17 Candles

In every girl's life, there is one birthday that is more special than all of the others combined. One magical day where she forgets that she has a lifetime full of longer bathroom lines, expensive makeup and unsolicited advice to look forward to. That day is the 16th anniversary of her birth. But her 17th birthday is really just as important. 

When a girl turns 17 she can finally sing along with ABBA from her heart because she IS the dancing queen. She can watch R-rated movies. She can drive alone any time of night (but she shouldn't because that can be dangerous).

How did I spend my 17th birthday, you ask? Well let's see if I can remember because MY PARENTS SURE DIDN'T.

That's right. My own parents. The people who claim to be my flesh and blood (I sent in a cheek swab so for the next 6 months I can neither confirm nor deny that) forgot my 17th birthday.

Picture it. Siler City. 2010. May 7th (write that down Mom & Dad). The rest of my AP Government class is spending the day in Washington, D.C. but I choose to stay in town mainly because I have volleyball practice and partially because I have this crazy idea that maybe my parents want to see me on my birthday. Silly me.

I find it a little odd that my mom doesn't wish me a happy birthday that morning before I go to school but it's a long week and I haven't been her top priority since Patrick was born. That's not a slam or a complaint in any way. I'm like a self-cleaning toilet because I'm mostly self-sufficient and always smell slightly like lemon. My brother is more like a newborn baby because he needs constant supervision and smells like...not lemon.

Other than my mother not caring that I exist, it's a typical Friday. My friends tell me happy birthday, teachers go on and on about my diligent work ethic and remarkable grades, encouraging my classmates to be more like me. Pretty embarrassing stuff, like we get it guys, I'm amazing.

I make it all the way to 4th block without anything monumental happening other than a minor breakdown over the sudden realization that I am no longer "on the edge of seventeen" but I don't let it sour my relationship with Stevie Nicks.

For 4th block I go to the weight room, since the rest of my class is in D.C. I decided to use the free period to workout. Michelle Obama arms don't happen overnight. But then my phone (which I totally didn't have out in class) rings. It's my dad! He remembered! He really does love me!

I answered the phone expecting no huge fanfare. I just assumed my father would want to wish his first-born, his only daughter, and at this point I'm pretty sure I was his favorite, a happy 17th birthday. As soon as I answered he asked me if I was with Alex.

That threw me a little. What could Alex possibly have to do with my birthday? Maybe he had arranged a surprise and Alex was bringing me lunch? Maybe he had driven an hour out of the way to drop off a surprise gift with my friend? Maybe this phone call would be the starting bell for a well-rehearsed flash mob dance where my father would express his love for me in a series of leaps and jazz hands?

Try D) None of the above. He needed Alex's dad to call him. Happy birthday to me.

Sad but not the least bit surprised, I hung up the phone and headed to volleyball practice. Practice was cancelled so I went home thinking maybe my parents had something fun planned. A movie, dinner, shopping, a cake, I'm not picky.

I arrived home to find everyone acting like it was a typical Friday. Except to them it WAS a typical Friday because my entire immediate family forgot my birthday. My brothers were playing video games, my dad was trying to complete a crossword puzzle despite a lifelong struggle with spelling and my mom was drinking Diet Sunkist in the kitchen to take the edge off.

This must be how Colby felt all those times we left him at church. I thought about saying something but I decided it was in my best interest to wait. If my parents completely forgot my birthday I could hold this over their heads forever. Consumed with guilt they would probably buy me the new phone I wanted, get cable in my bedroom and stop denying my perfectly reasonable requests for an eyebrow piercing. It turns out, I really overestimated their capacity for guilt.

To this day, my mother Missy Misdemeanor Daniel denies any wrongdoing. She firmly believes that she did not forget my birthday. Of course she also believes that the Oxford comma is useful, that infinity scarves should be worn year round and that my name is Dana so I'm going to let you be the judge.