(As Remebered by a very serious 8-year old)
Yesterday, I was a king.
A crowned sovereign in socks. A boy whose slightest wish was law — whether it was ice cream for breakfast or full control of the TV remote. People smiled at me for no reason. My parents laughed at my jokes — even the ones I’ve been repeating since I was five. I was allowed to talk back (sort of). My younger brother gave me his seat without a fight.
In short, I was on top of the world. It was magnificent.
But today?
Today I am an ordinary boy. A civilian nobody. Just another blurry face in the family group photo.
This morning, my mother asked me to make my bed.
Make. My. Bed.
Less than 24 hours after calling me “her sweet little birthday boy,” she was suddenly treating me like the janitor of my own room.
Worse still, my father refused to give me extra screen time.
“Your birthday was yesterday,” he said coldly, like some kind of Roman emperor handing down a merciless verdict.
I wanted to remind him that greatness doesn’t expire at midnight. That the celebration of me — my very existence — deserves at least a long weekend. Maybe a half-holiday at school. A parade, even.
But instead, I was asked to finish my homework.
**
You see, birthdays are like magical bubbles — shiny, special, but doomed to pop the next morning. Everyone is on their best behaviour. Even my little brother, who normally speaks only to say “Move,” gave me a high five yesterday. Today, he shoved me aside again and muttered, “You’re blocking my way.”
What happened to the singing? The respect? The second slice of cake without negotiation?
I conducted a full investigation.
Turns out, birthdays are rented royalty. You get twenty-four hours of love, cake, and zero criticism. And the next day? It’s all chores, admonitions, and the crushing weight of being eight.
**
I asked my grandma why we can’t have birthdays every day.
She patted my head and said, “Then they wouldn’t be special, would they?”
I tried to explain that I’d be perfectly fine with birthdays not being special — as long as they involved cake and no homework. But she just smiled that mysterious grown-up smile and handed me a glass of milk.
Milk.
No candles. No sprinkles. Not even a cookie.
I’m not saying life is unfair.
I’m just saying it has a terrible sense of occasion.
**
So now, in the ashes of yesterday’s glory, I have begun planning a full-scale reform.
I shall call a family conference and propose a bold new policy:
Birthday Week.
It will include:
- One full day of royal treatment (as usual)
- Two days of Minor Reverence (no scolding, mild spoiling)
- A Soft Landing Day with leftover cake privileges
- And a final Day of Reflection and Negotiation for bonus gifts
And maybe a public holiday. Or a movie screening. Something tasteful.
And to all fellow sufferers of Post-Birthday Blues, I say this:
Unite!
Let us form the International League of Forgotten Birthday Legends.
We’ll exchange leftover party hats, share stories of yesterday’s glory, and build a better, longer-lasting future — one where the balloons stay up.
We demand dignity. We demand dessert.
We demand Birthday Weeks for all.
Until then, I must return to Regular Life — brushing my teeth twice a day, saying “please,” and being told “not now” far more often than “Happy Birthday.”
scribo ad LX 