It seems to be convention that the celebration of the birthday ends at year 29.
People are forever trying to stay 29.
It’s a great age.
Your career is under way, you are significantly less idiotic than when you were 22, life settles into a mostly comfortable routine, and you’re not that vicious, nasty, good -for-nothing thirty.
I mean, they dubbed it the dirty 30, for pete’s sake.
God help me, I’m 31 today.
Like the bags.
I’m an old bag.
Except in the past few years, I’ve wondered why the child gets celebrated on it’s birthday.
Let’s take a moment to look at who really did all the hard work that day.
It was Mom.
Mom’s water broke.
Mom went into labor.
Mom endured hours of contractions, contortions, contusions, conniptions, and a host of other c-words.
Mom gave birth.
The child was born.
And last time I checked, its not called born-day.
So maybe we need to give this day back to the ladies who so rightfully deserve it.
Can we take a moment to celebrate everything she did that day?
The blood, the sweat, the tears.
The pushing, the pulling, the prodding.
The expanding, the exploding, the expelling.
Each year, on October 22nd, I’m compelled to call my mother and wish HER a happy birthday.
Although I’m not entirely sure the whole birthing process made her happy.
But I’m sure as hell grateful that she went through it.
And that is enough to make me happy.
So no need to wish me a happy birthday this year, Mom.
You already made all my wishes come true from day one.