I don’t remember my parents baking me a cake for my first birthday. I don’t remember anybody making a big deal about my golden birthday, either.
I do remember balloons with a Red Owl logo hanging from a light fixture when I was 8.
I remember cakes, too, that tried to look like rabbits, sailboats and clowns – all concepts pushed on an unsuspecting public by Betty Crocker.
They didn’t quite resemble what was pictured in the cookbook and they had way too much coconut for my taste, but they were a 1960s attempt to make the day seem special.
All presents weren’t wrapped in a theme color – some came in paper sacks – and the party revolved around eating cake, drinking watered-down Kool-Aid and, maybe, playing a game that didn’t involve a prize for the winner, but often devolved into fighting.
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Goodie bags, a staple of many of today’s parties, were non-existent. As my dad would say, “They got cake. What more do they want?”
Once the cake was finished, it was time to send the guests home, pop the balloons and get down to watching TV. My birthday parties didn’t last into the night – and I was fine with that.
As I got older, they became an excuse to go out to dinner. My dad liked the idea because he didn’t have to herd kids – and he got a drink. Mom still made cake until one year I told her I’d rather have pie and she outsourced the work.
Because I was born in January, there was always an attempt to “hold back” a Christmas present. When that didn’t work, I got sheets and towels. In case you’re not aware, white sales are held in January and, yes, sheets make a great gift for a child who asks for everything.
In my adult years, “the kids” (as I called mom and dad) would call me early in the morning, sing “happy birthday” and send flowers.
Even though relatives issued All Points Bulletins for their birthdays, we took a more passive approach and didn’t mind if the whole family didn’t gather just to watch someone get older.
The “landmark” years weren’t accompanied with black balloons and dead flowers. They just happened.
On my 50th birthday, I happened to be in California and a friend made the ultimate sacrifice – he agreed to take me to Disneyland. I wore a button that said, “Today is my birthday” (try it, it’s a great thing) and rode all the rides I never got to on previous visits.
It was fun – until we got to the canoes. Naively, I thought they were motorized and we would just pretend to paddle. But the Great Santini who operated the ride was determined we were making the Olympics in rowing and barked orders. I’d never worked so hard at an amusement park.
By the time it was over, I was so worn out I couldn’t even think of walking up the steps of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle.
That birthday was a keeper – one I thought about repeating when I turned, um, older.
The rest, though, have been distinguished by great cards, dinner with friends and, until recently, that phone call from mom, waking me up and singing.
I’m not willing to say I’m past celebrating birthdays (never give in), but I do know I’m not going to be upset if Red Owl balloons aren’t hanging from my dining room light fixture. I don’t need cake, either, and I’ve long realized if you really want something you should just get it yourself.
But I do get choked up when I see Facebook posts from people I haven’t talked to in years. They’re proof you had a connection and the sender cared enough to remember you.
I suppose after weeks of fretting about getting older, it’s reassuring to know your friends are, too.
