Tag Archives: birthday

XL

Four thoughts, one for each decade:

The Banner

Lordy Lordy Look Whos Forty Round StickersThere was a banner across the entrance to the house when my mother’s cousin turned forty. “Lordy! Lordy! C’s forty!” It seemed to be such a big deal, her turning forty. She was aghast, horrified. Or at least she pretended to be.

I was more curious about the banner they might hang the next decade: the only thing I could think of to rhyme with “fifty” was “nifty.”

U2′s “40″

Thirty

When I turned thirty, I had a party. Not a lot of people; not a lot of food; not a lot of anything except dancing and the other thing that goes along with Polish parties.

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It was a fun and funny night, with my best friends and my then-girlfriend, now-wife.

Being Forty

Doesn’t feel like being thirty-nine. Or twenty-nine. But who would have thought it would? Or should?

Fifth Birthday (Party)

Five years of joy and frustration, smiles and cries, small victories and smaller defeats all culminate today. Technically, the birthday is next Friday, but try explaining that to L today.

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All week it’s been the same refrain: “How many days until my birthday party?” And who could blame her when the birthday party involved drawing (almost) anything her imagination can inspire?

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Two years ago, we went for an art birthday party and K kept it in the back of her mind as an original yet fun party for the Girl. Today is that day, a day of blue backgrounds and gray elephants, trunks up, tails down, trunks down, tails up — whatever each child wishes.

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The instructor is just as you would imagine her to be: questioning (“Is this the inside or the outside of the elephant’s ear? The outside, right? What part is pink, the outside or inside?”) yet ultimately accepting of the young artists’ decisions (“You can make it any color you like; it’s your elephant. But what part of most elephants’ ears are pink?”).

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The kids work, the adults talk, and the afternoon slides by in a smear of every color imaginable, all accompanied by continual laughter and chatter. The artists check each other’s work, make comments, ask questions, offer suggestions.

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Yet there comes a time in every artist’s creative endeavors when a decision must be made. Paul Valéry once said, “A poem is never finished, only abandoned,” and I’d imagine that most visual artists feel the same. Yet cake, ice cream, and presents waited, so the creative process was sped up with the assistance of technology.

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And after some cleaning,

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and a ceremonial hanging of the art,DSC_4976

it’s time for the cake. It’s the first year K didn’t bake the cake for L’s birthday, and certainly every atom in K’s Polish body screamed, “It’s not right! You can not be a good mother and not bake your daughter’s cake!”

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But somehow we all survive.

The presents make up for everything.

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And the greatest present of all: so many people took so much time out of their Saturday to come share the Girl’s day.

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Happy Birthday!

Birthdays are, obviously enough, the temporal equivalent of borders or landmarks. We pass them and in theory are not the same on the other side. At least that’s what our culture tells us. Birthdays always bring to mind the now-odd notion that most people in the history of the world have had no idea just how old they are, so it’s a boundary because we say as much.

But they can provide real metrics of comparison. For instance, there are firsts in a child’s life that correlate to her age. Birthdays, then, can provide a dual marker: someone turns a year older; someone else experiences a first in relation to that.

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Shortly after our arrival, K had her first birthday in the States. We were staying with my parents until we found jobs and settled into a city — eventually Asheville, though only for tw years. We went out to eat, had a cake — the usual.

Now, six years later, we celebrated once again with my parents: a grilled London Broil (one of K’s favorites) and all the summer accessories. Though the weather didn’t cooperate, it was nothing to the head grill chef: there’s no stopping a man on a grilling mission. It just can’t be done.

There’s also no stopping a four-year-old on a mission: as Papa was grilling in the rain, the Girl worked on perfecting her living room gymnastics and tumbling routine, taking occasional breaks to dance to the music coming from this or that program on Nick Jr.

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But this birthday was different. Sure, there were Klondike Double Chocolate bars for desert — a first for all of us, but a relatively insignificant first.

Sure, K turned 26. I suggested she might want to do 25 for another year (she’s been in a holding pattern there, just as I, for a number of years now), but she decided to step out into a new age. Significant, but not earth-shattering.

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What was most significant was, as always, how our daughter grew. It was the first year that L chose a present for K on her own.

It was a risky proposition.

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She was insistent, though, on buying a new jewelry box for K. “The one she has is old,” she advised me sagely. “Mama needs a new one.”

So off went to find a jewelry box. What we bought was a candle holder, though. Pink, and shaped like a star, no less.

“I want this one!” L proclaimed when she saw it.

“You mean you want to buy this for Mama?” I clarified.

“Right.”

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I tried to explain it wasn’t, in fact, a jewelry box. Yet the fact that it had a small door with a hing countered any argument I put forth. There’s reasoning with a little girl on a mission to buy a jewelry box for her mother.

