I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. The way we honor birthdays in this culture is all wrong.

The celebration should center on the mom, not the kid.

If she has her way, this afternoon at lunch my own mother will regale a tableful of my friends with the tale of what a dick that Dr. Jones was — that he let her suffer through labor while he finished a round of golf, only to have to later perform a C-section because, after all, she does have a heart-shaped pelvis and that asshole should have known from the start that there was no way a baby was coming out of it.

I’ll let her tell that story, and I’ll even try not to roll my eyes. Because today should be a celebration of her — something I realized only after two C-sections of my own.

Check out one of my gifts, above. Sometime in the last year, my mom whipped it out (as in, painted it herself and damn her again for not passing the talent to Moi) to celebrate someone else’s birthday — maybe my dad’s — and as soon as I saw it I begged her for it. She promised to make me another, but first born, high-maintenance kid that I am, I demanded that one.

And so there it was, in my pile of presents, because yes, at 43, I still get a pile of presents.

The other day, my sister called while the girls and I were shopping for materials for Halloween costumes. She told me that Ben, 8, is going to be a germ. Kate, 6, will be a cat. And Sam, at 2, isn’t sure if he wants to be a pumpkin or a snowman.

“We already have the pumpkin costume,” Jenny said. “But I’m struggling with the snowman.”

“Then have him be a pumpkin,” I said.

“Oh no,” she replied. “In our house, you can be whatever you want to be for Halloween, even if it’s more than one thing.”

I totally got it. The apples haven’t fallen far from the tree.

I love you, Mom. Thank you. And hey, Happy Birthday!