It has just occurred to me that there is something odd about birthdays – we celebrate the one who was born.
When you think about it, there’s really nothing to being born. You have no say in the matter, nor does one recall the pain that occurs.
Parents, moms to be exact, recall all the hardships. The nine months of carrying around what would seem to be an undigested watermelon and then the subsequent passing of said watermelon has got to be a more noteworthy feat than actually popping out, yeah?
And then the whole raising a kid – from terrible two’s to obnoxious teens – has got to be more commendable than coasting for eighteen years in a what’s basically a bed and breakfast (some kids aren’t so lucky, but meh… they don’t fit into this thought).
Sure there is nothing wrong with celebrating the fact that you’re one year closer to oblivion, but just don’t forget that you wouldn’t be around to have cake if it wasn’t for some parents.
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