27+11

WordPress creator Matt Mullenweg recently wrote of turning twenty-seven on the eleventh of January. Twenty-seven and the creator of software that has literally changed the world. Must be a good birthday.

Two days later, it’s my turn. Twenty-seven. Plus eleven.

Twenty-seven seems so very distant. It was 2000, and I lived in Boston. I was about to give up on my minimal religious studies work at Boston University and had just begun working for a start-up. My return to Poland was still a year off, and I was in a self-imposed limbo.

Eleven years later, I’m back in the classroom, and still spending too much time on the computer. Yet I’m infinitely more content, and how could I not be? I’m married, and we have a beautiful daughter.

As I approach forty, I find myself smiling at Mullenweg’s comment about twenty-seven:

27 is a really awkward age — I’m not young anymore but still before the looming 30. It’s inbetween.

Thirty looms for him; forty for me. So many I should give both of us some advice: starting a new decade is easier if you do it in style. I suggest a glance at my own thirtieth birthday.

My closest friends were there.

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I’d hired a DJ (who was also a student) to play music I’d supplied (it was, after all, my birthday), so the party itself was a blast.

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Great friends; great music; great time.

Turning thirty was a snap. I anticipate the same thing in two years. And if I’m lucky, I’ll get a few “Lordy! Lordy! Look who’s forty!” birthday cards.

For now, as a warm up to forty, there’s bigos for dinner:

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Cheese cake for dessert:

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And a wildly active — which means a wildly healthy — daughter.

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And then there’s this to look forward to:

Fourth

Time is a relative thing. Scientists tell us that we can travel so fast that time slows. In 1582, Pope Gregory XIII convinced the whole western world to skip ten days.

Yet it’s the smaller moments that have the true significance.

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It’s the smaller moments that see a devoted mother spending an entire Friday afternoon baking a cake for a little girl and her guests.

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It’s the sweeter moments that see the welcoming of a beloved friend with mutual squeals of joy and anticipation.

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It’s the moment less than the flickering of a candle that we all remember, the moment that a little girl has been excited about for days.

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It’s the moments that finds us surrounded by friends,

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friends who have taken a few minutes out of their lives to come celebrate with us.

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Within these series of moments, I catch a glimpse of the future. It happens every now and then: a pose, an expression, a gesture, and suddenly I see what our sweet daughter will look like in five, ten, fifteen years. A birthday celebration offers a hint of birthdays to come, and the bitter-sweet realization that these present moments are disappearing all too quickly.

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The pony rides will disappear. “Oh, Tata — I’m not interested in ponies anymore.” It’s bearing down on us, this reality, and I both dread and eagerly look forward to it.

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In the meantime, we — family and friends — enjoy the moments of helping and hugging, the moments of screams of laughter often followed too shortly by cries of frustration. There’s a big girl inside our L, but she’s still a little girl. Almost one year older now, but a little girl all the same.

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“Technically, it’s not your birthday,” I try explain to her.

“You mean I don’t have my birthday party?” she replies, in a panic.

“No, you’re having your party today, but your birthday is Thursday.”

“But Mama said today is my birthday. Today is my party!” There’s a certain panic in her voice that tells me that time is such a relative, elastic thing — after all, in Asian cultures, children are born one year old — that I can shift time and calm a panicking daughter with few repercusions.

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“Well, Mama was right,” I relent.

“You were just joking,” L giggles.

Perhaps, but not about this: happy early-birthday, our sweet daughter. May all your birthdays be raspberry-covered and laughter-filled.

Party

Though her birthday was three days ago, L’s birthday party was today. Her first birthday was a much more adult-centered party. Her second birthday party was still dominated by adults. This year, it was all about the kids.

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There was pizza and ice cream and candy and juice, but most importantly, there were games.

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I believe we were seeing a little bit of L’s school side, As mentioned earlier, L’s teachers always comment on her mellow, compliant nature, something we don’t see too often here.

Whenever we try to play a game with her, there can be tense moments of an attitude that can be described as a typical toddler egoism: “It’s mine; I’ll do with it as I please.”

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Today, there was none of that. L exhibited a simple graciousness that never demanded to be first, never begged to have it all, never stated that it must be this way and not that. She was the perfect host. It was her party, and she didn’t cry because apparently she didn’t ever want to.

And who could blame her? L’s two best friends from school were there, and what’s more, there was dancing.

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The three candles were out in a flash, and the party seemed to wrap up even faster. I glanced at the clock and saw it was, in fact, two hours since the first guests arrived.

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In a word, a success. “See you next year,” said one parent as a best friend was leaving.

