CAKE AND CANDLES

Dear Spike:

I’ve never been a big fan of birthdays — not my own, at least.

Maybe I’m still not over the time I turned 15 and only two people showed up for my party (we ate the leftover chips and salsa for weeks.) Maybe it’s just that I’ve never really liked cake all that much. Maybe I just don’t like the idea of growing old.

Or maybe I’m just a party pooper.

Your mother hates that I don’t like my birthday. I guess because she so loves having her very own day, she has a hard time believing anyone else wouldn’t. And I think it has always made her a bit sad that I’ve never been interested in parties and cake and candles and presents.

I had come up with a solution, albeit a longshot of one: If you were to come on June 8, just two days past your due date, we could share a birthday. Then I’d always have something to look forward to, because while I’m not a fan of my own birthday, I love celebrating the birthdays of the people I love.

Alas, you came early. And so, this year and forever more, I was prepared to ho-hum my way through another birthday.

But something happened this morning when I woke up. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was your mother looking down at me. And in that moment, everything came together.

Today was my day.

Bring on the candles. Bring on the cake. Heck, bring on those funny cone hats and stupid paper horns.

It was almost as though I was a little kid again. I could have whatever I wanted. I could do whatever I wanted.

It was all possible.

Because all that I wanted — more than anything in the world — was already in our little bedroom:

You. Your mom. And me, the birthday boy.

Love,
dad