Birthdays

What is a birthday?


Today I have telephoned birthday greetings to my younger brother, Bruce, and my cousin, Sharon, and sent Facebook greetings to our friend, Donna Wood, and to a good friend and classmate of Ched's, Barrett Stehr . . . all of which got me to pondering on 'birthdays'. What is a birthday, anyway?

We celebrate the day each of us caused our mothers great pain . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that, after nine months of a 'free ride', our mothers were finally able to shoot us out into the world and no longer have to carry us.

We celebrate the day that a doctor or nurse spanked our bare behind, causing us to cry, while everyone stood around and said how cute it was . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that, upon finding our voices, we have for the most part never since shut up.

We celebrate the day that our father's, having just learned of our birth, started handing out cheap cigars to anyone who would smoke one with them as they bragged about this new life in the family . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that our fathers, having now just met us for the first time, continue to smoke cigars just to cover the stench of our poopie diapers.

We celebrate the day that many of our family and friends gathered at the window of the Nursery in the hospital to coo and make over our recent arrival . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that our friends and family started the public tradition of staring and making strange faces at us, regardless the circumstance, expecting us to continually tell them how much we appreciate their attention.

We celebrate the day that our siblings first get a chance to hold us and have their pictures taken with us . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day our siblings begin to run the other direction every time they see us, praying that they won't have to take care of us and put us with us in front of their friends.

What is a birthday, anyway?

We mark our age in years, our intelligence in ACT or SAT numbers, our personality type in Briggs Myers identifiers, and our maturity in shoe sizes. We add candles to our cakes until we are old enough to know better then, rather than call the fire department to put out the increasing flame, we just quit using candles as though no more years are being added. We can't wait for birthday gifts when we are young, can't figure out what to do with the novelty gifts when we are older, tell folks the best gift is their presence when we are middle aged, then, when we are old, we figure everyone forgot about us when they neither show up, nor send a gift. We post our birth date on social network websites, then complain about people knowing too much about us. We give our birth date information to every credit card company and loan officer we meet, then bark if the government seems intrusive by asking for the same information. Men cannot ask women how old they are and women really don't want to know how old men are (mostly because men rarely act their age anyway). And, birthdays are that one day in time when we are expected to be cordial to people who wish us well, even when we wouldn't give the time of day to the one addressing us (in all Christian humility, of course!).

So, what is a birthday?

It is a contradiction in terms providing florists, card shops, retail stores, bars, and ice cream places with ample opportunity to make a huge profit from our schizophrenia. It is a day for family, friends, co-workers, social network folk, and even strangers to make fun of us, all perfectly certain that 'as a good sport' we will take their abuse without a word. It is a day for siblings to chastise us, parents to rue us, and neighbors to torment us. Yet, the one thing which is most clear to me this day as I ponder 'birthdays' and their meaning: I am extraordinarily pleased for the opportunity to have one each year.

In all that a birthday may or may not be for you, I pray you enjoy each one fully, for truly, each is a gift of God.