Birthday Boy

During the last couple of weeks, while you were reading about a certain medical procedure, a far more important event took place.

Tommy turned three years old.

For those readers who have young children, you may have experienced the dreaded Birthday Party. It seems the bar has been raised when giving a birthday party for a child, at least in our socio-economic circle. These days, if you don’t have a clown, magician, live pony rides, an inflatable jumping/bouncing castle, a professionally catered meal and cake, and half-a dozen party games, well, you just haven’t done right by your child. The last few birthday parties we’ve attended with one of our kids have resembled a small county fair.

Not to be a scrooge or anything, but I think the whole thing has gotten out of hand.

Plus, Chris and Tommy have their birthdays less than three weeks apart, and what we do for one, we have to do for the other. I’m not going through that twice in less that a month. And to pull off one of these uber-parties, we’d probably need a conditional land use permit from the City.

So we went old-school. We had a small gathering, family only, on the deck in our backyard. We sang happy birthday, watched Tommy huff and puff to blow out the three candles on his cake, watched him open presents, ate the birthday cake with ice cream, and called it good.

Oh, by the way, he had a wonderful time. And he did get some nice presents, some of which have not been broken yet.

I’ll share with you the three best things, from my point of view, from the big day.

First was watching him blow out the candles. He’s a bit undersized for his age, but with the heart and will of a lion. Still, his lungs are what they are, and he has asthma to boot. So blowing out the candles was a monumental task. Ultimately, I’m not sure if he blew them out or drowned them, if you get my drift. But by God he would not accept any help, and he was going to get those candles out if it took him all night. When he finally did get them I’m not sure who was happier – Tommy, me, or his pediatrician.

Second, his presents. He received some nice toys. We didn’t skimp on gifts (even if some of you think we screwed him on the party), and his grandparents spoiled him rotten. But he’s not a particularly materialistic boy, and he was as excited to open the cards as he was the wrapped boxes. He expressed that pure, un-jaded joy at opening each and every present. “Oh, this is GREAT!” he would say after opening each present. I so much enjoyed seeing the look of surprise and happiness on his face as he opened his packages

But this last item was the best of all.

As I was tucking him into bed, I asked him, “Tommy, how old are you?”

“Three,” he answered.

I looked at him sadly. “Yes, you should have turned three today. But I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

A look of concern crossed his face.

“Tommy,” I said, “I’ve decided you have to stay two for one more year.”

He didn’t quite understand. “You see, Dads can do this one time to each of their children. They can have them stay the same age one time. You’re so cute as a two-year old that I want you to stay two for one more year.”

He started to shake his head ‘no.' “Don’t worry,” I said, “You can still keep all of your presents. But when someone asks you how old you are, you have to say ‘two.’

He thought about this for a minute.

“No, I’m three,’ he said.

“Show me how many years old you are,” I said.

He put up his hand, and two fingers stood up. The peace sign. He’s had a whole year to practice this and he’s got it down. Then he furrowed his brow, used his other hand to help, and slowly straightened his ring finger to join the other two. He thrust this forward and said, “I’m three.”

I held his hand and put the ring finger back down. “No, Tommy, you have to be two. Just for one more year.”

He yanked his hand back, and using both hands, got that finger back up. “I’m three!”

It must have been the grin I could no longer contain that gave it away. Or maybe it was just another manifestation of his indomitable will and determination. But he smiled triumphantly and says firmly, “I’m three!”

“No, no, no, you have to stay two!” I wailed, wrestling his third finger down. “Please, Tommy, you have your whole life to grow up! Please stay two for just one more year!”

He’s laughing now. “Three!”

“Two.”

“Three!”

I tickle him. “Tommy, two is perfect for you! You can do it! Keep your presents, just stay two!”

We’re both helpless with laughter, tickling and rolling on the floor. “Three!” “No, two!” “No, three!” “Two, two, two!”

He’s laughing so hard I have to stop and let him catch his breath. As soon as he can speak he says, “Three!”

At this point my wife comes into Tommy’s room. She stops, sees us both lying on the floor, panting. She stares. Finally says, “I don’t know who the three-year old is in this room. It looks like there are two of them.”

She points to me. “Tommy needs to go to bed. Maybe you do, too.” Her subtle smile tells us both she’s in on the game.

She scoops Tommy up, lays him in his bed, and tucks him in. “Goodnight, big boy,’ she says. Turning to me, she points to the door. “Out.”

I follow her as she walks out the door. I turn and look back at Tommy. He’s watching me.

“Two,” I whisper.

He looks up at me, covers up to his chin. His eyes sparkle. A grin slowly spreads over his face as his hand appears from under the covers.

He holds up two fingers.

Slowly, the third rises up.

“Three,” he says softly.

“Three.”

It’s great to be The Family Man.