My son turns 10 on Monday. 10 years old. A decade. 10 years ago, on a Monday, I was in a lot of pain. He was taking his first breaths. 10 years ago.

Now how is it that I owe HIM a birthday present on this notable anniversary? Shouldn’t he be buying ME gifts? What an odd tradition we have. A child rips its mother apart, has her screaming in agony in a intense premonition of what the rest of parenting might be like.  To commemorate this occasion, every year, we give the child gifts. All the child has done is eat, sleep, grow, and stay cute enough to for its parental figure to continue caring for it.

But since squeezing that little creature out… day and night has been filled with hours of care, food provided, clothes cleaned, places driven, medications administered, hair cut, hours and hours of being held, carried, comforted, entertained.

Why don’t I get a gift on Monday? I like toys.