I was born on this day in 1984. That day was the Friday before Mother’s Day and often I feel like I shouldn’t celebrate my birthday because I don’t want to ruin Mother’s Day, also it seems my birthday usually carries a string of horrid luck with it.
On my 13th birthday (which also happened to be Mother’s Day) I was going to throw the first birthday party I had ever had. I planned for weeks what type of cake I wanted, the food and even decorations.
During this birthday I was staying with my grandmother while my parents were still in Florida. I had been told that if I wanted a party I had to do the work myself, my grandmother wasn’t going to do anything to help.
I invited everyone at school that would talk to me. I was still the new kid that everyone tried to avoid. To my surprise several people said that they would be there. I was elated that I was going to have my first party.
The day of my party I cleaned the entire house and carefully set up streamers, balloons, food and my cake. When everything was done I was quite proud of myself, I thought the party looked nice. Then I waited for everyone to show up.
And I waited.
No one did. My younger brother ended up getting two of his friends to come over just to eat cake with us and then they left. No happy birthday, no hanging out and enjoying each others company. Nothing like that. Since that day, I have hated May 11th.
I hate my birthday.