The confusing world of birthday celebrations
My husband and I share a birthday month. His comes first. He’s not really a rah-rah celebration type of guy. A few years ago, I organized a party to celebrate his 40th, with a specially selected menu for him and 15 friends, and a fun group activity.
After it was all over, he thanked me very sweetly. And then requested I never put him through that again. Just a home-cooked meal and his favourite chocolate cake with caramel icing from now on, please.
Too bad my kids didn’t get the message. “Let’s throw dad a surprise party!” they say when I remind them of his upcoming birthday this year.
“He’s not really into parties,” I tell them.
“Let’s invite the family and take him out for dinner!”
I make a few noncommittal noises, but they are undaunted. They spend the afternoon giggling and requesting scrap paper, while I mark science tests in the dining room.
A few hours later, they have constructed a large handmade banner that proclaims, “Happy Birthday Dad!” in hand-drawn multicoloured bubble letters. They have cut up pieces of paper for confetti, to throw when the birthday boy walks through the front door. Ibrahim has even written an acrostic poem listing dad’s many positive attributes, and Mustafa a letter thanking dad for being “awesome.”
They wait anxiously for his return from work, and then gleefully present their banner, letters, and throw confetti.
“Oh, thanks,” is his response. “Make sure you pick up that paper.”
They carefully collect the confetti and fold up the banner. “Don’t worry, Mom, we’re going to keep all this for your birthday,” they tell me.
Fast forward a few weeks. My birthday falls on a Tuesday this year. I wake up early, hoping for some birthday pancakes, or maybe some birthday buttered toast. Nothing. I wake the kids for school with a cheerful “Good morning!” Over breakfast, I casually remind them: “Guess what today is?”
“Oh, right. Happy birthday Mom,” Mustafa says, and gives me a onearm side hug. Ibrahim, never a morning person, nods vaguely in my direction.
This is OK, I tell myself. They need time to set things up. Unlike my husband, I enjoy having others make a fuss over me.
Growing up, birthday celebrations were never part of our family culture. Like many Muslim families, birthdays were only briefly acknowledged, occasionally with cake, and never with parties. In contrast, I throw birthday parties for my kids every year.
After school, I disappear upstairs for a while, to give them plenty of time to put up a banner. I practise my surprised face in the mirror. Ibrahim wanders upstairs, and asks what I’m going to cook for dinner.
The banner, the confetti, the special handwritten poem — none of it makes an appearance.
I complain about my disappointment at work. “As mothers we are so taken for granted,” my friend and fellow ignored mom says sympathetically. “You are so right to feel upset. This isn’t about you — it’s about developing empathy in your boys. You need to go all guilt-inducing Indian mom on them!”
“So where’s my birthday stuff?” I ask my boys after school the next day.
“We forgot it was your birthday,” they explain.
“How could you forget? I told you in the morning.”
“The problem is you’re always around, Mom. You didn’t leave the house!”
“I’m so sorry I’m always there for you. I’ll try to neglect you more often,” I say.
FYI, sarcasm doesn’t elicit birthdays cards, flowers or cake. Then I realize what the problem is. My husband is the one who marshals the troops, and this year he was recovering from a minor surgery.
Or maybe my kids just don’t love me enough to make me a banner. Or even to cross out “Dad” in the old banner and scrawl in “Mom.”
I’m in a funk for a few days. Then Mother’s Day comes around. Husband is better, and I get a card, a banner and a heartfelt hug.
“We love you, Mommy!” they tell me.
As if that’s supposed to make me feel better. Except, actually, it does. Bonus: I have a few months before their birthdays. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Uzma Jalaluddin is a high school teacher in York Region. She writes about parenting and other life adventures.