What Do Birthdays and Giving Birth Have in Common?

I hobbled through another birthday.

Not mine, mind you, but a child's--a certain child who asked for a peach cake and would have loved nothing more than to receive a tank of live lizards.

her official spy name

The week before her big day, I ran around purchasing several gifts that would suit this adventurous, stuffed-animal, critter-obsessed little lady.  I also gathered special mementos, including a monogram her sister cross-stitched, and we assembled them in a shadowbox for her. In the wee hours, I began work on her annual birthday letter from mama, something I have written for every child (almost) every birthday since their first.

The day before her big day, I printed out two dozen sentimental pictures of this child, pulled out some of her favorite decorations, had a helper craft some pink tissue paper flowers, and cutely wrapped all the gifts. It was a labor of love. As usual, I stayed up way to late.

On her big day, we started the morning with Frappuccinos while playing rock/paper/scissors on the Starbucks patio in the warm sunshine.  We swam at lunch, crammed in a swim team workout, chowed down on Five Guys burgers for dinner, had a big cakefest and present unwrapping, then hit the late, late night showing of Maleficient.

the understudy learns to pipe

Boy, was I pooped out at the end of this birthday.

Wait, let me be honest:  I'm completely wiped after every birthday.  The searing exhaustion rings so familiar, and I know just where to place it.

Yes, this fifth dimension of tired is how I felt the day I gave birth to this child. Exhausted. Spent. A shell of a human being.  So!  Birthdays and the day of birth DO have something in common: that bone-weariness that only a people-pleasing mom can feel.

So what if she threw down the numerous thoughtful gifts like the sentimental shadow box and latched on instead to the stack of cash from various grandmas and the As Seen On TV! stuffed animal nightlight?  No need to care that the custom strawberry three-layer cake was just mashed with the back of a fork till it covered the plate without a morsel being eaten!

Because no matter how you cut the proverbial cake, kiddie birthdays and the day of birth are all about the kid, not the mom or her labors of love. We do put in the labor, literally and figuratively, and are left at day's end with a saggy chest, stretch marks, ripped up wrapping paper, and drooping decorations.  Or, in our case, a dog who attacks, pops, and eats the poor pink balloons that eventually come back out again, littering the grass like bright bubblegum soldiers and confounding the yard guys.

Alas, I would do all this and more for my sparkle-sunshine girl.  On the day she was born, my world forever began to spin a little faster.  Happy birthday, May May!  You are so loved.

Now then--pass the caffeine.