Tag Archives: birthdays

It was a beautiful morning…

… and then Marney ruined it.

I think that’s how the story of my birth starts.

In case anyone was unaware, IT IS MY BIRTHDAY! I enjoy my birthday a great bit. I get a lot of glee out of announcing everywhere I go that it is, in fact, MY DAY. ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME!!!!!

When we were younger, my sister Carrie used to grouse about the endless teasing she received on her birthday. See, Carrie’s birthday is November 14. Which is precisely nine months after Valentine’s Day. And even though we all know it doesn’t really work exactly like that, it was still a source of a good laugh for her friends — that her Mom and Dad were doing a little mattress dancing for Valentine’s and SURPRISE, here comes Carrie.

I, however, never got what the complaining was all about. After all, on Valentine’s Day in 1963, my parents were still newlyweds. If anyone has a reason to “celebrate” Valentine’s, I think it would be a newly married couple barely into their 20’s.

I, however, am another story. It seems that while Carrie was the product of a night of love and romance, I was the product of Mom and Pops just doing it one April day. Hell, they already had four kids, and Amy was still a baby! There was no moonlight and roses. It was “hurry up, I have stuff to do.” Honestly.

*shiver*

Well, despite that image being infused into all our brains, it is STILL my birthday. HOORAY!

The story of my birth goes something like this:

Mom was drunk again.

Mom wakes up and is somehow surprised that she is in labor. Apparently the four previous deliveries and the fact that I was roughly a week late escaped her. So naturally — in full on Nancy style — she’s like, oh, I’ve got time. And she jumps in the shower. Fast forward 10 minutes and apparently she was all “TOM HELP ME!!!!!!!!”

Seems the baby wasn’t interested in whether Mom’s pits were clean or not.

So into the car they go. Now, I’ve heard different versions of this — the car died (it’s freaking January), they borrowed a neighbor’s car, the car was fine — I don’t know. Even though I was there, I do not remember these details. What I do know is that despite the fact that there was a perfectly good hospital just a few miles away, Mom and Dad decided that this baby MUST be born at St. Anne’s in Chicago. Even though by this time they were a good 25 miles out of the city in our new Wheaton home.

So into the city they go. I like to think about the lovely conversation they had on the way in. Something tells me Mom did a lot of talking and Dad did a lot of staring straight ahead and keeping his mouth shut. He’s a smart man, he knows when to talk and when to be so still you are practically a corpse.

Again, the versions of the story get hazy. In one version, Dad lovingly drops Mom off at the front door. In another, he tries to park, and Mom almost makes it certain that this will absolutely be his last child… THEN he drops her off at the front door.

However it happened, Mom apparently runs into the hospital grabbing at her hootie like a 3-year-old who waited too long to hit the head. The nurse pulls up a wheelchair, and Moms says, “uh……. no” and does the pointy-point-point at her lady bits, where someone’s head is about to pop right on out.

Needless to say, they got her to a room, and by the time the door shut all the way… IT’S A GIRL! Dad probably hadn’t put the car in park yet out in the parking lot.

And that was how it was, 37 years ago this very morning. I have to say, that while it is technically my birthday, it’s really Mom and Dad’s special day. Because really, their lives would be so much less awesome without me. So thanks you two. Thanks for getting it on one April day in 1973.

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Early present

My husband has slowly but surely learned that of all the stereotypes that women carry, I do not fit into many of them.

I hate shoes. I have a single pair of black heels. I bought them in Baton Rouge in 1998, and I still wear them. The three pairs of “cute” shoes I do own were bought only after photos were sent and approvals were given by friends.

I hate shopping. Except at WalMart. And in that case, for food.

I have no sense of style or understanding of what is and isn’t stylish. If it is fancy and it is in my closet, it is because someone named Nancy, Kayla or Carrie gave it to me. I think stretch pants should be mandatory, and still believe that “designer jeans” mean that the name “Z Cavaricci” is emblazoned on the ass pocket.

I think lace on a bra is flat-out ridiculous. How the hell do you hold those girls in place with lace? Cotton-spandex, people. Cotton-spandex.

I don’t understand why “granny panties” is a joke. Seriously, your granny wears them because they are COMFORTABLE. She is a wise woman, follow her lead.

But one of the things I could care less about is the age-old adage that it is in bad taste to ask a woman her age. Hence, in preparation for my birthday and the fact that I am a terrific birthday brat, Jim ordered up this bad boy for the paper where I work:

That’s right. It reads, “Love, your Fans.” Classic.

When my boss spotted this, she said, “Did he really mean to put your age in there?” and I was like “HELL YEAH!!!”

The best part of this was that I totally caught Jim rifling through my photo boxes, and he was all, “oh I’m just looking” and I didn’t think anything of it. And of all the pictures of me — such as the adorable pics where I am all full of the make-up and the cute hair from Kayla’s wedding or where I am at least less splotchy-looking — he picked this one. The reason I am bent over like that in the photo? Because Hank is the photographer. Over my right shoulder there you may be able to make out a face. That is because Hank took this picture of me watching the Cubs on our new tv a few years ago. I think that might be Dempster.

