Birthdays are BS

Change my mind

Today is my 54th birthday and I am on a cruise ship heading for Curacao. Before we got on this ship, I wondered if something special would be placed in my room to celebrate the day. I realized I don’t really care if I’m gifted a bottle of non-alcoholic bubbly or some waxy chocolates. I am with my husband, sailing the ocean, and enjoying my vacation.

When I reflect on birthdays past, I find there is little I can recall. I have the photos to reference, so I know some parties happened. There was my 4th birthday at McDonald’s; the 5th at Ponderosa Steakhouse, and my 12th at a bowling alley.

The 4th, 5th and 12th birthdays

I remember my 21st, when my mother presented me with the gift of hair elastics. My 30th, when my boyfriend promised me a steak dinner and threw a surprise party instead. Sounds lovely, but I was on Weight Watchers at the time, budgeted my points for the whole week so I could dig into a steak, and was so heartbroken by the pizza and wings on the dining room table. And before you condemn me for being a shit about the whole thing, not one of my friends was at the party. The boyfriend invited only his friends which should tell you everything you need to know about who this party was really for.

My 50th was spent alone in a hotel room in Toronto sorting through unopened mail, uncashed cheques and the unpaid bills that were indicative of just how far my mother had slipped into dementia. I spent the afternoon helping her settle into the assisted living facility, and when I told it was my birthday, there was no recognition. I came home that weekend to a party my husband planned. I needed that so much, that break in the stress and the grief.

Were my birthdays ignored? To some degree, yes. My father was non-existent in my life; my mother could stop talking to me for months at a time and many birthdays rolled by like an empty carousel. Surely there had been an annual party when I was a child? Why couldn’t I remember any?

I put the question to our boys, asking what their most memorable birthdays were. I had an agenda. I wanted confirmation that my drive to give my kids better birthdays than I had was a valuable endeavour.

I was stunned into silence when they told me they couldn’t really remember the best birthday. What the fuck?

Not a single birthday party left a mark. Not the giant cupcakes served for birthday breakfast, nor the Wipeout-style pool party at a local olympic pool. They don’t remember the indoor playgrounds and the home-baked cakes. Not a glimmer of recall of the backyard party with a full-size ride-on Thomas the Tank Engine and bouncy house.

The only birthday Jeff remembers is a Mad Hatter Tea Party, but he can’t tell me which birthday. He only remembers it because it was so different.

Which begs the question: Why do we attach so much importance to birthdays, a.k.a your day? Early civilizations never kept track. Scandinavians measured age by how many winters you had gone through. The Egyptians celebrated the “birth’ of a Pharaoh once he or she was crowned. The Romans were really the ones who kept track, once they created the Julian calendar. If you can believe it, birthdays were not commonly celebrated in North America until the early 20th century.

After 54 rotations around the sun, here are my thoughts on birthday celebrations.

• The parties we throw as parents are for our memory banks.

• If I want cake on Wednesday in September, I’m getting one.

• Being loved every day is more valuable than being celebrated once per year.

• Gifts have more meaning when they are no saved for select celebrations.

• Birthdays are BS, with unrealistic expectations, overspending, and triggering emotional attachments.

• Age does not define us. I still find fart jokes funny (and my dad’s card made me giggle) and will continue to think I’m actually in my mid-to-late thirties.

• I appreciate social media reminding us of our friends’ birthdays and I love every message I receive.

Happy Birthday to me! I will be celebrating with a chocolate espresso martini at breakfast, because I’m an adult, it’s my birthday, and I can do whatever I want.

xo Dana

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What I’m Reading

I’ve been patiently waiting for my vacation to start so I could dive into this beauty. In the midst of mourning her husband’s sudden death, writer Jessica Waite discovered shocking secrets that undermined everything she thought she knew about the man she’d loved and trusted. From uncovered affairs to drug use and a pornography addiction, Waite was overwhelmed reconciling this devastating information with her new reality as a widowed single mom. And the hits keep on coming. I’ll be posting my review on Goodreads when I’m done.