Of Birthdays and Holidays

Today is my birthday. As birthdays go, and compared to some of the 64 other birthdays I've had, this one has not been the greatest. It hasn't been the worst either.

Having a birthday one week before Christmas always elicits groans from others when they find out; then the stories about people who have birthdays on Christmas Day, or anytime the week after Christmas are trotted out to reassure me that I could be worse off. I know that. I have the utmost sympathy for my great-nephew Cory, who was born on December 29 and for my grandson, Colin, who was born on January 2. But they are still kids with parents who creatively figure ways to celebrate and make the birthday special.

My mother did that for me when I was growing up. My birthday usually fell during the last week of school or right after school ended, but people didn't travel so much during the holidays back then, so she could usually find a decent number of kids to attend a birthday party. I always had a birthday cake and presents that were wrapped in birthday-themed paper. I was allowed to feel special on my special day. After the birthday celebration was over, we started decorating for Christmas. We usually put up the tree on my birthday, which made it part birthday, part Christmas and made the day even more special. I never felt at a disadvantage because I had a December birthday.

Alas, I grew up and lived too far away from my mother to have the birthday pampering continued. My birthday celebrations were spotty during my thirties and forties. In fact, my fortieth passed without a single black balloon or over-the-hill card. When my 50th approached, I laid down the law to hubby: I want a party. I want cards that joke about how old I am, and I want friends and champagne, and I want a birthday cake!!! He dutifully delegated the planning to my children, who were in college nearby, and assigned the task of inviting people to a church friend. So, I had a party. The problem that year was that, on the actual birthday -- a Friday -- I came down with the flu while at work. I had the fever, chills, aching, the whole nine yards. Adding insult to injury, my car battery was dead and I couldn't find anybody at work with jumper cables so that I could take myself home and to bed. When hubby finally got home from work, I called him (no cellphones then) and he came to my job, jumped my car, and got me home. My son was in the kitchen baking a cake; he warned me not to look, but I was heading for the couch as fast as my fever-ridden, aching body could move.

They had planned to take me to Olive Garden for dinner. Olive Garden is my favorite Italian restaurant but I tried to suggest that we postpone anyway. Nope -- I wanted a birthday celebration and a birthday celebration I was going to get, even if it killed me. I could barely taste the food and wanted nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed. On Sunday, I was feeling only slightly better, when hubby mysteriously disappeared and returned with a deli tray. Then the doorbell started ringing and various church friends and in-laws began arriving. I soldiered on and enjoyed the get-together and appreciated the effort that hubby, children, and friends had put into it. I got my party; it wasn't anybody's fault that I was too sick to enjoy it.

When one becomes an adult, there are certain milestone birthdays -- the 21st (which, in my day, meant I could vote as well as drink); the 40th, which as I said, went by unheralded; the 50th -- for reasons I don't completely understand; the 65th, which used to mean retirement and now means Medicare -- not a particularly great present. My 65th was, however, a truly outstanding one. My sweet daughter and her children took me to Walt Disney World and I had breakfast with the princesses on my birthday WDW also makes a big fuss over birthday people, giving you a badge to wear. All day long Disney staff and visitors alike told me "Happy Birthday."

After that, if you live to be 100, you get your picture in the paper, the nursing home staff throws a great party, Willard Scott puts you on television, and the President sends you a birthday card. Since it's highly unlikely that I will make it to 100, I treasure each birthday and want it acknowledged. Unfortunately, the December birthdays get short-shrift by co-workers. Today, on my 66th birthday, I started the day with a dentist appointment, then went to my first part-time job at the church. Later I will go to my second part-time job tutoring students for the SAT. (Why is someone of my age working 2 jobs, you ask? That is a shame on the state of Texas for the way it treats its retired teachers, and I will save that tirade for another day.)

At my other jobs, birthdays were celebrated in various ways. At one workplace, staff drew names and planned a party for the birthday boy or girl. At another, a pile of cards mysteriously appeared throughout the day on the b-day person's desk. At another, department members surreptitiously signed a card while the birthday person pretended not to see, and then a box of donuts would appear for all to share. At the church, birthdays are usually acknowledged during staff meeting, but no special celebration happens. The choir usually sings to the birthday person during rehearsal in the birthday week. So what about this birthday girl? Staff meeting was replaced this week by the staff Christmas party, which I didn't get to attend because my roads were iced over. Choir practice didn't happen, because the Christmas music was sung last Sunday and we had the family Christmas party the day before my birthday. I took dessert and chose what was supposed to be my birthday cake, hoping somebody would get the hint and they would take 30 seconds to sing Happy Birthday to me. Of course, Kroger didn't have any birthday cakes, so no one, except the one or two that I told, knew the purpose of the green and red decorated bakery cake. Those that I told apparently saw no reason to share the information.

So, I should get over it. Birthdays are just another day and when you're as old as I am, you shouldn't even still be celebrating them. No -- that's just wrong. One's birthday is the only day that is completely one's own and every one of them deserves recognition, even if a catered banquet is not in order. And people who have birthdays during the Christmas season should get every bit of the attention that birthday folks get the other 11 months of the year. Think about that next time you are invited to a birthday party in December, assuming the poor birthday person has anyone who cares enough to have a party for them.