Happy Birthday to Me! Plus, What Is “Rosebud,” You Ask?

Sorry, movie buffs, not this Rosebud.
Sorry, movie buffs, not this Rosebud.

My birthday’s tomorrow. But, alas, I have a strange relationship with my name day — most years I don’t celebrate it until spring. And, if it weren’t for Facebook, I might not remember it at all. Have to admit, Facebook has helped me become more birthday-oriented. (Facebook good for something — who knew?)

I’m not exaggerating when I say I don’t celebrate my birthday until spring. My yeah-yeah-whatever attitude is a joke between my besties and I. OK, Lisa, they’ll start prodding (in February), when do you want to get together?

Spring, yes! But no, not this rosebud either.
Spring, yes! But no, not this rosebud either.

Oh, I’ll write back, April, maybe? When the weather’s better.

This, you may think, is highly dysfunctional of me. Do I not respect my very being-ness? The fact that I’m here, alive, and worthy of being alive? Of course I do. I grew up in a non-birthday family is all. I don’t remember having birthday celebrations when I was a young kid. It was only when I was old enough to have gone to a few parties that I insisted my mom have parties for me.

My mom was not into the birthday thing. I swear she never remembered our exact birthday dates (I have two younger sisters). I thought this was because she was a depression-era child, so she was cheap. In 2001, I learned something far deeper about her that I’m certain influenced how she related to birthdays: She had a baby boy out of wedlock, banished herself to a Catholic Home for Unwed Mothers without telling a soul, gave up the baby for adoption, and repressed the whole thing.

It’s the repression that interests me. I know that things repressed find ways of leaking out anyhow — and most often not in healthy manners. When I think about the way my mother handled her mothering (won’t go into details — suffice to say …), she makes total sense to me now. This includes our birthday-less upbringing. Birthdays were just another day. Seriously.

Cute, but no.
Cute, but no.

When Catholic Services called my mom in 2001 to tell her her son was looking for her, they asked her to corroborate his date of birth. She couldn’t. She. Did. Not. Remember. That’s crazy to me. Just crazy. But, like I said before, she did a fabulous job of repressing the whole event.

All that said, I’m now going to contradict myself and say that this year I feel a little birthday spirit washing through my system. Maybe it’s the heavy doses of Vitamin D3 and Vitamin B12 I’m taking or maybe it’s the sunny winter we’re having — or

maybe it’s:

This morning I found out that KILMOON was nominated for a Left Coast Crime Rosebud (ding ding ding) Award for best first novel! Woohoo! Maybe THAT’S why I want to celebrate my birthday! Happy birthday to me!

Yes! And M.P., Lori, and Holly are friends too. Makes the nomination especially fun.
Yes! And M.P., Lori, and Holly are friends too. Makes the nomination especially fun.

Here are all the nominees.


8 thoughts on “Happy Birthday to Me! Plus, What Is “Rosebud,” You Ask?

  1. Hey, Happy Rosebud! (Hey, anybody can have a birthday — this is special!)

    When I was young, my parents made a big deal about my birthday, but since then I don’t fuss. My birthday just passed (the one that involves a six and a zero), and I didn’t do much, since I was about ten days into what’s turned out to be a two-week cold. I got a nice card from one cousin, and emails from my dentist and my insurance agent.

    The Rosebud Award, though, that’s exciting. And Lori, too. Wow.

    1. Hey, Anthony, no fair, I left a lengthy response yesterday, but it’s not here today! A funny little anecdote about birthdays … Well, since it’s my actual birthday today, I’m going to enjoy laziness and just say “thanks!” 🙂

  2. Well I remember your birthdays for our annual trips to the harness races and sleepovers. Always fun!! Happy Birthday!! Enjoy your day!!

    1. Those were fun! That was later, when I insisted that I wanted to do something and Mom had to go with it. BUT, just to clarify, on the actual day of my birthday, nothing every happened, nothing was expressed unless I brought it up — although, maybe Dad would have stepped in to fill the void. I like to think he would have.

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