Having a December birthday might seem magical to some, but for me, it’s always felt like drawing the short straw in life’s grand lottery. Sharing my big day with Christmas—and, oh yeah, the birth of baby Jesus—was more than a little unfair. My birthday was often hurried through or skipped entirely, a pit stop on the highway to holiday cheer. And the gifts? Don’t get me started. One-for-two presents were the norm: hastily wrapped in a mix of Christmas and birthday paper, they screamed, “We tried, but not really.”
It’s no surprise I developed a chip on my shoulder about this lopsided arrangement, though one year, in particular, taught me that holiday woes aren’t always mine alone.
That December, mi familia and I were heading out for Christmas Mass, arms full of festive obligations. There were food dishes, wrapped presents, and the pièce de résistance—a sheet cake half decorated in Christmas cheer and half in birthday misery. It wasn’t ideal, but it was mine.
Abuelita led the charge, cradling the cake with the delicate precision of an award-winning pastry chef. Behind her, my sister juggled gifts, and I trudged along, carrying a bag of food and my growing sense of injustice. As we stepped outside, everything went downhill—literally.
Abuelita misstepped, letting out a shriek as the cake launched skyward in a graceful, tragic arc. Time slowed as the cake splattered onto the ground, frosting smearing across the pavement like a mural of my dashed birthday dreams. Meanwhile, Abuelita landed hard beside it, and everyone rushed to her side.
At first, I couldn’t move. My heart was stuck on the cake. ¡Mi pastel! But as guilt crept in, I joined the others, ashamed of my selfishness. Abuelita was banged up but okay, and the cake was unsalvageable. No one had dessert that night, and for once, the disappointment was shared.
As the years passed, I took matters into my own hands—no more “one gift for two occasions” nonsense. I demanded separate presents or one truly spectacular one that screamed effort. Cakes? Not necessary. As a foodie without much of a sweet tooth, I’d rather have a perfectly cooked dinner—bonus points if it’s at a fancy restaurant.
If there’s one silver lining to sharing a birthday month with the holidays, it’s that age becomes blurry, lost in the whirlwind of Christmas festivities. It’s a small consolation, but I’ll take it. After all, who’s counting? Certainly not me—or anyone else.