I don’t give a damn about my birthday. I never have. One reason is because I’m notoriously awful at keeping track of dates. Awful, awful. Hell, I still think it’s June. But even more so, for me, it’s very discomforting to be singled out and having “Happy Birthday” sung to me, being watched as I blow out candles. I’ve only had one birthday party — at age two [and that was a joint party with K]. A “Hey, happy birthday!” email, text, phone call makes me feel special enough. And if you’re Brian, a “Happy birthday!” and a kiss would be lovely.

I think my birthday is far more important to my parents. To Mama, it’s the anniversary of a successful labor and birth. To my parents, the day is a reminder of their commitment, a day to celebrate the product of their incredible, continued nurturing that has grown a helpless seven-pound baby into an independent one hundred-pound adult. So, as soon as I realize that it’s my birthday, I send Mama and Papa an email of gratitude for their unconditional love and “Happy birthing anniversary!”.