I’m Really Three…

…But you can call me four. One of my most vivid memories from my childhood is my fourth birthday party, held in El Dorado Park, in the Spring of 1978. When you’re turning four years old, it’s not like you have a ton of social connections apart from your parent’s friends and, possibly, the children they have. Sure, I went to nursery school, but I don’t think I was cognizant of “friendship” in the way it later impacted my life. Honestly, I mostly remember adults, my big brother, and those parents’ kids (my brother’s age) I’d known my whole life at the party.

My parents had a lot of wonderful, eclectic, diverse friends. They were all so funny and caring and I loved every one of them. Not everyone loves/is good with children but they had a group of friends who were so kind to my brother and me that I felt so lucky to be a small piece of their inner space. They all showed up, they all brought gifts, and they all came to celebrate the birth of ME! Except…

As everyone knows, our birthdays fall on a different day every year. It would have been great to know my birthday would always be on a Friday or Saturday (it took me a minute to understand why it wasn’t), but it just wasn’t the case. During those years it fell on a weekday, my parents would plan a party around it on the weekend it made the most sense. Typically, it would be after the actual date, which I was fine with. However, on this particular birthday, it landed on a Monday. So, my parents decided the Saturday before would be optimal, because then I wouldn’t have to wait a whole five days to celebrate. Well, this sent my anxiety through the roof.

I was born anxious. There were expectations placed on me before I was even born, and I think, instinctively, I knew that because not only did I give my mom two false labors, I was born a whole month later than expected. I knew that once I was out of the safety of my womb, I’d have a heap of responsibility laid upon me that I wasn’t sure I could handle. I mean, I guess I did handle it? But not without consequence. I developed a full-blown stress ulcer by the age of nine, and said stress continued to manifest in various ways over time. When your brain is still in mold mode, sometimes those connections just get crossed; I’m happy to say how much better I am today, but there are still stressors burned into my brain that no amount of therapy or SSRI’s can correct. It is what it is and I’m okay with it. I know my boundaries, and I respect them.

For instance: I used to have a lead foot. I loved to drive and the freedom it gave me. And trust me, Southern California freeways were no joke, and you had to drive them to get to…anywhere. I still managed to zip through traffic like a pro even after my cute little Toyota Tercel caught fire in the fast lane near Beach Boulevard. My oil light was continually on, despite my feeding oil to it every other day, because the service guys at the dealership where I bought the car insisted that I was overreacting and there was nothing wrong with the car. Silly woman! What could I possibly know about cars? I’ll just say that my dad wouldn’t let me drive before I knew how to change my oil, change a tire, and check/replenish all necessary fluids. I knew some things about some stuff! Turns out it was an oil leak, leading to the engine catching fire at 85 mph during morning rush hour. I heard a weird bonk, then all of a sudden, flames were coming out of the hood of my car. LITERAL FLAMES! For whatever reason, it wasn’t my time and just like Moses parted the red seas, I was somehow able to cross five lanes of traffic without incident to exit the freeway safely. That didn’t stop the honking and swearing at me for exiting my flaming car on the offramp, but I digress.

Now? I prefer to drive as little as possible, and certainly not on the freeway. I refer to myself as Miss Daisy because I’d much rather be driven. It’s not that I don’t drive ever; I do. And I LOVE my car and treat her like the queen she is. But mostly just around town while running errands. Any distance driving is left in the trusted hands of others, and it’s for the best.

I also become anxious when I feel an injustice has occurred. My palms sweat, my heart races, my voice raises, and I feel the need to fix it immediately, even if it has nothing to do with me. When I was in third grade, my best friend and I wrote a very stern letter to the suits at General Mills regarding their treatment of the Trix Rabbit. Even though sugar cereals were a no-no in my house, I still felt deeply for this hare because all he wanted was a bowl of delicious cereal, and these mean kids not only continued to taunt him, they never actually relented to give him any! Well, this was unacceptable. They would dance around him, shove the cereal in his face, then pull it away at the last second while cooing, “Silly Rabbit! Trix are for KIDS!” That did NOT sit well with us, so we looked up the address for the main headquarters (mind you, this was before the internet, so we had to really do our research to find this information), combined both of our points of view into one strongly-worded letter, got a stamp from my mom, and sent it out immediately. We felt very good about ourselves and knew WE would be the change we hoped to see for that poor Trix Rabbit.

Six weeks later, we received a form letter thanking us for contacting them, and a couple of coupons for some boxes of various cereals we didn’t eat. Hey. It wasn’t nothing! Change takes time. I’m still rooting for that rabbit. Any day now!

So, you can understand my dilemma when I heard my fourth birthday party would be held two whole days before my actual birthday. I would still be three at my party! Had my parents informed the guests of this? Or were they coming in blind, wielding presents and cake, only to be met by a three-year-old FRAUD? This thought plagued me for the week leading up to it; I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t accept any gifts under false pretenses! They’d never look at me the same again. If it took place after my birthday, it would have been okay because I would actually be four! But this…. treachery I was participating in just felt so deceitful. Then I came up with a plan. It was brilliant; a win-win! I would alert my guests to the situation before accepting any gifts, yet still get to open and enjoy them without any guilt.

Upon each guest’s arrival, I would simply alert them to the situation. Prior to them handing me a gift, or setting it on the gift table, I told them, “I’m really three, but you can call me four.” I mean, eventually (in two days) I would be four, and it was absolutely their choice if they wanted to rescind their gift or not. I even offered to wait until Monday to open my gifts, so that I would actually be four when I did.

I went to every single guest at least three (but you can call it four) times with the same statement. I remember lots of laughs and hugs and cheek squeezes, but I just wanted to be sure I’d covered my bases. I was not about to deceive anyone for any reason, and I wanted them to know what they were getting into. I could not have such duplicity weighing on my conscience while celebrating my birth that hadn’t even happened yet! When I finally felt I had sufficiently made my case, I was able to relax a little and enjoy my party. The burden had been lifted, and the park equipment was fabulous.

To this day, if we celebrate my birthday before it’s actual day, I will let my friends, family, and anyone who will listen know, “I’m really (insert age here), but you can call me (insert age, but one year more, here).” What can I say? Old habits die hard!