A sweet morning dream was kiboshed as I got blitzed by three overly exuberant children.
“Happy Birthday!”
“Happy Birthday!”
“Happy Birthday!”
All three wriggled under the covers with me and immediately began plotting the day’s itinerary.
“Are we going to the Jump Zone?” asked Tyler.
“No,” I moaned, covers still half over my head.
“Are we going to have a party?” asked Eva.
“Not if I can help it.”
“But why?” she persisted.
“Well, because grown-ups don’t get excited over birthdays the way kids do. After you hit a certain age, you decide it’s not so much fun getting older. And you really don’t want parties anymore.”
Eva sat up and glared at me. “I don’t like your birthday!” she announced.
As the day wore on, the kids grew more and more dejected.
“We’re not even going to have cake?” Tyler asked.
“I want a yellow cake!” Anna demanded. “With SpongeBob and his pineapple and cookie crumb frosting!”
It occurred to me at that moment that as parents, we lose the right to disregard our birthdays. Kids associate birthdays when crowns and tiaras and presents and cake and blowing obnoxious noise-makers in people’s faces. It didn’t seem right to tell them at such a tender age that at twenty-two they’ll celebrate huddled in their studio apartments with their blinds drawn and phones off the hook, waiting for the break of day.
And so we went out and bought cake mix and frosting. As for the candles, I decided we would go all out and light up 41 of them. Old people always use those boring numeral candles—but I was bucking that trend here and now. Kids love blowing out candles. Maybe after seeing 41 of them lit all at once, they’d forget all about how lame their mother has become.
Halfway through lighting all those candles, I discovered why old people with numerical candles are much smarter than I am.
Our yellow cake with cookie crumb frosting was soon covered with a sheet of wax.
At the very least, I decided, we were going to get a picture of it, in all its lit-up glory. Even if it tasted like a box of crayons, it was still pretty to look at. And someday, the kids, now forlorn and staring at it from around the table, would look back at the picture with me and laugh.
Here’s what it looks like when you photograph forty-one flaming candles.
