I hate birthdays. I thought that I only hated my own birthday, and then I realized that I hate my children’s birthdays too.

In this deadpan, self-deprecating line, Bee turns a socially “mandatory” celebration into a comic confession. The joke hinges on escalation: disliking one’s own birthday can be framed as modesty or discomfort with attention, but extending that dislike to her children’s birthdays violates expectations of parental sentiment. The humor points to the stressors birthdays can represent—planning, performance of happiness, consumer rituals, and the passage of time—while also satirizing the pressure on parents (especially mothers) to make such occasions feel magical. The blunt phrasing reads as a deliberately exaggerated truth-telling persona rather than literal hostility.