I’m a bad aunt. I’m so bad that instead of apologizing to my brother and sister-in-law for forgetting their son’s second birthday three months ago (as well his birthday last year), I’m going to compose crafty excuses in a neat little blog post. 

See, I don’t have kids. I’m 33 and constantly surrounded by others my age who are also childless. We are of a people who live in a selfish bubble, who believe that a birthday is somewhat irrelevant, unless it’s our own and people are buying us drinks or dinner. Presents are to be digested.

Because my people remember which day of the month offers the discounted bottle of wine at the local Peruvian restaurant, not which day someone else was born, it takes a coincidental glance at the right-hand column of my Facebook page for me to remember a friend’s special day. Then he/she will get an impersonal wall post or a “yup, you’re old” text. And with my nephew too young for Facebook and 5,000 miles away, any recollection I may have about his birthday is doomed.

So what I’m trying to do here is make up for my negligence with a permanent (well, it’s permanent until I brush off my tumblr account too) record of my self-centeredness, letting my nephew (and the world) know, hey, it’s not personal. This blog post, however, may be eternal.

This documented homage is the new type of present for youngsters, as one day they can go back and read all the anecdotes their parents shared (Bobby made doo-doo on the floor! Juju projectiled milk on Daddy!) on Facebook 20 years ago. Hooray for public sharing! 

So happy belated birthday, Riley! Hope you like my testimony of douchiness. It’s much better than a Tonka truck, don’t ya think?  

(Above: Yes, I really am trying to bullshit that sweet lil baby chickadoodle.)