So. It’s my birthday today.
On May 25th, 1993, God decided that my mom would go into labor. And by 1:40 pm EST [so I’m not EXACTLY 17 yet], I was born. I was not at all a planned baby…at least not planned by my parents. I was born in a city called Maracaibo in the state of Zulia in this little South American country called Venezuela. Lately as I’ve been thinking about those facts, I realize that I am nothing like the person my parents thought I would be. I’m sure they had these expectations of having the typical Venezuelan daughter who, like most Hispanic children, are brought up to enjoy large family gatherings and listen/dance to weird music and speak Spanish and stuff. Who would have thought that seventeen years later that daughter actually turned out to be a blogging/social networking/Midwest-loving freak, who doesn’t like parties or dancing, but prefers to play board games and learn rules about grammar? Definitely not MY mom. Nevertheless, I know she still loves me even though she may not like me a lot. She often hints at the fact that she wishes I was that daughter she was expecting, but I hope that deep down she knows that who I really am is pretty cool too.
Like I mentioned on my last Stats Suck Sunday post, I’ve been having mixed feelings about turning 17. Ya know, feeling like I’m growing too quickly but at the same time too slowly? I dunno, I guess one day we all learn that these numerical measurements for age do not really mean much at all. I never feel like I’m getting older on my birthday. It’s only when I look back at the person I was before and open my eyes to how different I am now, how much I’ve grown intellectually and spiritually without even really noticing…THAT’S when I feel older. Despite that, I still like to celebrate birthdays. I mean, God brought us each into the world on a specific day that worked perfectly in His plan, even though we totally don’t deserve to be alive. The anniversary of that day is one to celebrate, I think.