“Happy Birthing Day, Mom!” said my now 40-year-old daughter.

I can’t believe I’m the mother of a 40-year-old. Ugh. That legitimately makes me as old as dinosaurs.

I’ve never really cared much about my birthday, or birthdays in general. Dates don’t matter to me. Holidays are just a date on a calendar. Even Jesus, according to the theologians, wasn’t born on December 25^th, we just celebrate it that day and shower our kids with gifts like they were the Second Coming.

We celebrate holidays as a culture or religion or society marking and remembering a major change in the world. Holidays usually commemorate a world changer or world-changing event. Lincoln’s birthday. MLK’s birthday. The Nation’s birthday. Memorial Day. Thanksgiving Day.

The days I gave birth are truly the most special days of the year to me. I cherish those days as times to reflect and remember my babies and how they came into the world. Oh, they were both so wanted. We had nothing of material value to offer them, but we had love and adventures. We gave them what we could, and certainly did enough wrong to warrant their need to perpetuate the mental health system in therapy (isn’t that part of a parent’s job?) and we raised two amazing women. We raised them strong enough to choose how to live their lives and loving enough to find love amidst the chaos of humanity.  

While I don’t personally care much for celebrating birthdays or holidays, there are two days I quietly and privately celebrate as “my” days. Every other day on the calendar belongs to or demands someone or something else.  January 15^th and May 17^th are my birthing days. Two days that changed the world.