Attack of the Birthday Monster

You may have thought you were safe. You may have been minding your own business and humming through life blissfully unaware that a fowl creature was hiding in the bushes. And then with a humongous roar,

the Birthday Monster jumped out and whomped you in the face. Maybe you were so content in your perfectly calibrated life that you didn’t feel his paws smacking you about the face. And then one day you crawled out of bed and looked in the mirror and saw a haggard old biddy staring back at you. Yep. That was him. He’s evil that one. And sneaky. And no one is immune to his attacks.

The evolution of the birthday monster intrigues me. When one is young, he is a faithful friend. He is cute and promises all kinds of wonderful delights.

When I was little he delivered Barbie dolls and roller skates. As I got older, he brought delightful pets and a license to drive. Never in my wildest dreams did I envision that the happy, peppy Birthday Monster would turn evil and gift such agonies as wiry gray hair, crow’s feet and, most wickedly of all, arthritis.

The Birthday Monster must die.

There I’ve said it. I hate him. He is just awful. And since asking him politely to cease and desist isn’t working, I’m hatching a plot to murder him. Slowly. Painfully. And with great gusto. The problem is he is as elusive as Bigfoot. I can see his footprints, but getting my hands around his slippery throat has heretofore been impossible.

The funny thing is, I caught a glimpse of him this past Saturday. I was lying in bed when my youngest son crept into my room and whispered, “Mom. It’s my birthday. I’m eight!” Then he hugged me and danced out of the room. I saw the birthday monster’s tail swaying in the doorway as he followed my child. I might have been fast enough to grab it, but I’m still recovering from the walloping he gave me last year. Darn BM. (Yes, I’m abbreviating from here on out because bowel movements and birthday monsters stink and the abbreviation seems appropriate).

Still, my little guy is enthralled with the BM. He was chattering endlessly about the wonderful gifts that would soon be in his possession and before you can “birthday breakfast” I was trying to level set his expectations. Between his vision of Minecraft Lego towers and my pocketbook lay a gap more treacherous than the Royal Gorge. And so I gently explained that giving gifts is much more fun than receiving gifts, and—by the way—was he getting me anything cool for my birthday? He puzzled over this question for some time before delivering his final answer.

And I wasn’t completely shocked by his reply. You see, even though he still sees the happy, peppy BM and not the fanged devil I’ve come to know and loathe, disappointment is a frequent gift I’ve gotten used to over the years.

We went to Six Flags for his birthday and it was wonderful. The cute BM was in evidence as we experienced my son’s first time on a roller coaster. While he was waving his hands in the air and laughing, I remembered why I never, ever climb aboard such infernal contraptions. While the BM was tickling my child, he was tormenting me. With each hill I experienced the sensation of possibly losing my lunch and displacing my spine at the same time. I can’t imagine why any well-meaning adult would torture themselves regularly in such a manner, but obviously Six Flags profits heavily off such creatures. Obviously the BM and Six Flags are in collusion. Oh the humanity!

My little guy was intent on riding The Batman ride but my husband put his foot down. He was certain that death (or permanent discombobulation) would occur and so we left the park kicking and screaming. And that is where we had fun kicking the BM in the gonads. Take that sucker! And I enjoyed pummeling him and his idiotic idea of fun while I stifled the urge to baptize my car in vomit. And maybe that is when my child saw the BM for what he really is, pure and undiluted evil. Promising happiness and delivering reality. And I really think I’m a fantastic parent for unveiling the monster and not perpetuating the myth. Score one for mom!

Okay, so I did feel a little guilty. And the BM was looking rather sheepish there for about 30 seconds, and so I consented and baked a birthday cake. If you are a regular reader of this blog you may think that I got creative and made a sugar-free cake. You would be wrong. My husband likes to inflict cruel and unusual punishment by way of dessert and so I was cajoled into preparing a white flour, double chocolate “devil’s food” cake with all requisite sugar baked in for exemplary texture, flavor and calories. And while I waved the magic healthy wand and somehow convinced my child that his birthday cake did not need icing, that did not satisfy the BM. And so it was that he convinced me that I could eat just one piece. And so I did. And then that darn Birthday Monster bit me and refused to let go until I had eaten exactly 5 pieces of that infernal cake. And I hate him. I hate him to death.

Birthday Monsters visit our house in pairs. So while my son’s visit was Saturday, mine is Thursday. And let me tell you, I’m trying desperately to get ready. This morning I did my strength training and if it was possible to crunch the BM away, it’s done. But alas, that dratted BM is crafty. No matter how much I exercise or eat right, he always has some excuse or explanation that will unwittingly disarm me into imbibing some sugary confection that is wholly poisonous to my body. So I’m not going to divulge my strategy here. Let me just say this, BM, I have you in my sights. And this year, if I have anything to say about it, you are going down.

On September 26, 2016   /   The Journey   /   1 Comment