No Replacement For Displacement

There was a time when My Birthday was two days ago

OK, this is an absolutely true story, and has absolutely nothing to do with the war, and if my mother finds out about this story, she'll go ballistic. It is still pretty hilarious, though.

One of the earliest memories of my birthday was in kindergarten. My kindergarten teacher was making little construction paper birthday cakes with our birthdate on them. We each had our own little construction paper birthday cake, with construction paper candles, and on each cake was our birthday. She showed each one to the class.

"Class, this is Kenny's birthday cake. Kenny, your birthday is December 10th, right?" The teacher was really dedicated, and had written each birthday on the cake ahead of time. "Yes Teacher, December 10th." "Ok, here is your special birthday cake."

"Jenny, your birthday is May 12th."
"Yes, Miss Crabapple".(I've forgotten her name lo these many years)

"Jimmy, your birthday is September 18th."
"Yes, Miss Crabapple."

Then she came to me.

"John, here's your cake, with your birthday, March 24th." That wasn't right, so I corrected her."No Miss Crabapple. My birthday isn't March 24th. It's March 22nd." Miss Crabapple looked at her exquisitely crafted birthday cake, and realized she was going to have to do some surgery on it, and took out her magic marker and adjusted it accordingly. Obviously, everyone knows their own birthday.

My childhood continued, with the three days I looked forward to every year. Christmas, which came every December 25th, Easter, which came sometime in mid Spring, and my birthday, which, like clockwork, was every March 22nd. Oh, occasionally we'd celebrate it on a different day, March 21st or March 23rd, or even March 24th, to coincide with a weekend. It was cool when my parents would celebrate my birthday on a weekend, because then they'd invite the odd aunt or uncle, and I'd get more nifty toys(and occasionally clothes--yuk!). Weekday birthdays were nowhere near as cool. They were still better than any ordinary day, but instead of having a whole blissful day of birthday greed, I'd have to go to school, deal with school stuff, and then have to do homework! And on my birthday, March 22nd!

But the years pass, and the time for toys passes as well, and you become an adult. For an Irish Catholic like myself, that means being confirmed, getting an extra SuperDuper Catholic name, and meeting the Bishop. It means you are a man in a Catholic way, which means that you are still too young to drink beer and still too young to drive a car. I guess it means that if you commit some mortal sin, you don't go to nice mild Juvie purgatory, it's straight to hard core H-E-double-hockey-sticks.

A big part of confirmation is that the Diocese needs to make certain you've been baptized. These means that they need your baptismal certificate, which is an official Church document that says you're part of the flock, and free from original sin and all that. We were to give the baptismal certificate to the parish the week before the confirmation, during the rehearsal for the confirmation ceremony. Curious, I asked my mom if I could take a look at the baptismal certificate.

"Why do you want to look at the certificate?" she asked.
"I'm curious," I replied.
"You're going to lose it," she said.
"I won't lose it."
"Yes you will, then we'll have to put your confirmation off a year."
"C'mon, I won't lose it. Let me see it." Of course, with my track record, I just might lose it.
"Listen, just let me hold it for you."
"Why won't you let me look at it?
"Ok, HERE! Look at it if you want."

So, I look at the baptismal certificate for about a minute. It has the usual stuff, the name of the church, birthdate, etc. I didn't really look at it all that much. It was printed on that really nice paper that you pay three zillion dollars for at Staples and use only for sending resumes. In any event, my mother was really anxious I would lose it, and was bothering me to give it back, so I did.

I had my confirmation, and all was well.

A year or two went by after that, with a couple of birthdays, on March 22nd, as it had always been, and now birthdays were going to count in a real, legally binding way. I was now fifteen. The next birthday would be a big one. I would be eligible for a learner's permit, and then I would be driving, the Nirvana of teenage life. And driving meant I would be instantly cool, and I would get to park my mom's station wagon in the student parking lot, and I would drive all my friends every, and I would cool. Maybe not as cool as Hardcastle and McCormick, but maybe, if I was lucky, my friends would think of my mom's powder blue 1975 Chevy Impala wagon--my town's own version of the A-Team van. Luckily, I became a teenager before Wesley Crusher sucked all coolness out of planet earth.

The year went by from age fifteen to age sixteen. March became April, warming up into June, July, August, and I started to get the disease all soon, the driver's license hardon. Sure, I could drive the boat any time I wanted, but I'd been able to do that for a year and a half. Anyway, September came, then October.

October came, and my mother was sitting in the kitchen with a very grim look on her face. "Uh oh," I thought, "She must know that I blew off my homework again."

"John," she said, still wearing the You've-been-caught scowl, "sit down."
"John."Uh-oh.
"Yes, Mom?"
"I have something to tell you, and it's kind of important."See Mom, I just forgot about that paper.
"Ok."
"I don't how you'll take it."
"Ok." Hmm. Maybe this isn't about homework.
"Um, it's about your birthday." Birthday?
"Ohhkay."
"Um, your birthday isn't March 22nd. It's March 24th"
"And?" OK, what is the other shoe?
"And that's it."
"That's it?!? That's all?!? I thought this was something important! I thought I was in trouble! So my birthday is on March 24th. Big deal. We got any soda?"

My mother was really relieved on hearing that. So, from that day forth, I was no longer born on March 22nd. I was born on March 24th. I had to wait an extra two days before I could drive that cool Powder Blue 1975 Chevy Impala with AM radio, and from that day forward, I had two birthdays, the one I used to have, and the one I have presently.

And I never did get around to apologizing to my kindergarten teacher.

Posted by John Bono at March 24, 2003 08:25 PM | TrackBack