My daughter was born on December 27th. Her original due date was December 28th. During my pregnancy people would enthusiastically ask *when are you due?!* and when I told them their faces would fall. Like I had *really* screwed this one up. Apparently there is no worse fate for a child (or an adult) then to be born between December 24th and January 1st. People would comment, "Oh, the poor thing, no one will *ever* remember her birthday. They will be too busy with Christmas to care".
I swore that *would not* be the fate of *my* child. Oh no sir, my child would know she was loved and her birth was not an inconvenient event jammed between putting up a Christmas tree and a champagne toast with Dick Clark at midnight.
So from the very beginning I made sure that her birthday was a special occasion. I realize now that I may have gone *a bit* overboard. By the time she got to preschool we had established a schedule where her *school birthday* would be celebrated in mid-December when she would bring cupcakes in for her classmates. Then we would celebrate her *real* birthday on the 27th, and to make sure she felt it was special there would be no leftover Christmas wrapping paper used, no Christmas colored plates, etc. She would not be made to feel that we just slapped something together. She would get the whole enchilada of birthday extravaganza - balloons, streamers, a banner, cake. Just for the family. Once break was over and everyone was back she would have a party with her friends in mid-January, again with streamers, balloons, banner, a cake and so on. So when you think about it, her birthday is basically a month long celebration. We should just rename that thirty day period Callie-fest.
My daughter honestly believes her birthday is a national holiday and who can blame her. After all, *everyone* has the day off from school, many people are off of work. I am surprised she doesn't demand a parade outside our house on the big day. She starts occasionally mentioning her birthday party in the late-spring. By summer time she has already picked out the cupcakes for her class (chocolate *and* vanilla, so people have a choice), the cake for the family (ice cream) and the cake for her party (vanilla, because everyone likes vanilla). By September she has formulated her ideas for the party with her friends and written me very specific instructions for its execution. The guest list was solidified by October. The outfit for the party has already been selected. I am expected to go out and purchase two crowns, one to be worn on her actual birthday and one for the party. I know these may all sound like unreasonable demands, but I have no one to blame but myself. I have lead her to believe that she *should* have this much hype in my attempt to overcompensate for allowing her entry into the world on such a shameful date.
Last year I baked cupcakes to bring in for her class. I arrived with her brother in tow, beaming and bearing the delicious baked goods. Once I arrived she took me aside and said those words that strike fear into the hearts of parents everywhere - *I don't feel good, my tummy hurts*. We made a beeline for the bathroom were she repeatedly vomited so I took her home, leaving the cupcakes for her class and teacher to enjoy. It was Friday and it wasn't like they would keep over the weekend. The next time I made cupcakes in an attempt to properly celebrate with her classmates there was a snow storm and school was cancelled. Snow storm + two dozen cupcakes is not a good combination for the waistline. I told her I would try one more time and after that she would get cookies from the grocery store. Probably in a box. Luckily the weather and her stomach cooperated.
This year I have hired Martha Stewart to hand deliver cupcakes that she has made, each in the likeness of my daughter. I have made arrangements with the school for an assembly in her honor, where Taylor Swift will perform. Because nothing is too good for my little Christmas-time baby.