However, I adamantly maintain my innocence, because it’s really not my fault. As a little girl, my parents celebrated my birthday for the entire month of April, effectively making April THE MONTH OF ME. I was like a tiny fascist dictator, merrily barking orders about what I wanted for dinner and which Anne of Green Gables VHS tape the family would watch that evening. Thus, with a solid month of build-up and sweet anticipation, my parents inadvertently created a complete monster by teaching me that April 19th was a national holiday. The message was unmistakably clear: the world celebrated Jesus Christ in December, and Ashley Peterson in April.
Now, a necessary clarification: my love of birthdays has very little to do with gifts. I love a good present as much as the next girl, but for me, celebrating is more about the time and effort put in to planning fun things that we can all do together, and less about unwrapping. [This does, of course, become null and void if somebody wants me to unwrap round trip tickets to Paris.]
Kellan and I had never been in the same country for my birthday until last year. And y’all, I just KNEW that my first married birthday was going to be HEAVEN. I had big plans for a nine course breakfast in bed and a sweet surprise date and MAYHAP a brass band to follow me around, heralding my impending arrival everywhere I went.
Unfortunately, in a wildly unexpected [read: TRAGIC] turn of events, several weeks before my birthday my darling husband informed me that he had a board meeting that was going to last THE ENTIRE DAY. I laughed and waited for Ashton Kutcher to pop out from behind a nearby potted plant, because I was clearly being PUNKED.
Sadly, Ashton was nowhere to be found. Constraints of the English language make it utterly impossible for me to communicate the vast depths of my despair over this bombshell, but suffice it to say that I was certain that human civilization as I knew it, was crumbling to the ground.
April 19th dawned, and Kellan attempted to ply me with bacon by taking me out to an early breakfast. He then left to attend his meeting while I breathed into a paper bag because THIS WAS NOT MAGICAL. My Mama was all PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER ASHLEY. IT’S A BIRTHDAY, NOT VIETNAM, and I was all THIS BIRTHDAY IS GOING TO DRIVE ME TO HARD DRUGS.
I spent the day driving around the block soulfully belting “It Matters to Me” by Faith Hill with all of the pent-up angst of a menstrual seventh grader. I felt like Faith and I were united in our uncertainty of getting through tomorrow but commitment to bravely soldier on in the face of insurmountable tragedy.
My beloved returned right before I fell asleep. Clearly, there was nothing that he could have done to change his meeting and spend my birthday with me…but that didn’t stop me from staring at him like he’d just burned down an orphanage and crying like a small, emotionally disturbed child.
I told you. Insufferable.
They say that marriage is about clear communication and a steady supply of Merlot. In our house, one of those is always easy to come by, mostly because you can buy it for 6.29 and that’s cheaper than marriage counseling. But in the spirit of WORKING on our communication, in the aftermath of the Great Birthday Disaster of 2013 I sat Kellan down for a coming to Jesus moment.
Honey. LOOK. I know this one wasn’t your fault, but I don’t feel like you’ve really GRASPED the month of me. We need to have a little chat about birthdays.
The best relationship advice that I ever got was from my Mama way back in high school, when she looked me in the eyeballs and soberly informed me that men can’t read minds. That is just the HIGHLY unfortunate, sorry state of things. And so, I benevolently broke it down for Kellan. I told him all about breakfast in bed and balloons and the brass band. I informed him he didn’t need to buy me anything as long as we could just HANG OUT, and I gravely confessed if he ever had another board meeting on my birthday, there was a distinct possibility that I would go to prison for arson and spend the rest of my life in an orange jumpsuit watching bad daytime television and eating jello pudding with a plastic spoon.
My wise husband took me very seriously.
And so yesterday at the Dickens’ house was not April Fools Day. I woke up and my sweet husband beamed, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY MONTH, HONEY!”
Indeed it is