Why I don’t care much for my birthdays and an important life lesson
Iam not a birthday person. My birthday is not on my radar. It was never on my radar. It is not unusual for my adult kids or friends to remind me when my birthday is approaching. All my life, and now, my birthday is just another day. If nobody wished me, it would not bother me. That, for many, may sound weird.
When someone wishes me on my birthday, I feel somewhat embarrassed. I don’t expect any gifts on my birthday. I do not give gifts on anyone’s birthdays. Not even to my four adult children. (I did give them gifts when they were young)
What this fuss is all about is a birthday. I have often wondered why my birthday does not matter to me. Why it is not a big deal. So, I delved into my past to uncover the reasons.
I grew up in a stoic family, without much regard for worldly things. But stoic they were, they were also ultra-religious, die-hard Catholics. On my birthday, my father would wake me up earlier than usual. He’d ask me to go to church for mass. The mass was at six-thirty in the morning. The local church was a walking distance, under ten minutes. I could walk to church on my own. But I hated going to mass. I wanted to sleep in instead. Which kid wouldn’t? But my God-fearing father probably thought dedicating his eldest son’s oncoming year to God was what his son should do on his birthday. So, I obeyed begrudgingly.
My father made breakfast for the children while my mother cooked in the kitchen. On my birthday, at the breakfast table, my father came around and gently kissed me on my forehead. When I was a teenager, he changed the kiss to a pat on my shoulder. It was his way of saying that he loved me on my birthday. There were no hugs or kisses just because it was your birthday. No dramas. I went to the local church, knelt, prayed, and hoped that my sins, whatever I had no real idea about, would be forgiven by the Almighty and omnipotent God.
The rest of the day was normal. Nobody outside our family knew it was my birthday. There were no gifts, no messages or wishes. My only celebration was the usual evening family meal with a special dish made lovingly by my mother. During the normal family conversation at the dinner table, the birthday was mentioned, and how old I would be in the next year. That was all. No dramas. Just another day, except for the morning mass and the evening meal.
But in school, things were different. Some of my classmates talked about their birthday parties. I did not pay much attention to their so-called birthday parties. I did not know what birthday parties were, and I did not miss them. Instead, I thought of them as something not relevant to my being. They were an alien concept.
Late teenage years
After I grew up, I changed a bit. After eighteen, I bought a liquor bottle on my birthdays and shared it with my friends. It was a low-key affair, on a veranda or a wall of one of my friends by the roadside. Not at our home. I never drank much, just a shot or two, leaving more for my aspiring friends to gulp the coveted bottle down. Again, no gifts were given or expected. It was simply an event to enjoy youthful swagger and a chance to enjoy an early fascination with liquor. It was a way to feel emerging adulthood.
My 21st birthday was memorable for a different reason. That was just before I left Sri Lanka for good.
I was working and had money to spare. I convinced my parents to let me have a party at home with my friends for my 21st birthday. I had high freedom and trust in my parents, so permission was not a big deal. My parents knew all my friends beforehand. My father got on well with them. It was easy peasy.
Me being the eldest child, it was my parents’ first experience of a youth party in their own home. My mother prepared a meal for my friends, but nothing fancy. I bought liquor from a local store.
About a dozen friends turned up in the evening, all boys. Back then, in my semi-rural home village, girls would not mix with boys, at least openly.
Denzil’s party with his friends, him in the middle with a bottle in hand on the left photo. Denzil is at the back of the photo on the right. Denzil’s father is behind him standing.
The party went on. There was music from a borrowed cassette player. We danced to the seventies’ grooves, Santana, Abba and Carl Douglas, the famous pop artists of the day. Everybody had a good time. My father and kid brother too joined the party.
I could see my kid brother dancing from the corner of my eyes. Seeing my kid brother, yet twelve, on the floor was a joy. He was full-on with his swing-pop dance moves. He danced his way out, amusing my friends. Attention now was on the youngest partygoer, my brother.
Then suddenly, my kid brother vomited all over the floor, spitting his guts out — a major scene at the first-ever birthday party at home.
My father rushed to my kid brother’s side remaining calm. Moving to action, he helped my brother to cool down. Soon my father and mother rubbed limes on my kid brother’s head. Applying fresh lime was the indigenous remedy for the after-effects of liquor in Sri Lanka.
In their youthful vigour, friends had egged my kid brother to drink. My poor brother had no notion of responsible drinking. In his innocence and pubescent bravado, he had not refused what my friends offered him, who intended no harm. My brother was having a good time until his tiny body threw the foreign liquid out.
It must have been a trying moment for my father not to lose his cool. His focus was to care for his son, irrespective of what he had done or not. No blaming anybody, least of it to my kid brother. There was no drama but absolute care.
That was the beauty of it. On my 21st birthday, my kid brother got drunk for the first time at the tender age of twelve.
I got drunk for the first time at a friend’s home at sixteen, and he, at twelve. So he beat me to it, age-wise. My episode is a separate story if you are interested in reading it.
Typical Sri Lankan parents would admonish their child in a similar situation. However, my father and mother did not panic. Instead, they looked after my kid brother, nursing him back immediately. They did not utter a word to him, me, or my friends. Their focus was the well-being of their child. My party continued to the late hours of the night.
My brother was allowed to learn his way into the world.
That is how I remember my 21st birthday. It was a lesson in deep, responsible parenthood.
Twenty years later;
That life lesson played out many years later for me. I was now a father of four kids here in Australia. My family attended a large party attended by mostly ex-pat Sri Lankan families. Food and liquor were in plentiful supply at the party. My son, my third child, sat separately with many older boys and girls at the party, enjoying his emerging freedom.
Suddenly, my teenage son got up and vomited all over the floor. I did the only thing I knew, just like my father, and rushed to help my son. I was there for my son in his time of need.
Then, I saw the looks of some of the ex-pat Lankan parents. They were staring at me with disdainful looks. Their righteousness and dogma were on display. With a culture of wanting to look good in front of their peers, they now looked at me as if I was a bad father to have brought up a delinquent son who drank in his tender teenage years.
But I recalled my parents’ care of my kid brother some twenty years earlier. I was drawing parallels in my head, remembering how they cared for my kid brother in his time of need.
That said it all, I ignored the looks of fellow ex-pats and what they thought of me. I didn’t play small, so they could play big. I defied them and their bigoted narrow-mindedness. I held my son lovingly, ensured he was safe and looked after him kindly. Steading him, I cleaned him up with caring support from my family members. I stared back at those do-gooder parents to let them know I was not ashamed of my dear son. Instead, I was proud to remain a father to my daring boy in his distress.
We left the party soon after. Back at home, we showered, nursed and put my son to the bed.
My kid brother tells me that my parents never mentioned the episode afterwards. He never repeated it.
I never talked about my son’s episode with him. He, too, never repeated it, just like my kid brother.
My daring son, in his bravado back then
That was great model parenthood from my parents, Thomas and Susan.
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