Amazingly, his father and I somehow managed to keep him alive and fairly well into (supposed) adulthood, for which I am grateful. He is much larger now, but still very cute, and I love him with all my heart.
Some people are very negative about their own birthdays passing by year after year, dreading the occasion and not even wanting it discussed. I guess I’ve never understood this dread, since 1) we can’t control it, and 2) in my mind I am permanently an adolescent (in a silly, carefree way, not the angsty way) so I don’t care. Birthdays are even marketed to us this way after a “certain age,” with the “Over the Hill” type merchandise and greeting cards focusing on wrinkles, immobility, incontinence and decreased libido, as if we should just roll over and die now and spare the world the agony of watching us age. Screw that.
To me, birthdays are the time to celebrate that this loved one, be it family, sisters, nieces and nephews, friends, etc., entered the world on this day and made it a better place in their own way by doing so. It is a time to let a valued person know that we are glad they were born and that they have touched our lives. I am very glad my son was born and he has enriched my life tremendously. While there have been difficult times, and I have been in places and situations I would have never dreamt I’d be in as his parent, I would change very little and I love him and am proud of the person he is, and is becoming.
Having said all this, I wonder if other parents become as contemplative as I do on my son’s birthday. One’s life irrevocably changes once one reproduces or otherwise becomes a parent – your life as you knew it previously, which was more than likely all about yourself, is forever over. I even note his birth time on the clock every year – 10:50 a.m. – and think to myself, “yep, that was it.” An instant in time forever impacting my life, in a way I would never give back.
Happy Birthday, kid. I love you, and I am glad you were born.
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