I had an epiphany the other day.
Not one where I fall on my head and remember where I buried an old matchbox car in my backyard, but one that I needed to share with everyone.
It has to do with birthdays.
See, we were doing up a birthday party for The-Oldest. We had cake and a new iPhone for him, and we’d even agreed to all sit and listen to him perform his latest compositions, so I thought we were doing a celebration right.
But then when the-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World told the story of how he had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the bright, cold world, it hit me.
We have been doing birthdays completely wrong.
We don’t need to celebrate the one who was born, but the one who did the birthing!
Think about it. In the end, all I did when I was born was pop out. Knowing how I like the dark and how I love to be warm, I suspect I had to be dragged out as well. I may have even tried to climb back in. Certainly, I would have wanted to write a letter about how unfair this whole thing was, but is this really a story about me?
It’s about the mom who endured hours of pain. Of months of sore backs, thick ankles, cravings for raw meat and ice cream. Of mornings spent vomiting. Of strangers wanting to touch your belly and hours lying on a bed with your feet up in stirrups while someone asks if their hands are cold.
So shouldn’t we really ignore the one born and give grateful thanks to the one who did all the heavy lifting?
So, next birthday, let’s try something new. No presents for the kids. No cake. No happy birthday songs. Let’s get them naked, hold them upside down and give them a good spanking. Then we show them a video of birth and they can hear the screaming and see, well, all the gucky stuff.
That should be enough for them.
For the moms, cake, lots of cake, some wine, maybe lots of wine, a few birthday cards, a foot massage, and lots and lots of presents.
Who’s with me?????
(From The-Youngest… “Wait, what? No presents for me? Worst idea ever. The. Worst.”)