Eleventy

Every night I put my exhausted son to sleep with strict instructions not to grow. Then I realize how bad that sounds, and I amend it to the teeniest tiniest space between my pinched fingers, and say he can grow "This much." And not 100th of an inch more.

Of course, each night he ignores me and sprouts up a little taller. But last night, he really outdid himself. I put him to bed as a tired 10-year-old, and he emerged this morning as an energetic 11-year-old.

He bounded out of bed, excited to celebrate. "It's my birthday!" he yelled. "Give me a hug!" Then I realized he was talking to his cat, not to me.

He was in no hurry to waste his birthday; he wanted to savor every minute of it. Of course, savoring and getting ready for school are contradictory, so I had to snap him to attention to get dressed. (I literally had to snap--lost my voice, which I realized when I croaked, "H...py bir...day!" like a pre-pubescent Peter Brady.)

Mark thought me losing my voice was his birthday gift, and he set about pressing all my buttons, since he knew I couldn't physically yell at him. He laughed and danced around the house, ignoring me, until I finally squeaked, "No...donuts!" and that caught his attention. He's learned the hard way that I don't issue empty threats. (And man, does that kid love donuts. Seriously, they are his favorite thing on Earth.)

The birthday boy jumped in the car, and we drove to the local grocery store. He's a generous boy, especially when it comes to my money, and wanted to pick up cookies to share with his classmates.

"Or donuts..." he said, slyly. "Some kids bring donuts for their birthdays. Or ice cream cakes, or..."

"Do you want cookies or not?" I croaked. I'm all for celebrating his birthday, but only if it involved something easy like cookies.

"Yes, cookies," he said. "I need 36." He picked out three boxes of bakery cookies, and happily skipped toward the cash register. He stopped suddenly, turned, and asked me, "Do I get a cookie too?"

"Yes!" I told him. "Of course, you're the birthday boy!" He resumed skipping toward the cashier.

Five minutes later, I found myself sitting inside the local Yum-Yum donut shop, as I do every February 24th. I realized I may not be sending my diabetic child the right messages about food, as his birthday is a virtual sugar-fest every year, but hey, that's what birthdays are for, right?

As Mark munched happily on his cookie-crumb-topped donut, a man in an electric wheelchair zipped by. This prompted a heated discussion between a couple of old codgers sitting in the back of the store.

"That guy wanted me to give him some money, and I told him he makes more than me!" grumbled the first guy. "I mean, look at him. That wheelchair alone cost him 3000 bucks!"

Mark and I raised our eyebrows at each other. The grumpy guy went off a little more, and I shook my head at Mark.

"What an old grouch," I told Mark, as we left the donut shop.

"I know!" he answered back. "It's my birthday, and I'm glad I'm still young!" he sang into the empty parking lot. "I'm glad I'm not 80 and grumpy, I'm only eleventy!"

"I'm glad, too," I said, hugging him. I kissed his head and wished him happy birthday again. It was my moment to savor his birthday, but it didn't last long. All the sugar coursing through his veins made it impossible for him to stand still.

But that's okay. I watched him head off to school, juggling his backpack and three boxes of birthday cookies. I smiled as I watched him go, happy, healthy and growing like a weed. He had a huge smile on his face, and it made me smile, too.

It may be his birthday, but every year on this day, I reflect and give thanks, realizing I'm the one who got the gift.