There’s something that happens, like the flick of a switch or a bubble in the primordial ooze, when a child’s birthday rolls around.
It does not matter, during that day, whether the other 364 days of the year you can only liken to drowning in the 7th circle of hell with a pitchfork puncturing your hiney cheek; on birthday day, it all melts away and all you can see is your baby. Even if they aren’t a baby. Even if they tell you not to EVER call them a baby, make you drop them off a block away from school, wipe off your kisses with a disgusted look, or call you “mother”- they are your baby, yet again. Whining, crying, all-night-screaming, diaper-shitting, wonderful little baby. Even if they have competed for and won the title of “Master-Shithead” for extreme douchey brattiness, during that pure hell of a year, you had at least one moment where you sat down and said “Man, I wish they could stay this age forever”– but they can’t. They are getting older, and there is nothing you can do for it.
It’s a punch to the gut. Kids getting older is a spiky spork to swallow. On the one hand, you love to watch them grow, as they learn new things and really come into their own as a person- on the other hand, they’re not a baby anymore. They don’t need you as much, probably don’t want to snuggle as much, and a year older child means a year older YOU.
Awwwww yeah- don’t feel old enough to have a 5 year old? Whatever the hell “old enough” means- you don’t feel it, but you ARE. People will now look at you like “really? you have a kid that old now?” and kaboom- YOU are old. Deal with it.
No more baby. No more youth. All because of one silly little birthday. But but but…age is just a number!!! Snort.
If none of this has made sense to you up until this point, perhaps because you are far removed from birthday hell and deep within the confines of douchey-kid duty- I can understand. Tomorrow I will likely feel far different, but today… today is Holden’s 5th birthday. The fifth anniversary of the original blow-out of my crotch.
|Where did this go??|
Sure, 5 seems like a nice round number, but 5 is the end of an era. He isn’t a toddler anymore. He’s definitely not a baby- he’s a KID. I don’t mean the newspaper eating baby goat kind- but a HUMAN kid. The kind that goes to school and can button up his pants without help, the kind who has HOMEWORK.
Holy shit on a stick, y’all- it’s the roughest birthday next to turning ONE and being far and away from roly-poly infant. My vagina may have forgotten about the pain of forcing that pez-dispenser headed child out of it (after being snipped twice, mind you) and then stitched back up (although I could swear it recoils in fear every time I so much as think about the birthing process)- but I feel like it was just yesterday. That makes this whole birthday shpeal even harder to deal with.
Somehow, I don’t think next year or the year after that or the next 57 years or however long I survive his wrath (combined with the that of his little brother) is ever going to be any easier.
As if I’m not feeling old enough yet, wait until the birthday party. The DOUBLE birthday party, mind you- since my uterus is an evil ass bitch and could not wait under 24 more hours until OCTOBER, and I am stuck with 2 September babies- and no way in hell am I having TWO parties in ONE month because that would mean instant-death and likely land me on the street corner without a penny to my name, so yes, a double birthday.
I have walked for 12 hours a day in the blazing Florida heat, surrounded by screaming rug-weasels for 6 days and not been as tired at the end as I am after birthday party day.
It’s like I lose my damn mind. I have nothing to prove to anyone, and if I raise kids who look back at party pictures from their childhood and say “damn mom, that was a shitty party” I will have failed- but I just like to go BALLS OUT on kiddie birthday parties. Not mine. On mine, all I want is silence, some rum, and a GIANT piece of cheesecake and I will be happier than a pig in shit. No gifts, no whooptidoo, no hullaballoo or mayhem. Just cheesecake. And booze.
The crazed feeling I get from realizing that my crotchfruit are growing up must send me into crazypartylady mode.
No, I don’t rent bounce houses, and you don’t need to set me up a future appointment with MTVs “My super-sweet 16” or anything like that… but you may need to take the pastry bag and wisk the hell away from me before I go fucking postal and attempt to make Mater cupcakes, run out of materials, and start giggle-snorting about how the one I made with leftover pieces looks like a cat with a cataract.
No one ate cataract-cat at the party. It was a sad day.
In summation- while I am sad that my baby is getting older and closer to (hopefully) being a productive member of society who doesn’t need to ask me to wipe his ass when he finds himself in a bind- I really just can’t wait to get this birthday party over with and have an entire year’s break until the next one.
Oh… and Happy 5th Birthday Holden. One day you will realize that you have been the inspiration for nearly everything that I do, and your weirdness is the reason thousands of people on the internet to laugh every day. And then you will likely disown me.
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