Happy birthing day

There’s nothing I hate more than a birthday. I mean my own. I love other people’s birthdays. So, with the exception of one day a year, I really have nothing to complain about. My birthday angst has nothing to do with getting older, greying (which I quite like), or no longer understanding anything people ten years younger than I are saying to me.

It has – quite simply – everything to do with me. I’m not a great fan of me. You say to yourself: “Self, every week she goes on about her. She’s really into her being and nothingness.” This is not true. Talking about me is the vehicle, not the destination. And I’m no luxury vehicle. This Mother’s Day I spent all my time talking about an apostrophe and the history of this contrived occasion.

I think I’ve found a way to reverse some of my horror of both artificial holidays and birthdays. I’ve decided on a thing I call a Birthing Day. This is to be a day on which I can unreservedly and simultaneously thank and berate my sainted mother for having produced me. Dear Mother, what in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking? Didn’t you know this would not go well for me? Your loving daughter, Anu.

But I suppose she could not have known, could she? No more than any other mother could predict the future. They bring us in and hope for the best. In spite of my parents and my militia of sisters, all hell-and-heaven-bent on making me happy, I didn’t know how to be. Birthing Day or Day of Giving Birth I have discovered, once more to my nausea, is not a new idea. Strangely, not everyone cares for it. It seems they think if you have your own birthday, that’s enough. Did the point not even wave casually at them as they walked by?

No one can help being born. They had no say in the matter. But birthing is a whole series of decisions and at many points you can say, “Nah, not for me.” I think deciding to spawn is about the bravest thing a person can do.

Recently, at a birthday party petting zoo (yes, that’s a thing; no, I too did not know about it) I realised children are mad for snakes. Unexpected and scary. But it’s nothing compared to giving birth.

Now, on birthdays, I think a lot about what it was like for the mother on that day. You’re here! You made it to whatever age! Good for you! But how’d your ma do it? Was she scared? Was she a practical let’s-get-on-with-it mom? Did she cross her legs and try to delay your release into the world?

When I look at the person whose birthday is being celebrated, I think about what kind of support their mother had and if she had someone’s hand to hold in the delivery room. But most of all, I think about what she thought about for the nine months she acted as their rent-free accommodation.

As with many things I encounter, it seems bizarre that so many people find it strange that I am sans child. Many, if not most of my friends are equally lacking.

It was a decision. For as many reasons as there are women I know like me, it was a decision. I’m sure it is not a carefully planned lifestyle for all women. But definitely for some.

It was not a difficult choice in my case: I was terrified. There is science and then there are old wives’ tales and then there’s straight-up woo-wooness. What makes it from mother to baby in utero? I’m not convinced anyone knows for sure.

Dealing with the unborn seems as mysterious as communing with the dead. There may be a little more research on what goes on in the womb versus what happens in the coffin, but there’s still too much unknown.

I was afraid my anxiety and depression would be out of control. I was sure it would be so bad I’d not survive pregnancy, let alone motherhood. Mostly, I was afraid I’d pass on my conditions. If not biologically, then certainly by being raised by someone like me.

My mother suffered almost as much as I did. Not because she was nervous or had violent panic attacks, but because she loved me and she felt my pain.

“If I hadn’t brought you into the world, you wouldn’t be going through this,” she used to say.

What do you do with that?

Happy Birthing Day, Mothers.