Birthdays are not about us. We shouldn’t be the one receiving sweet gifts. The fact that we have whole days celebrating our existence in the world seems a bit absurd when you really get to the bottom line.
Birthdays are for mothers.
They’re the ones who labored for hours to bring you into the world (unless you’re an anomale child who was born in a matter of minutes…how did you do it? Share your secret so we normal women can anticipate labor with unrealistic expectations). They bore you for 9 months hoping you didn’t come out with a cone head or extra limb growing from your face. They took prenatal vitamins like candy, avoiding needed nectars of life such as caffeine.
So the next time you start thinking about how cool it is that it’s your birthday, remember your mom’s commitment to your life. And be grateful.
In light of this new perspective, let’s rethink the birth’day’. Once you were in the world, high-fived your mom for making it through, and slapping the doctor’s hand away from your toosh, you took responsibility for your life…mainly breathing and pooping. But you had control, nevertheless! So I say, let’s celebrate that control and command of life with the same kind of self-centeredness that most birth’day’s permeate with.
With none other than a birthweek.
This past week was my birthweek–complete with cake, presents, movies, friends, family, and even some tears because, well, the older I get, the more emotional I get. Especially when those around me are super awesome and surprise me with love and candlelit dinners. Mm, bliss (and tears). They are amazing.
To sum up my birthweek in a few words: simple, humbling, and delicious. The best kind of birthweeks.
There was boating on a lake with my bro-ski.
There was a pensive señor…probably dreaming of how big our boat is going to be at our future lake house in Minnesota. He’s dreamed it all up in his head. I’m just along for the ride.
I mentioned my birthday was humbling, as well, yes? Yes. This is why: Please notice the wreckage that was my kitchen. There were literally piles of dishes from a weeks’ worth of my sabbatical from dishes. Ok, it wasn’t a sabbatical. It was a defiant, blatant disregard of the disaster. But then, my bro–the one who was all like “I’m awesome because I’m a Marine.” No, really, he’s super awesome–He. Washed. All. Of. Them. I mean, it only took him 3 hours. That’s no big, right?
For all those involved in my birthweek, thank you. I love you. I’m grateful for you.
And you sure as heck better thank my mom next time you talk to her.