I sat on my mother’s bed, in between her files from work and a pile of clothes. We were chatting about my brother’s birthday (he turned 21 yesterday) and I was trying to fix the case which his birthday present, an expensive pen, lived in. She asked me what I was doing for my birthday…
Nikita: “I’m not sure, it falls on a Monday so there’s not much to do, and everyone will be at work. Maybe go to dinner or something.”
Mum: “No, it falls on a Sunday.”
Mum: “I checked on the calendar when I was at your grandmother’s today.”
She got up and hunted through her work files to find a calendar, “Yes, see it says here your birthday falls on a Sunday, Sunday the 1st of August.” she said with reassurance.
I looked at her trying to keep a straight face. You see, I wasn’t born on the 1st of August, I came into the world on the 2nd of August and it wasn’t like I was born at 12:01am. Oh no, I was born at a good 8:01pm, so no “but you were so close to being born on the first” excuse could be used. You’d think since she was like, an active participant and all, that she’d remember, but no.
Nikita: “I was born on the 2nd not the 1st mum.”
Mum: “Oh, really?”
Mum: “That’s weird, your grandmother and I could have sworn you were born on the 1st.”
Nikita: “Oh my god. You have seriously forgotten the day I was born. The shame!”
I got up, threw my arms in the air and walked out of her room muttering “oh my god” and “the shame” a few more times for comedic value. Over the last few days I’ve been bringing it up randomly in conversations, mainly for laughs, but also to make her remember that I wasn’t born on the bloody 1st ever again. The shame.