The Birthday I Can't Remember (But Will Never Forget)

Of all the milestones we celebrate, the first birthday has to be the most bizarre. It’s a massive party thrown in your honor, attended by people who are overjoyed to see you, and you have absolutely zero recollection of it.

I, of course, am no exception. My knowledge of my own first birthday is a patchwork quilt, stitched together from grainy photos, half-remembered family stories, and the undeniable, photographic evidence of cake... everywhere.

Apparently, I was the star of the show. Based on the evidence (a blurry photo album I treasure), I was dressed in some poofy, adorable-but-probably-itchy outfit that my mom had likely been planning for months. My hair, which was more of a dedicated fuzz at that point, was brushed into submission. I looked thoroughly confused.

And why wouldn't I be?

For 364 days, my life had been a pretty consistent loop of eat, sleep, cry, and discover the magic of my own feet. On day 365, I was suddenly the main attraction. The house was full of giants (my aunts, uncles, and grandparents) who kept making strange, high-pitched noises at me. Balloons, which I probably mistook for terrifying, floating orbs, bobbed menacingly near the ceiling.

Then came the main event.

I was strapped into a high chair, and a masterpiece of sugar and frosting was placed before me. A whole cake. Just for me.

I'm told there was a long pause. I just stared at it. My parents, armed with cameras, were probably whispering, “Go on... touch it!”

And then, a tiny fist hovered, descended, and… squish.

The photos from this point on are a glorious, sticky mess. There’s the photo of initial contact—a look of pure, unadulterated shock. “What is this stuff? And why are they letting me do this?” This was followed by the photo of cautious curiosity—a single, frosted finger moving toward my mouth.

Finally, there was the grand finale: pure, chaotic joy. Frosting in my hair, up my nose, on my ears. I had become one with the cake. I apparently had no interest in the presents, which my parents ended up opening for me later. I had found my bliss, and it was 80% sugar.

Looking back at those photos, I realize the party wasn't really for me. I wouldn't remember the decorations, the flavor of the cake, or the specific shade of blue on the wrapping paper.

The first birthday is for everyone else.

It’s a celebration for the parents, a triumphant "We did it! We survived a whole year!" It's a milestone for the grandparents, a day to spoil and coo. It’s a finish line for that chaotic, beautiful, terrifying first year of life.

I may not have the memories, but I have the evidence. I have the photos of my mom, looking tired but happier than I’d ever seen her. I have the pictures of my dad, laughing as he tries to wipe icing off my forehead.

I was surrounded by love. And really, that’s the only part that needs to be remembered.