and sweet heavenly stars do I ever need my sleep.
5. I tweaked my shoulder the day before the big day. Guess how. Getting out of the bathtub. Are you shitting me? That’s the universe’s way of saying, “Hello, idiot, get your weak muscles back to the gym and also you’re ass is getting OLD.”
This whiny little tangent was brought to you by my self pity. Normally I don’t have buckets full of it, but on days that I’m wishing for a little peace and there’s nowhere to turn for a little help or support, I turn to complaining for a little catharta-therapy.
And now I feel better.
