I don’t know how many of you plan to bring children into this world. I also don’t know whether you plan to jump-start this process in the next year, or in the much more distant future. But regardless of your personal procreation strategy, I beg of you: do not conceive in March. In fact, just to be safe, avoid April, too. Because if you choose to get pregnant during those months, you’re getting a December baby, and there’s a good chance your kid will never forgive you for it.
Everyone knows Christmas kids are doomed from day one, but as any radio DJ or CVS manager could tell you, the holidays are in full swing the second Thanksgiving ends. So really, anyone celebrating a birthday in the last month of the year is in for a bad time. They can plan and accommodate and adjust all they like -- there's no way they're beating back the festivities for even one night. I know: I was born just four days shy of 12/25. And since I've already spent a good deal of my life griping about it, I thought it was time I offered a definitive, self-pitying essay for all my brothers and sisters with the world's worst due dates. I wish I could say it gets better, but we all know that's not true.
Getting screwed over by Santa: an origin story
Just how bitter you are about your December birthday depends a lot on your childhood. No matter what, it’s gonna be at least a little ruined, but there’s a world of difference between "got a few less cards" and "got old candy canes instead of a birthday cake".
I was lucky. My saintly Mother took pains to keep my big day separate from Christmas. She'd always manage to orchestrate a kickass shindig with my friends a few weeks earlier, and then hold any presents from her and my Dad until the actual day, when I also got to pick out whatever I wanted for dinner. I still had to learn to fake a smile, as certain family members gave me sweater sets that somehow counted as holiday and birthday gifts, but I sucked it up. Because I know other December babies who were far less fortunate. For a very real depiction of just how brutal it can get, I turn your attention to this episode of the dearly-departed Happy Endings, in which the gang finds out that Jane's a secret Christmas baby:
(Seriously, how have we not all jumped on this "name your own birthday" concept?)
You'd think teen birthdays would be the most dramatic, since teenagers are such naturally sulky creatures, but all your friends are still living at home, and bored, and usually unable to throw a conflicting, raucous Chrismukkah party. Plus, all anyone wants to do at that age is listen to Dashboard Confessional in their room and think about how only J.D. Salinger gets them anyway. If people actually do snub them in favor of the holidays, it just feeds their moody egos. No, in my experience, it's during adulthood when you abandon all hope.