My birthday is on Lincoln's birthday, two days before Valentine's Day. As a kid, the week was always sublime: presents, cake and a heart-shaped Sees candies box - what could be better? As a teenager, I loved the extra attention and carnation-grams I'd get at school as friends killed two birds with one stone. As an adult, I looked forward to the whole family gathering at Tony's Jacal for chile rellenos and margaritas followed by a decadent, home made, three-layer chocolate cake with whipped cream frosting. Now that I have my own daughter, somehow celebrating my own birth seems unimportant. It's her birth that is important to me. After all, the celebration of our births is really most deeply felt and appreciated by our parents, our grandparents, our aunts and uncles - the people who were first to hear the news, the people who were nervous and hopeful and scared and elated, the people who enjoyed or endured (or both) the pregnancy, who prepared the nursery, who tried to anticipate all we might need once we arrived, and the person who had the strength and the stamina and the courage to bear down and bring us out into her arms, onto her chest and inside her heart. Birthdays are really not for the person who was born but for the people who celebrated the birth of a beautiful little baby on that momentous day. As a mother, my own birthday has become more of an homage to my mom and dad than to myself. But of course I'll still celebrate with some Tony's Jacal and hugs and kisses from my daughter.