May 23, 1988. I have known my birthday for as long as I can remember. It would have been hard to forget. The lake party with twenty of my friends and a homemade burger and french fry cake (just like I had requested); the trout fishing party where my parents rented a large van and drove me and 10 of my friends to a fly fishing lodge; my 8th grade surprise party where my dad rented a limo and took my friends and I around town, and of course my 16th birthday where I came home from school to a 1997 GMC pickup in my driveway with a bow on top. To say the least, I have had my fair share of wonderful birthday memories, many I take for granted.
This month our team profiled 100’s of kids for a child sponsorship program. One of the first questions on the sheet many would think was simple, but most of the kids were unable to answer it; Date of Birth. Many kids would simply know their age and we would have to figure out the year for them. Others actually knew the year; 1996 or 2000.
A couple kids came prepared, holding a plastic bag containing a dirty, crumpled birth certificate. Some as young as 5 were given the responsibility of holding this important document, a responsibility I still do not have at the age of 23, mine being neatly tucked away in my moms filing cabinet way back in Minnesota. A couple kids thought ahead and had their caregiver write their birthday on their hands.
Knowing my birthday is something I have always taken for granted; I not only know my birthday but it is something that is celebrated each year. For these kids their birthday is simply another day that comes and goes. No birthday cake with candles and video cameras catching the scene, no neatly wrapped presents waiting to be opened and no remembrance of another year gone by.
