Living in the House of Mirth

Birthdays are funny. When you are little, you count the days until your next birthday. I remember waking up on my birthday and feeling like I was the luckiest girl in the world. My mom would bake a cake and my brothers would be nice to me for the day and I would get phone calls from relatives and presents from my family and friends; birthdays were fabulous. Another year older and closer to independence. The freedom to stay up as late as I want, to get out of school, to drive, to have sex, and whatever else my age stopped me from doing.

Now, I feel completely different. My son asked me today if I was happy that it was my birthday. I said "no." He found that ridiculous. He just does not know what I know: It is nice to be told what to do. Now all the mistakes I have made, and still make, are all on me. I would like to go back to the days when someone told me to go to bed, not to have sex with just anyone, and drove me where I needed to go. Freedom can be overrated, but my thirteen year old does not recognize that yet, and I am glad. He is still filled with the possibilities of the future. He does not know the constraint of freedom yet, but someday he will. That thought makes me sad, but I know that he can do better than I have. I hope I have plenty of birthdays ahead to see what he does with his freedom.