I Am The Gift

Winter has always been too dramatic for me. It's cold. It's wet. It's only beautiful when you look at it through a window. Don't come for me. These are just the facts.

One day, you're enjoying the nice crispy fall weather and the next thing you know, here comes winter with its angry and bitter cold that bites you right in the ass.

Now, it is beautiful... when viewed from the inside of a warm house. It has enjoyable things to offer such as the lights, fireplaces, and the food. Soups, stews, and cookies definitely taste better when eaten under a nice fluffy blanket.

Winter is a season that insists on ritual, whether you like it or not. And for me, winter has always carried one ritual that is both cosmic and comical: my birthday.

I was supposed to make my grand entrance on December 19. That was the plan. But I didn’t show up. I was fashionably late, as all great gifts are. I waited until Christmas itself, because why settle for a regular day when you can arrive with maximum seasonal impact?

The story of my birth is practically a holiday sitcom episode. Picture it: my dad driving my mom to the hospital on Christmas Day, the car sputtering toward destiny. Except... plot twist: he hadn’t filled up the gas tank like my mom had asked him to beforehand. So, there they were, in labor and in line at the gas station. Nothing says “holiday cheer” like contractions timed between fuel pumps.

When they finally arrived at the hospital, the doctors were less than thrilled. They didn’t want to be there. They were rude, dismissive, and tried to send my parents home, insisting my mom was wrong and that I wasn’t coming. But I was already RSVP’d to the party. And like any stubborn winter storm, I arrived anyway.

That’s how my winter ritual began: not with candles or carols, but with a gas station detour and a medical staff who underestimated me.

Growing up, my birthday was never really mine. It was swallowed whole by Christmas. No balloons, no streamers, no cake with my name scrawled in frosting. Instead, there were Christmas cakes with red and green icing, holly leaves piped on top, sometimes even a plastic Santa stuck in the middle like he owned the place. My birthday song was drowned out by “Jingle Bells.” My gifts were always “two-in-one,” a phrase that sounds efficient but feels like a scam when you’re a kid.

Imagine unwrapping a box and being told, “This is for both Christmas and your birthday.” It’s like ordering a pizza and being told it counts as both dinner and dessert. Sure, it’s practical, but where’s the joy? When I tell strangers my birthday, they always say, "Oh double presents, huh?" Absolutely not. I get forgotten on my birthday. A tragedy for a child. A blessing as a woman who is meant to stay young eternally. No one remembers my age because everyone forgets my birthday. Am I still 20? Maybe. It is a mystery.

My ritual became one of quiet acceptance. I learned to smile at the Christmas themed cards that pretended to be birthday cards. I wore jingle bell bracelets instead of party hats. I blew out candles that were already lit for the holiday, not for me. Winter, in all its grandeur, had decided my birthday was just a subplot in the larger Christmas narrative.

But here’s the thing about rituals: they evolve. They bend and twist with time, reshaped by new hands and new hearts.

These days, with my husband and kids, the winter ritual has been rewritten. My birthday is no longer a footnote in the Christmas story, it’s a headline.

I get an actual birthday cake, one that says, “Happy Birthday” instead of “Season’s Greetings.” I get the song, sung with love. I get two separate gifts, wrapped in paper that doesn’t have reindeer on it. No more “two-in-one” deals. No more Christmas themed cards masquerading as birthday wishes.

We go out to celebrate my actual birthday. I get taken seriously as a person who deserves her own ritual, her own spotlight, her own slice of cake that isn’t competing with holiday pie and gingerbread men.

Winter itself seems to enjoy this arrangement. Like me, the season has always been a bit of a trickster... short days, long nights, endless opportunities for mischief and nonsense. It guided my arrival with a wink, making sure I showed up on the one day guaranteed to overshadow me.

Of course, the humor of my winter ritual is impossible to ignore. My dad stopping for gas while my mom was in labor is the kind of detail that makes family lore sparkle. The doctors trying to send my parents home, only to be proven wrong, is pure gold. My childhood of Christmas themed birthday gifts and treats is a running gag in the family that never gets old. For them.

Even now, when people ask about my birthday, I get to deliver the punchline: “I was born on Christmas. I am the gift.” It’s the kind of line that lands every time, equal parts witty and true.

So, what does my winter ritual look like now? It’s a blend of old and new, comedy and sincerity.

Now candles lit during the season are not just for Christmas Eve, but for my birthday cake too. Holiday food prep is shared: A holiday dinner one night, a birthday dinner the next. Christmas stockings for the kids, birthday balloons for me. Two different celebrations, no compromises.

I used to think my birthday was lost to Christmas, buried under wrapping paper and carols. But now I see it differently. My birthday was never lost... it was simply waiting for me to claim it. Winter gave me the stage, and I finally stepped out of the Christmas lights and into the spotlight.

Winter carries its own rhythms, and mine has always been a little offbeat. I was late to my due date, early to the gas station drama, and right on time for Christmas. My ritual is one of laughter, reclamation, and cake. Lots of cake.

Now, if you'll excuse me... I am going to go lay wrapped up in a blanket under the Christmas tree with a tag for the family that says, “I am the gift. You're welcome."