Better in concept, pt II

So, I know this is well-travelled territory, but why is it we feel so pressured to make holidays and birthdays "special"? To the point where nothing we do could possibly make the day as special as it's supposed to be?

I had originally intended today to be all about nothing - no work, no going out, just a nice relaxing time with the baby. Well, a couple of well-meaning friends invited me out and I went for it. I should have stayed home.

I was supposed to meet the first friend on a very busy, loud street in front of the vintage store where I worked a few years ago. She was a half hour late. By the time she showed up, poor Bumpus had been woken from a dead sleep by several ear-splitting fire trucks and police sirens and eighteen wheelers that had him in hysterics (and thereby, me too). We had lunch but Bumpus was super fussy and squirmy and drove me nuts - then we went to the vintage store where I had been looking forward to a nice long shop - but it just depressed the hell out of me. The place is dingy and messy and chaotic, a real hoarder's nightmare. The owner was there, and we had a nice chat, but it was hard to forget how badly things had ended there (she was so rude to me one day I up and quit). I bought Bumpus a couple of cute vintage outfits so the day wasn't a total loss. But I opted to save my own vintage shopping for later - much later.

Then I went to dinner with another friend in a loud, chaotic mall. This time Bumpus slept delightfully the whole dinner (praise God) until I was in the changing room at Anthropologie and he started screaming (probably because I kept taking off my shirt without giving him any breassesses). Right now I feel completely wiped out, sick to my stomach from stress and over eating, and over it.

My father sent a happy birthday email; my mother did not. Then again I don't acknowledge my mother's birthday, so I have no reason to think she would, mine. Still I found it interesting how much I thought about this today. It reminded me of the NPR story about the boy whose mother sent him a letter every day he was at summer camp and his father who only wrote him once - and the boy kept and treasured that one letter and didn't keep any of his mother's letters. So for all the years of my childhood when my mother made me a cake and bought me presents and made a nice party for me, no credit, but my absentee father wishes me happy birthday once via e-mail and it's an event. Ain't that some bullshit?

I got an email back from my midwife I'd written some time ago asking if Kaiser would allow a scheduled c-section rather than an induction if I were to develop pre-eclampsia again. She said yes, but an induction a second time would probably go faster than the first, and I really should talk to this therapist who deals with traumatic birth situations. Ha ha ha! I believe that ship has sailed, but I'm glad there is therapy for those circumstances. I guess I'm so not thinking about ever giving birth again right now that her gentle suggestion just sounded funny to me.

Oh, and someone tagged the inside of my garage today. Happy birthday to me. Blurgh.