My birthday is in June. According to the doctor, I was supposed to be born at the beginning of the month. I didn’t arrive until the end. To me, this means all of June is for celebrating.
My family likes to remind me how long it took for me to arrive. Extended family planned their vacation for after my mother’s due date, thinking they would have plenty of time to meet me before they left. Instead, they called from the beach asking for Katie or David (these were the days before gender reveal parties). But I was taking my time. It was a hot June; maybe I just wanted to avoid the heat.
Mom says I’ve been directing the show from the very beginning. I am the first kid and I have most of the “first kid” tendencies. I directed my siblings and friends in plays I wrote. When I was old enough for my parents to go out without hiring a babysitter, they called it “self-sitting.” I was determined to be in charge. As an adult, I like to be the one making decisions and calling the shots. I’m horrible at ballroom dancing because I just can’t seem to surrender the lead.
Perhaps it’s the desire to be in charge that makes turning another year older so difficult. I knew turning thirty would be hard, but the subsequent birthdays haven’t necessarily become any easier. As I inch closer to thirty-five, I feel less in control and more like I’m falling behind in the race of life. Shouldn’t I have it figured out by now?