I Blog Poetry and Prose

Birthday Blues and A Memorable Birthday Gift

‘Idál Justice), 3 Sharaf (Honor) 175 B.E. - Wednesday, January 2, 2019

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30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS  (13+) WDC's Longest Running Blog Competition - Hiatus #1786069 by Fivesixer

Write about your most memorable birthday.

I have the birthday blues,
and you would have them too
if you special day
was only special to you.

Perhaps that poem is a bit of an exaggeration; however, that is the way I felt when I was growing up. I do not have a twin, so sharing my birthday with siblings, who never shared their birthdays with me, was traumatic. Traumatic may be an overstatement, as well. I wrote a single paragraph about this subject 22 years ago, I discovered the paragraph in some papers I was going through. I copied the paragraph into "Memories of Snow"  on December 28, 2018, under the title "Birthday Presents: The Main Reason I have Christmas Issues" .

All my birthdays are overshadowed with this issue. I know my parents were trying to be fair; however--as an adult--I think being fair with all the siblings can go too far. I would have, just once, like to have a birthday that was memorable because I did not have to share the present opening with my siblings. I know my mother did something special with me ever year, because she told me she did and Mama would not lie about something like that. The problem is, as hard as I try, I cannot remember any of those special things Mama did with me for my birthday. Perhaps that is because those "outings" occurred before or after December 24, which was my birthday.

I did get some memorable presents from both my mother and my grandparents. All of the memorable presents will dolls, which I really did not mind because they were always dolls I had admired or ask for. I received three dolls that hold special memories. A Betsy Wetsy, a doll as tall as a three year old, and a black doll. My grandmother bought the black doll because I saw it in the store, and wanted one just like that one.

I am forever grateful to Grandma Mary, who bought me--a little white girl--a black doll. Having that beautiful doll taught me a lesson about prejudice that I will never forget. After Christmas, I took the doll with me to play with some of my friends. One of them ask me "Whose baby is that?" I replied "It's mine!" Her reply was "Oh, you adopted it!" Instead of saying "her", "baby", or "Mary" (the doll's name) when she referred to the doll said "it". I did not think the doll was an "it", the doll was Mary, my baby.