The incredible shrinking birthday

Every once in a while, I get tempted to plot birthday celebrations out on a graph. It seems to me that, with the exception of the big "0s" (30, 40, 50, etc.), they just get less and less of a deal. Until one hits, say, 90 and then every subsequent birthday is a miracle to be feted with grand feasts, cakes sagging with candles, and special greetings from Willard Scott for people "of a certain age."

The most precipitous drop off comes after the birth of your first child. Prior to that, nice dinners, trips to fancy bars or dance clubs, parties - they all served to celebrate the anniversary of your birth. Once the child comes, the parents' birthdays just fade away. And, if you're (un)lucky enough to share a birthday with your child? Forget it...you are doomed never to celebrate your birthday again.

Now, as an only child, birthdays are important to me because...well...the day is all about me. It's that damn self-centeredness. But this morning, for instance, I woke up ready to accept my worship. Mr. MOM was great - he serenaded me with a rendition of happy birthday even before I could focus my eyes. But a trip down to DOM's room produced...a detailed listing of what she had for dinner last night.

"Sing happy birthday to mama," Mr. MOM said.

"I get dressed," said DOM.

"How about telling mama happy birthday?"

"..."

"Can you sing the song?"

"..."

Fortunately, I was able to get a "happy birthday" out of her in the car on the way to work. I guess it's inevitable that after 30+ years of making a big deal out of my own birthday it is time for the celebrations to fade off into the sunset.

But I can't wait until DOM's birthday.