We’re looking forward to it — especially the Girl.

Three

Today, you turn three. You hold up your fingers, struggling to hold down the thumb and pinkie, and tell me — show me — that you’re three.

In the morning, we celebrate your threeness with activities arranged into trinities: three hugs, three kisses, three tickles. As we head to the kitchen, you decide you want three jumps, so I stand at the base of our small staircase and catch you three times as you leap, in complete trust, three times into my arms. We go back to your room and you want three pushes: I sit on your rug and you gradually, with steady pressure, push me over, landing on me with giggles.

For three years now, we’ve been three. While it’s hard to accept that it was three years ago that you rushed into the world after only an hour of your mother’s labor, it’s equally difficult to accept that it’s only been three years. It seems like so much longer. This is undoubtedly due, in large measure, to the simple fact that you’ve developed more — cognitively and physically — in these three years than you’ll ever develop in your life. You’ve learned to talk, walk, run, dance, tickle, fix chocolate milk, sort things by color, chose your own clothes, put on your jacket, and a million other things that you will take for granted in the future but are in fact life changing advances. you have, in short, become more independent.

In the beginning, there was dependence. You could do nothing for yourself except burp and mess in your shockingly small diaper.

Father and Daughter

Each year, you’ve grown more independent, and more stubborn.

Trying

You’ve gone from having things done for you to insisting on doing everything for yourself. Insisting to the point of utter frustration at times.

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And now, we celebrate your completion of three years. You’re starting your fourth year with us.

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We bring you a small cake — Babcia’s work — and clap as you blow out the candle. Your first year, we did it for you.

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Your first birthday’s presents were of a simple kind: they made noise, or flashed, or rattled. We unwrapped the presents for you and showed you how they work.

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Now, you unwrap your own presents and excitedly examine them.

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We still help you, though. It will be that way for a very long time. Hopefully, a very, very long time. You’ll understand that desire when you have children of your own.

Birthdays

Nana’s birthday was Sunday. K prepared the requisite ritual (the cake); L helped decorate it.

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We took a novel approach to the birthday wishes. Or perhaps that should have been “took we an approach novel.” It’s a cake designed to be read while approaching it at very high speed in an appropriately-scaled vehicle.

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Nana made a wish,

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and Papa got his own wish fulfilled.

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Reading The Sleepy Puppy to his granddaughter thirty-five years after he first read it to me, he didn’t laugh as hard but I’m certain the joy was as intense.

Happy Birthday, Papa

Friday was Papa’s birthday: he’s doing 50 again. He thought about going up to 51, but I talked him out of it. “Fifty is such a nice, round number,” I argued. “Fifty-one has very little going for it. It’s not even a prime number.”

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When Papa has a birthday, there’s only one kind of cake we can buy with a clear conscience: cheese cake. The Girl liked it too, but seemed to enjoy the act of shoving it into her mouth more than actually eating it.

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Papa didn’t want to laugh — thought it might encourage her to continue — but he couldn’t keep the laughter in forever. In the meantime, he looked a little goofy.

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Afterward, it was time to play. Papa had some trouble throwing the exercise ball up the stairs, much to the Girl’s delight. It’s always fascinating to me how something so insignificant, repeated ad nauseum, can give her so much joy.

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Bubbles followed, and L followed the bubbles.

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Inside, L showed her acrobatic nature while Papa showed his, well, Papa nature.

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Party Preparation

Later today, L will celebrate her second birthday party. Her birthday is not until Tuesday, but one doesn’t have parties on Tuesdays. We’ve been practicing: thank you, happy birthday to you (which comes out “happy to you”), dziekuje, sto lat, blowing out candles, and so on.

Last night, K baked a cake, as I did some touch-up work on our new door.

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The cake, when finished, was quite a masterpiece:

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Today, we tried blowing up some balloons, but L was a bit wary:

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Right now, she’s asleep. “When you wake up,” I told her, “It’ll be time for ‘Happy to you!’”

I’m surprised she even managed to go to sleep.

“You Say It’s Your Birthday”

Well, it’s my birthday too…

When I was leaving for Polska the first time, my parents played a little joke on me. I had an old, almost-working laptop that I was planning on taking, and one day, Mom came to me and said she’d bought me a battery for my laptop. “I don’t know if it will work with yours or not, but…”

I looked at it and thought, “Oh dear. Mom’s wasted money. I hope she can take it back.” But I gratefully thanked her and said, “Well, you might be right. I don’t know if it will work with that old lap top.” At which time Dad blindsided me, putting a new laptop on my lap and saying, “It’ll work with this one.”

They did it again.

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This time, with a saw and goggles.

“Dad’s always wanted one of those,” Mom/Nana said.

