I haven't figured this out yet . . .
Today was C’s birthday. It was a quiet day, filled with napping and doll playing. No huge fan fare, no party (that’s planned for a later date) and no opening presents. I meant to take C to the store today and let her pick something out that she wanted but she told me she didn’t want to go and started to cry when I tried to leave the house. One day she’ll regret that she chose to stay home instead of pick out a present.
Don’t get me wrong, we still celebrated her birth. We went to Chuck-E-Cheese, she played some games, and ate way more sugar and junk food in one day than we allow in a week.
Don’t let my poor picture taking fool you either, she had a good time.
I’ve always thought that birthdays are as much about mothers as they are the kids. I mean, moms are the ones that carry us for nine months, give birth to us, and nurture us until we’re more capable human beings. And let’s not forget about the physical and mental torment we put our mothers through. So what do we do to celebrate the havoc we wreaked on our mothers’ bodies? We ask for presents. Kind of messed up when you think about it.
If you think about it, birthdays are really just a celebration of survival. Both ours, and our mother’s. Birth is intense and thanks to modern medicine, it’s not as dangerous as it once was.
Last year, I wrote about all the things C survived to make it to her first birthday. I was thinking about all the things she’s survived through this year and the list wasn’t quite as fearsome, which I take as a good sign. The first year of life must be the roughest. Good thing none of us remember it!
Anyway, happy survival day C and mommy.