My birthday is tomorrow. Ugh, right? Not for my kids.
Although I’m not quite old enough to grievously dread another birthday, I’m also not young enough to anticipate its arrival with such tremendous enthusiasm that the mere thought of it lights my face with a smile so bright only Christmas morning can compare. I’m stuck in the middle, I suppose, because tomorrow I turn 27.
It’s not that I don’t like birthdays, I’m just not particularly as fond of mine as my kids seem to be. This is their chance to ask how old I am for the hundredth time and tell me I’m an old man. And to them I am. What four-year-old wouldn’t agree? I can drive, have a job, make babies, and eat ice cream whenever in the heck I want. Those are things kids know they can’t do until they’re much older, unless of course your kids have been exposed to the atrocity that is Teen Mom.
My kids on the other hand, these guys can hardly contain their excitement. Sure, they say it’s because they got me this really, really cool, awesome gift and they can’t wait for me to open it. But I know deep down they only care about one thing: birthday cake. Seriously, their sugar addiction has gotten so out of control I could take them to grandma’s funeral and they wouldn’t even shed a tear as long as one of the pallbearer’s slipped them a piece of cake.
I can see it now – in sixty years I’ll be diagnosed with some rare form of cancer stemming from my body producing too much charisma and the doctor will give me a few hours to live. I’ll think to myself, “My funeral is tomorrow. Ugh, right? Not for my kids – as long as they serve cake.”