I was born today, January, 28 1970.
People will call and email and Facebook many happy wishes to me today. Some will buy me gifts and cards. Personally, I think that’s a bit of a backwards celebration.
On our birthday, shouldn’t we be thanking those who gave us life and lessons?
Forget Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, those are Hallmark creations – the true days to honour our parents and grandparents is our birthday.
It was our Moms and Dads and Nans and Gramps who pushed, and sweated, and stressed. They are the ones who got up, and fed, and changed. We just kinda toddled around for a few years, and then grew into an adolescent pain in the ass.
Birthdays are not about us. They’re about them.
Sure, your birthday is the day you came into the world and it’s the day we fete ourselves, or are feted by others – but really, it’s about Mom. We just kinda handed our ticket to the attendant and went along for the ride. Mom did all the work to make things happen.
Today is not my birthday, it is the 43rd anniversary of Mother’s Day. It’s also the 43rd anniversary of Father’s Day, of Grandparent’s Day, and of Great-Grandparent’s Day. (I was the oldest of the oldest of the oldest).
So while my Facebook wall will be filled with greetings from people who have been conveniently reminded of this day thanks to a little box in the corner, I’ll be taking some time to thank my Mom, my Dad, and my Grandfather for giving me the 43 years I’ve had so far. Without them, I’m nothing.