Happy Birthday to Me

My husband and I were born on the same day. I pampered him. Why didn't he do the same?

By Joyce K. Ellis

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My husband and I share the same birthday. Some people think that's fascinating or sweet or wonderful. During our early years of marriage, my brother-in-law always made a big deal out of it at our small church where milestones were lauded and celebratory songs sung.

With renewed focus on honoring my husband, I found joy in making his day terrific. But a tiny particle of resentment burrowed deep.

Same birthday.

Fascinating? Yes.

Sweet? Maybe.

Wonderful? No. At least that's how I felt for the first too-many years of our marriage.

As a child I enjoyed the pampering of a family who figuratively crowned the "birthday child" prince or princess for a day—great presents, no chores, favorite foods for dinner, homemade devil's food cake with fudge frosting, name scripted by my mother's loving hand. I loved birthdays!

At times I thought it romantic that Steve and I shared the same date of birth—his seven years before mine, which I never let him forget. But the stars-in-my-eyes fascination eventually morphed into resentment.

What about me?

It all started before we dated. On my eighteenth birthday I returned from a summer-long missions trip expecting a little TLC and a family dinner, only to find a surprise party at our house with a dozen young people from the new church we'd begun attending before I left. Steve's sister-in-law had been inviting the same crowd to a party for him that night, so she and my mom combined the celebrations at our home—though I barely knew the guy. Exhaustion fueled dashed expectations.

Then over the next several months I got to know this fellow birthday child. I wondered how two people born on the same day could be such opposites, but love grew. Within 15 months Steve and I married. And the romantic fascination with our wonderful, sweet, shared birthday phenomenon faded.

But I loved my husband dearly. Year after year I wore myself out planning the perfect dinner for him, finding the perfect present for him, even taking out the garbage on his special day. With great panache I calligraphed his name on a devil's food cake with fudge frosting. And I never forgot that these above-and-beyond preparations required heaps of work—on my birthday.

When our budget allowed, we dined at a fine restaurant. But even then I figured that a joint celebration deprived me of one dinner out a year!

And no one made a cake for me anymore on my birthday. No one planned a whopping shindig just for me. No one said, "Don't bother with the dishes tonight, Honey." I grew frustrated with Steve's apparent insensitivity. Couldn't he see I'd like a little pampering on my special day, too? Somehow neither banging cupboard doors nor the silent treatment have ever effectively communicated to him my discontent over unfulfilled expectations. I'm not sure why it was so difficult to tell him outright, but I suspect it's somewhere in that X-Y chromosome difference.

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Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 2005, Fall, Page 26

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