“I guess he has one now,” I said, “With a place to store it.”

Dziadek was equally impressed, but declared that it was not for a beginner like me. Probably not, but I’ll learn.

First Birthday in Poland

People have been giving me birthday presents all day. First, IA gave me a stuffed mouse, some cologne, and a rose. Then IB gave me a hug stuffed elephant and a generous bunch of flowers. Danuta gave me a wonderful box of candy and a hug. Kinga came over with a plant, some chocolate, and a bag of potato chips. When it was all said and done, I was left bewildered that so many took the time out of their day to be so generous.

I hope I can remember this when I get down on this whole thing. It shows that I am making a difference, or at least I choose to view it as such. They at least like me . . . and that goes a long way in making learning a more enjoyable process.

The phone adventures continue: I have to pay 400 z by Wednesday if I want my phone turned on. This is ridiculous. No one ever said a single word about this. What is so ridiculous is that this money is payment in advance for telephone use. So I don’t even have a working phone and yet I have a 400 z phone bill. I don’t have the money, and I won’t have it for a while. It’s glupi.

C told me the nature of Mark Ahlseen’s response: “You are confusing economics and ethics.” This is a ridiculous and in fact impossible categorization. One cannot say that ethics and science or ethics and economics are different categories. Ethics is present in all aspects of life, and to deny this is silly.

In defense of my position, I offer the following example: Hitler is a business man with a belief that Jews are ruining his business. He forms an organization–no, this is not what I want to say. I’ll try again.

Suppose that Hitler had incorporated the Nazi party. Now its only responsibility (according to Ahlseen’s line of thinking) is to make money. Determining that the Jews are a liability to this one responsibility, Nazi Inc. decides to take active measures to increase its shareholders’ profits by eliminating Jews. But we cannot make a moral judgment because this would be mixing business and ethics.
Now this is a ridiculous and far-fetched example, but no doubt you made a moral judgment concerning this. In this exceptional case, as it is so very far-fetched, you mixed ethics and economics. My point is simple: How do you know when an example/situation is too far fetched. How do you decide when it is a–oh, this isn’t working either.

The point I shall try to make is simple: One cannot compartmentalize life so simply. To try to remove all ethical consideration from something, to say, “This is economics, not ethics,” is to run a great risk. This renders abortion immune to moral consideration because it is a matter of medicine, not ethics. The linguist who wants to see where language comes from by isolating infants from human contact to see if they develop their own language is free from moral judgment because this is a matter of linguistics, not ethics. The biologist who wants to experiment on fertilized human eggs can do so with no thought [to] whether it is right or wrong because, after all, it’s a matter of reproductive biology, not ethics.

Ethics is not an isolated science which only Dr. Rohr has any knowledge about. While Dr. Moyer might have a highly elevated knowledge of biology when compared to the average King student, Dr. Rohr on a practical level is just the same as everyone concerning ethics. He knows a great deal about the theory of ethics, but not any more about the practice of ethics. Okay, this hit a wall too.
Ethics is not a science in the same way economics or biology is. While not everyone can understand or carry out complex microbiological experiments or analyze the insurance market in Austria to make predictions for the next year, everyone practices ethics. This is because ethics is simply the process of deciding what is right and wrong. Ethical theories, whether prescriptive or descriptive, are simply attempts to define clearly this process.

We make ethical decisions all the time. Some are minor (“Do I flip that guy off for cutting me off?”); some are major (“Should I have this abortion?”) but we are making them daily. In fact, I would argue that when we act we have already decided (except in moments of irrational haste) that our action is right, thereby engaging in an ethical consideration. When the businessman decides to build a factory in Guatamal, he as already decided it is morally acceptable. (He might not have given it much conscious thought, but it is a moral decision. when we act, we do so under the assumption that we are in the right. To do otherwise is literally unconsciously.
I am tired of this. When the time comes, I will respond . . .

While not everyone is a microbiologist, we are all ethical philosophers on a daily basis.

“Corporations’ only responsibility is to make money.” This premise operates under the faulty assumption that corporations are autonomous entities, which they are not. They are groups of people operating with a common goal, and therefore they can be held accountable for their decisions and actions. If not, it’s a good thing that Stalin, Hitler, and Karadzic were leaders of political parties instead of [corporate executive officers].

My response will run something like that. I anticipate his argument to consist of those two pointless: ethics and economics are two different things, and corporations only have to make money. So I must show that it is impossible to remove the thread of ethics rom live, and that corporations . . .

People have responsibilities (moral obligations), corporations don’t. If people and corporations are the same thing, then corporations do not have moral obligations. but this must mean corporations are not people . . .

Oh, give it a rest for now . . .