I am not one of those people who is all subtle about my birthday. Maybe I used to be, but now I just own it. I love my birthday and I'm not sure if this was always the case, but I think it was and I just didn't admit it much at first. Happy birthday is one of my biggest love languages and I never get sick of hearing those words. If you think about it, every other day of the year is spent earning something, pleasing or disappointing people and searching for significance in the world. But on your birthday, you get to be accepted and appreciated just for being alive. That is a beautiful thing.
My husband gets two birthdays because the doctor wrote the wrong date on his birth certificate, but I get a whole month because one year I arbitrarily decided that would be the case. My husband is very supportive of this, which is one of the many reasons we are a good match.
In thirty days I will turn thirty years-old. This technically marks the beginning of my birth-month and I thought that it would be rather fitting to usher in this milestone with a look back on each of my thirty years of life. So, without further adieu, year one: September 24, 1982 through September 23, 1983.
My given name is Ashley Elizabeth Breitenstein. I always wondered why that was my name and a few years ago I found out that my mom just always liked the name Ashley, and it is as simple as that. One of my grandpa's favorite stories when I was growing up is how I peed on him when I was ten minutes old, which is possibly why we always had a very special relationship. Other than that I'm told that I was a "very good baby;" a good sleeper, not fussy, etc., which, in child development classes, is called an easy baby (seriously). Maybe someone reading this can offer more insight than I can-- I would like that, actually-- but that is about all I know.
Sometimes when I look at little babies it amazes me that they really are people, and that I and every adult I know used to be that small. But we all start somewhere.