April 1964 was a very good year for some couples I know. Like my parents. And the parents of my friend Amy. And my Aunt Nan and Uncle Jerry. And every other set of parents who were lucky enough to get pregnant in April 1964 or the month of April any year.
Unfortunately, their offspring weren't as lucky. We are the infamous December Birthday Babies. Some of us are known as the Christmas Babies, with birthdays that fall either on, or within a few days of Christ's birthday. Six out of the sixteen women in my book club alone have December birthdays.
Catch me on a good day and ask, like folks usually do, “How do you like having a birthday three days before Christmas?”
“Well, as a child it was difficult. But now, my husband and kids make a big deal out of it so it's okay.”
On a bad day, “It stinks, thank you very much.”
“Oh, but why?” they gush. “I think that would be so special!”
Special? Picture this. Your child's birthday is in April. I send my kid to your kid's party with a gift wrapped in Christmas paper. In April. You think those moms aren't going to talk? The gift is a Christmas tree ornament. Now the moms are definitely talking. The kid is crying. No one thinks anything special about my wrapping paper, my gift, or me.
Rule #1 for giving birthday gifts in December: Never use Christmas paper.
For a child, a Christmas birthday can be traumatizing. Just ask my therapist. It shapes how you view anybody's birthday, at any time of the year, for the rest of your life. Your birthday happens over Christmas break, so you don't get to take cupcakes to your classmates, wear the Birthday Crown or be line leader. If your parents can manage a party during the holiday hoopla, it will be small. All your friends have already left for Detroit to see Grandma.
Even the most well-meaning friends and relatives forget December birthdays. And even if they remember, they're out shopping, out of town, and out of money.
Someone joked recently that he used to be an atheist, but there weren't enough holidays. This holds true for a little kid with a December birthday — not enough holidays. You get all your gifts at one time during the year. That's it. Then, without fail (because you're a kid, remember) March, April, May, and June roll around and there will be something you're just dying to have. A new toy, a bike, a set of Clairol brown fleece wrapped gentle steam hot rollers. What do your parents say when you ask? “That's for a special occasion. Like your birthday.” or “Remember that when you write your list for Santa.” Eleven months between gift-getting is an eternity for a child.
One of the perks of getting older was my calendar of holidays expanded. I started dating Scott and suddenly had Valentine's Day to celebrate. I got a watch that first year. I'd never gotten a watch before that wasn't in a promotional Christmas gift box.
I married in June and gained an anniversary to celebrate. My husband looked at our newlywed closet and commented, “I thought all women had a ton of clothes. My friends warned me I wouldn't get any space in this closet. What gives?”
“It's summer. I have no summer clothes because my birthday was in December. Wait until winter. We'll need to buy an armoire or two just for the sweaters.”
After a couple years and a couple kids, I added Mother's Day to my calendar. On top of that, I justify doing something special for myself on my kid's birthdays too. I mean, who did all the hard work here? Did you ever stop to think about that? We get fat, tired, hemorrhoids, poked, prodded, exposed, stretched as wide as Wisconsin, and who gets all the presents for the rest of their lives?
Those lousy kids who only had to pop out and scream for the next 18 years. And who keeps them alive, healthy, supplied with cheerios, clean underwear,and last-minute posterboard from one birthday to the next?
Excuse me for a minute. I need to wire flowers to my mom.
Karen Rinehart is a magazine humor columnist, public speaker and the creator of The Bus Stop Mommies, a newspaper. She is also author of Invisible Underwear, Bus Stop Mommies and Other Things True To Life. You can read more of her work at karenrinehart.net. Karen lives in Concord, North Carolina with her two kids, one husband and goofball dog, where they attend St. James Catholic Church. (Well, they leave the dog at home.) She enjoys hearing from readers across the States and as far away as Australia, Japan and England.