But of course, who am I to complain. That is exactly what I look like.

January 4. It’s just around the corner. The post-Christmas sales are in full swing, so go buy me something cheap and non-designer.

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Most wonderful time of the year!

Ah, Christmas. We know what it’s all about. The baby Jesus and how God sent us His son so He would suffer for our sins. Caring, kindness, love, charity, treating others as they should treat you. It’s this time of a year that we should all pause for a moment and reflect on our lives, our choices, and know that even when difficult times rear their ugly heads, we are lucky. We are the recipients of good fortune. We are blessed.

Of course, I am a good lefty liberal, so screw that crap.

Christmas is all about PRESENTS!

Let’s check out the awesome that hit our home this year:

Star Wars was again a recurring theme for my first born, which makes sense, seeing as he is a Jedi Knight in training. But it seems this year, the fever has spread to Number 2:

Don’t let the look on his face fool you. George is crazy excited about his new Darth Vader action figure, which, surprisingly, was not easy to find. I am not sure how to feel about George’s newfound love of the dark side, other than to say, probably should have seen that one coming.

But who cares about the wee ones. What are the chances that they’ll even have vivid memories of this Christmas, anyway? It’s the ADULTS that made out this year. And man are we happy with Santa:

Zumba for the Wii!!!! LOVE IT!

The Best of Van Halen, Volume 1! If I had more hair, I’d grow it and headbang all the livelong day!
Sweet Mother of Pearl, a SHAKE WEIGHT! Just like I asked for! Thank you Santa, my arms are so freaking buff already!!!!

No really — I asked for that. It’s not the Easy Bake oven I requested, but it’s still awesome. And I’m not the only one who loves it. But, no matter how well I follow the Word Press rules of how to put a video from You Tube on my blog, it won’t work. So you’ll have to click the link and check it out for yourself:

http://www.youtube.com/user/marneyike?feature=mhum#p/a/u/0/C-EhUN4Wz7s

Now, let me just tell you… I’m not kidding about the Easy Bake oven. My mother insisted we had one at some point in time, but I’m pretty sure the person who had it was Carrie. And she’s 10 years older than me. It did not get handed down. I want to bake tiny little cookies and brownies in a plastic box powered by a lightbulb. After all, lightbulbs as we know it will be gone soon enough, and those high-efficiency, better-for-the-environment crap pieces won’t fire up hot enough to make me a tiny little piece of sugar cookie bliss. Freaking tree huggers. So if you are reading this, remember, my birthday is JANUARY 4, and I only got two presents for Christmas (see above), so I’ll be expecting some compensation for filling the world with my awesomeness for 37 glorious years. 

 Happy holidays everyone!

I mean, Merry Christmas everyone! Because we all know when you say happy holidays, the terrorists win.

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A whole new level of bad ass

Holy crap, people. Holy crap.

For those of you who have children, you know that there is “the story.” For my mother, there are five of them. With Carrie she was so drugged up she couldn’t point her out in the nursery. Tommy I think is the one where every doctor, nurse, cafeteria worker and janitor in the hospital took a peek before she finally delivered him. Laura — 10 pounds, two sets of forceps, double-episotomy, born arm first with a tooth (that’s a good one). Amy was born during Monday Night Football. Me? Well, I shot out so fast she almost left me right there on the hospital floor. Nice.

My stories are lame. I was totally drugged up and had both my children removed from me — against their will — in a nice, sterile operating suite. Hank refused to come out. George didn’t get the chance to even try.

Everyone can chip in something here. What you or your wife or your girlfriend went through. But no matter how you tell the story, to you, it seems fairly unbelievable. I mean, you DID that. You made that kid. Cool.

But, as far as baby stories go, no one can top the delivery of one Miss Lilah, born to my friend Nancy and her husband Mark (and big sister Cara) this week. In Nancy’s own words:

I delivered my own child. Yes I did.

Lilah Jane was born yesterday morning around 9:10. My contractions were still 6 minutes apart, so I told Mark to take Cara to daycare. I figured I’d get dressed and we’d head for the hospital when he got back. As soon as the van door closed I knew I’d made a bad call. I figured the best thing to do was get up, get dressed, and go sit with next-door-neighbor Jen until Mark got back.

I went and sat on the potty, and my water broke. I yelled out the window for Jen, but she had gone into her basement to work out. I told myself not to push, but my body wasn’t listening to me. At that point I realized the baby was ready to come out. I gave one good push, and most of her was out. One more good push and there she was. No I did not drop her in the toilet (but I think her feet got wet). So now I’m stuck on the in the bathroom with no help and a waxy, blue baby. Fortunately I had read just the night before what to do if you accidentally gave birth at home. I did what I could to clear her airway, wrapped her in a towel draped her cord over my arm since the placenta hadn’t been delivered yet, and walked over to my bed.

After calling 911 I ran over to the window and called Jen again, which still did me no good. I couldn’t call anyone else because 911 wouldn’t let me off the phone. The EMT’s were there pretty fast, but Mark had locked the door (ever safety conscious). Poor Jen – just about to get in the shower and wrapped in a towel -was running around her house looking for my house key.

