The not-so-obligatory birthday post

It's difficult to deny that much of blogging is just navel-gazing, and this not-so-obligatory birthday post is proof of that. Birthdays are usually license for a lot of things, mostly involving getting your way. While I have no intention of being a birthday brat, I'm using the license for this self-indulgent entry. I had a professor who didn't celebrate his birthday. He said he celebrated every day, and while that doesn't seem like bad advice, he turned out to be a less than credible source, having made indecent proposals to several students. Ah well. I'm not fond of parties, especially expensive ones. The idea of spending so much for a few hours seems like a waste. Not that I haven't had parties. There were three, I think. The first two were large productions, complete with clowns and pabitin - but I don't remember them. The third was my "debut," which I managed to get through in jeans and slippers. No, there was no dancing. A few weeks back I had a conversation about kiddie parties with a friend, and we agreed the kid would probably prefer a nice quiet afternoon blowing bubbles to a noisy party filled with strangers. I wouldn't say a nice quiet afternoon blowing bubbles is what I want, or what I wanted as a kid, but yes, a pleasant quiet time is much better than a stressful party that not only costs you but requires you to look decent. For little girls, this usually involves an itchy frilly dress. The standard birthday celebration in our family involved eating out and getting to choose something - usually a book. We would spend hours and hours at the bookstore, browsing the shelves, eventually getting to finish a couple before picking the one we really wanted. Books were expensive - they still are - and it was a real treat. That is why I have a date with Bookay Ukay along Maginhawa for today. I'm spending my birthday the same way I did when I was six. Also, the things on my wish list are a sun jar and a Twilight Sea Turtle Nightlight. I wonder if that's something to worry about. I remember there were some birthdays that felt momentous, and others that felt like nothing. 13 was big. 19 was nothing. After 20, somehow birthdays stopped feeling very different. It's just another year, isn't it? Or maybe it's because last year's birthday kind of slipped by unnoticed, the day having been spent mapping people who were stranded in the typhoon. A few years back, it was Milenyo. In school, my birthday would always coincide with an exam. It's as if you aren't supposed to celebrate when you're born in September. The late Alex Remollino wrote "Sa malaki-laking bahagi ng daigdig, ang Setyembre'y siyang huling buwan bago ang taglagas, kaya't nagbabadya na ng kalungkutan." I won't try to translate this, but think of falling leaves, bare branches, cold wind. September is a sad month. There really is something about September. The way it begins with Christmas carols playing mercilessly on the radio, that alone is a sign of more gloom to come. Recent Septembers have been particularly cruel. 9/11, Milenyo, Ondoy, the death of Cory, the murders of Alexis and Nika. "Wake Me Up When September Ends" is a song I don't really like, but I have to admit has a valid point. I used to look forward to Septembers. As a little girl, my dad and I would make a big production of counting down the days, looking forward to the ber months. I can't recall what it was exactly about the ber months that appealed to me. It was probably something to do with the misconception that the ber months were cold - an excuse to wear flannel pajamas and drink hot chocolate. Maybe it was the anticipation of Christmas - the one night kids could stay up way past their bedtime. As I grew older, September lost its charm. It would always rain, and rain and rain. Also, September has a way of popping up unannounced, all of a sudden, two thirds of the year is gone and your resolutions have amounted to nothing. This year though, it hasn't been raining that much. And the month has been kinder, somewhat. Still, I don't really feel like celebrating. I think it's partly because I know my birthday isn't really about me. After all, I didn't really do anything for it to happen. This is something I realized seven years ago, on my own daughter's birthday. It was also September, and there was a storm. Its name was Onyok. Twelve hours of labor without anaesthesia later and I met her. She was incredibly tiny and I wondered how she would like this world, I wondered how the world would like her. She turned seven this year and she loves her birthday. Since she was born, we wake her up at midnight to eat cake, though she was born at 3:03 in the morning. She knows about birth - one of her favorite things to do is to trace my stretch marks with her fingers and tell me that they're because she used to be inside. That should suffice for now. No need to tell her about contractions and all that. One day she'll experience it for herself and realize that birthdays are great days to celebrate. They're also great days for giving credit where it's due. In this case, hello Mama and Papa, thank you. I know they're reading because they're my biggest fans, but that's okay - the admiration is mutual.