Annabel Monaghan's Blog

Every once in a while things just work out. You pull into a full parking lot just as someone is pulling out. You need information and meet the exact person who has it. It’s kismet, like chocolate and peanut butter being at the same place at the same time. I can’t think of any two […]

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My youngest son is turning 16 this year, which gives me pause. There’s an empty nest on the horizon, which will be proceeded by college application mayhem. But, before that, he will drive. His driving a car will undoubtedly bring on the next-level ulcer I’ve been waiting for, but it also signals the end of […]

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It was my birthday last week. It’s not a big deal birthday – I’m 52. Cards in a deck. Weeks in a year. Nothing to get all exercised about, but here we are.

I like birthdays and cake and having a reason to get together, but I’m just not crazy about being The Birthday Girl. I feel a certain amount of pressure around it, as if I’m supposed to plan some gangbusters thing and be delighted all day.  All eyes on me, celebrating me for basically surviving another year. In a sense, by the time you’re 52 a birthday party kind of feels like a participation trophy.

I suspect the origin story of my birthday ennui can be found in my early childhood. My earliest memories of being The Birthday Girl are from age four. My mom went to a staggering amount of trouble for my parties – homemade cake, a house full of streamers and balloons. For one of these parties she made each guest her own red and white gingham apron to wear while we decorated cupcakes. Imagine twenty little girls in party dresses and knee-high socks hopped up on Hawaiian Punch and cake. It was birthday heaven. For the guests.

Multiple years in a row, I cried during my birthday party. I remember hearing my mom say over my sobs, “She gets a little overwhelmed.” Well no kidding. Honestly, just being in a room with twenty little girls in party dresses is enough to overwhelm me now. But looking back, I don’t think I could have designed a more perfect set of circumstances to make a child implode.

Step 1: dress me up in clothes I would never normally wear, specifically Mary Janes whose soles were so slick that every step was a brush with death. Step 2: fill me with sugar and red dye, substances I was not allowed to consume outside of the birthday party arena. Step 3: seat me in the center of a circle of twenty little girls and instruct me to open twenty birthday gifts. Stare at me and wait while I come up with a nice thing to say about each. Step 3 took up about 40 minutes of the party, making the guests just hostile enough to really dig in to Step 4.

Step 4 was a little tradition called The Spanking Machine. Sometimes when I think of this, I wonder if I’ve made it up. If sadism wasn’t a big thing in your town, let me explain – each invited guest stands in a line with her feet spread a foot apart while the birthday girl crawls through this knee-sock tunnel and gets spanked. By her friends. On her birthday.

At the time, I was assured by all family members and guests that this was a time-honored birthday tradition. It happened at every party I went to, and I have to assume I participated with glee in spanking other birthday girls to the point of tears. Truly, I’d be interested to know if this went on in the 70s in any other neighborhood besides mine. Please feel free to reach out to me or contact my therapist directly. You can find that information on my website.

At the time I was embarrassed that I cried at these parties. But when I think of being stuck in dangerous shoes, stuffed with sugar, and then beaten by my dearest friends, I stand by those tears now. And I guess it’s no surprise that I still find my birthday a bit overwhelming. My requests are usually fewer people, less cake and no gifts, making it seem blissfully like all the other days of the year.

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It’s my birthday. I’ve been writing this column for more than eleven years, and I don’t remember this happening before. It’s not a big deal birthday – I’m 52. Cards in a deck. Weeks in a year. Nothing to get all exercised about, but here we are. I like birthdays and cake and having a […]

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My niece just had a baby boy. She already has a two-year-old daughter and is a wonderful mother – calm and engaged, ready with an arsenal of organic produce at every meal. It’s been a joy to watch, as I only know what it is to have a daughter as an observer. I’ve been a […]

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I’ve heard it said that motherhood is more of a marathon than a sprint. I see what they mean: it goes on for a really long time, and it’s hard on your body. During the hardest stretches, you sometimes wonder why you ever signed up for it at all. If you’ve been mothering during a […]

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I like Thanksgiving. I don’t really like turkey, but I do like pie and forced gratitude. I decorate the table in brown and orange, presumably to match the turkey and the carrots. It’s fine. But really the best part of Thanksgiving is when it’s over, because I can get going on Christmas. If I can […]

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I don’t want to bother you while you’re quarantining with your family. But just real quick: why is everything so sticky? I remember the last time we said goodbye. It was like any other Tuesday. Your skin had that nice sheen of perspiration about it, and in my memory, you are the most beautiful person […]

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I’ve been imagining what quarantine is like for Marie Kondo in her tidy home, surrounded by the six items that spark joy in her heart. She is fully prepared for a military inspection or a surprise visit from her in-laws, but she wasn’t ready for a global pandemic. I, it seems, have been preparing for […]

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During the first few days of the COVID-19 crisis, I shook my head a lot: This isn’t so bad, people are overreacting. They can’t just start canceling things. I have plans. Obviously I was in denial, the first stage of grief, and it was my plans that I was mourning. My plans for the next […]

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