They didn’t break down the door because they knew I was ok, so they found an open kitchen window and climbed through. They grabbed the baby, cut the cord and sent her on her way to the hospital. Right about this time Mark turned down our street and had a mini cardiac episode when he saw all the emergency vehicles at our house. He came up to see his blood covered wife starting to kind of pass out on the bed, with 6 EMT guys standing around. One of them offered me a sheet to cover myself with. I looked around and asked if anyone really thought my modesty was an issue at that point.

I had a partial placental abruption, so my upstairs looked like a crime scene (which my poor mom cleaned up) – which got even grosser when my placenta delivered. Then they packed me up (tromping around in the blood all the while) and sent me off in my own ambulance. Lilah is fine. She spent the night in the NICU. I feel great and aside from lots of blood loss I ended up in pretty good shape.

Dudes… she delivered her OWN child. Alone. In the bathroom. And not like, I’m at the prom and my mom doesn’t know I’m pregnant so I’ll push it out and leave it in paper towels in the corner then go dance with my boyfriend. More like, I have a bag packed and names picked out and I’ve called the maternity ward ahead of time and I STILL managed to have her on the fine radiant heat tiles! She’s like a genuine case of “I didn’t know I was pregnant” only she TOTALLY KNEW she was pregnant!

Holy. Crap. On. A. Stick. With. Beans.

Nancy is absolutely, 100 percent, the world’s most bad ass mother.

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8 years old

Happy Birthday Hank!

Next year, try not to throw your own party.

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The other birthday girl

Remember earlier when I said “it’s all about me!” Seriously, it was the title of the next post, scroll down if you missed it. Jeesh. Anyway, it appears I have been upstaged.

Well, hey there baby girl! This is Aurora Sophia Love, and she entered this world this afternoon, naked and screaming. Which is also how I woke up this morning, so in addition to our birthdays, we have that in common too!

Aurora is the daughter of my niece TJ, making me a Great-Aunt (at the ripe old age of 36!). Wasn’t that nice of TJ to deliver her baby on MY birthday (see how I turned that around and made it all about me again!).

So, Baby Aurora, here are a few things you can count on from your Great Aunt Marney:

  • I will never forget your birthday.
  • I will never, EVER wrap your birthday present in Christmas paper.
  • I will not forget what year you were born, even if your own mother does.
  • I will teach you proper karaoke technique.
  • I will never ever buy you anything that is not pink (I only have boys, so get ready for a pink explosion. Sorry).
  • I will teach you how to love the Cubs.

I am already planning our birthday party for next year, when I will buy her very first Lady Gaga album.

Welcome to the world, Aurora. And Happy Birthday!

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It’s all about me!

Today is January 4. So, in case you are living in a hole and somehow forgot, that means….

IT IS MY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

I am 36 years old today — but don’t tell my mother. She once gave me a lovely birthday card, one of those mini books that goes on about all the headlines of the year you were born.

“All the Headlines from the year you were born, 1973,” it read.

“Mom, I born in 1974,” I said.

“Oh…. well, you were due in 1973,” was her response.

I love birthdays. I like to put on a ribbon and find a reason to go out in public. If I am out on my birthday, and say, someone asks for my ID, I do not give them a chance to say “Happy Birthday!” Because I tell them. Loudly. So everyone can hear. I am a birthday brat.

I think (though my mother would have to tell me if I am correct or not) that my Grandmother was also a birthday brat, so maybe I inherited it from her. You know, most folks LOVE their birthday when they are young. It’s all about presents and parties when you are little. Then the excitement of becoming a teenager, the eagerness to drive a car at 16, to be “an adult” at 18, to drink (for the first time ever, of course) when you are 21. A lot of people usually see 25 as a milestone too. You know you are still young, but it seems like a doorway to adulthood.

But something happens to a lot of people when they hit 30. They DREAD it. I believe it was my mother who dyed her hair platinum blonde on her 30th birthday to prove she was still young. People make lists of the things they want to accomplish by the time they are 30! Then, if they don’t achieve it, they bump it up to 40. Because suddenly you are 35, 36, 37… and 30 doesn’t seem so old anymore. And on and on.

But not me.

Throw a surprise party for my Mom, and she’ll throw a surprise punch at your face. My sister Amy is the same way, don’t even THINK about wishing her a Happy Birthday, lest you have to listen to why it’s nothing to be so damn happy about!

But not me.

I wonder if there will be a birthday when I DO dread it. I don’t necessarily think my Grandmother ever did. I suppose it won’t be when I turn 40 that bothers me, it’s when my kid turns 40 that I might feel it. Of course, hopefully by that time I will be getting ready to embarrass my grandchildren at karaoke night. I can hear it already — “Who is Lady Gaga, and why does Grandma keep singing about a disco stick? Make her stop dancing. We’re going to have to put her in a home sooner than we thought.”

Bah. Birthdays are ALWAYS fun.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!!!!!!!!!

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