Observations on birthdays

Today’s my birthday.   That’s not unusual.  Everyone alive (or dead for that matter) has birthdays.  Unless you’re an orphan.  Some babies adopted from Asia often don’t have known birthdays.   Their birthdays are determined by their adoptive parents.   In some cases, they change their birthdates when they get older.

I have a friend who was born on February 29.   He can only celebrate his birthday on the day every four years.  Most of the time he has to chose whether February 28 or March 1 will be his birthday.   I have another friend who was born on December 25.  He always said that his mother made certain to separate his birthday gift from his Christmas gift – – but I doubt it made much difference.

Some people are born on historic days like December 7 or September 11 or even July 4.   I was born on November 22.  I have another friend who was born on April 4.  While those days are losing some of their significance, some people still remember.   I have a grand daughter who was born September 9, 1999.   Her birthdate is 9-9-99.   I suspect 9 is her lucky number.

Families approach birthdays differently.  Some shunt them aside as just another day and may provide a card.  Others make a big deal out of birthdays, with a cake, and the song – you know what song I mean.  My family falls somewhere in between.

We make a big fuss out of children’s birthdays.  We make certain that they’re rememberable, even though the child often has no memory of the event in later years.  We don’t make quite as much fuss over birthdays of adults unless they’re having one of the big O birthdays.

When we reach the age of 90 or so, people begin to make a fuss about an adult’s birthday, wondering just how they were able to live that long and trying to determine if we really want to live to that age.

Every birthday is significant, but only if we chose it to be.   I always chose to make my birthday significant – even though it really isn’t.