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I had a striking realization the other day: We never celebrate birthdays on our actual birth day. The day we’re born, there is a special sense of togetherness and jubilation, sure, but there are no gifts, balloons or cake commemorating the actual, day one, birthday.
I learned this the hard way recently: I knew my sister was going to give birth any day now (I could already envision her flipping through her book of nonsensical names,) so I went birthday shopping in anticipation of the big event. Just a few days later, I get the call: The baby is here! I leapt down the mountain I was on, got all my things together, and hurried over to the hospital within a few hours.
I burst through the door with an armful of wrapped gifts topped by a supermarket cake and a swarm of balloons in tow. “Happy Birthday!!!” I beamed, a few balloons bursting violently as I barely squeezed the cloud cluster through the door frame. My sister winced at each bang, but smiled at my entrance.
“What’s all this?” my sister asks.
“Gifts and cake for the birthday boy! It is his birthday, after all,” I said with an enthusiastic grin.
She laughed. “Well that’s different.”
Having countless more important things to do that day, I wasted no time getting out the gifts I had carefully selected earlier in the week.
“OK, here’s gift number one!” I exclaimed, and thrust the wrapped gift at the newborn in my sister’s arms.
“Be careful!” my sister scolded.
“Just let him open it,” I said.
“He can’t, I’ll just do it,” she replied.
My sister tore the wrapping paper away to reveal a Tonka dump truck toy.
“I didn’t get it because he’s a boy, I just thought he’d like it,” I said.
“Great, well…thanks. I’m sure he’ll play with it when he’s a little older,” she said.
“Show it to him, let him see it,” I insisted.
“He can barely see, he’s three hours old,” she replied.
I hung my head. “…he doesn’t like it, does he?” I said, dejected.
“I’m sure he likes it,” my sister replied.
“No he doesn’t. I can tell,” I retorted. “God, I knew this would happen! I don’t know what the hell he likes, so I take a gamble, and here we are!”
“He doesn’t like anything yet! He doesn’t know what’s going on!” she shouted.
I squatted down and got in the baby boy’s face. “Even if you don’t like it, you could at least say thank you – what, your mother never taught you any manners!? Were you born yesterday!?”
“No, he was born today!” my sister exclaimed.
“I don’t know anything about my own nephew!” I yelled, my face beet red with shame and rejection as I threw the rest of the gifts in the hospital garbage in a manic frenzy.
“Fine, forget the gifts. I thought I knew him, but I guess I was mistaken. You know, he’s going to have to start being consistent with his opinions if he wants to make it anywhere in this life,” I said.
“Whatever you say,” my sister replied.
A mariachi band started streaming through the door, already playing joyous, celebratory music.
“It’s off guys, get out, it’s off,” I said, waving the band off. They started slowly marching backwards back out the door, their music slowly deflating down the busy maternity ward like the birthday balloons sinking to the floor in the corner of the room.
I took the cover off the chocolate sheet cake I brought, which simply said in red icing: ‘Welcome to the World, BABY!’
“I didn’t know what his name was, so I just had them put that,” I said. “What is his name, anyway?”
“Orson.”
“Of course it is. Alright, does he have any allergies?” I asked.
“We don’t know yet.”
“God damn it!” I yelled, flinging the cake out the hospital window, watching it sail down ten stories then splat on the hood of a pale blue Ford Focus.
The moral of the story is to be careful who you throw a birthday party for, because some people, like my 15-hour old nephew, won’t recognize the effort that went into putting it together.
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