Growing up, I used to grumble about my January birthday. My sister’s birthday is in June and that always sounded more pleasant to me than a winter month. My mom would tell me time and time again that when they found out she was pregnant, she was so overjoyed. She didn’t care about the month or date, only that I was healthy. I’d purse my lips, unwise and begrudging that thing I could never change. And still, I am a January baby.
My own daughter was born this year. In January. It’s funny, isn’t it? I know what I will tell her, if, later down the road she expresses some of my younger self’s sentiments. When we decided we were ready to have a baby, we were so excited, we couldn’t wait a moment longer. We wanted to meet her as soon as possible. I remember the anticipation, the nervous energy in the days leading up to her birth. I didn’t feel regret for the month and still do not. Her January birthday is the most special birthday to me and always will be. My darling girl, born thirty years and twelve days after me.