Here I go again. Yet another column written around that one day of the year that is unavoidable: my birthday.  At this writing, it has come and gone. It was a peaceful day with not much fanfare. I got to take a nap. I had good things to eat. I was with my family. A good day.

What I find funny about this particular birthday is how often I’ve started saying “I’m almost 50.” I turned 48 this year, so I still have two years before I turn 50. A lot can happen in two years. However, I will still turn 50, won’t I?

I don’t recall saying anything about being almost 20, 30, or 40. I probably did, though. I do remember thinking about turning 13. After that, I looked forward to turning 16. Those ages don’t seem so far away, yet when I think back, they actually are quite far away. Weird.

And then I have been amused at my daughter, who turned 4 a few days before my own birthday. She was the best present I ever received. We have been talking about her birthday for months. It was talked about with much anticipation. There were wish lists made out.  Then, there would be re-writes and changes made.

We talked about a small party with three best friends. We talked about the cake and the balloons. We talked about what games to play and what projects to make. You would have thought we were planning her wedding. Oh my! Think of that.  No, thank you.

So one day, she paused in her frenzy of excitement and planning and said “Dad, did you know that your birthday is five days before mine?” As many parents do, I paused and looked at my remarkably gifted child and said “How did you know?”  She went on to explain that her birthday was on July 14 and mine was on July 19.  She counted on her fingers and showed me.

She came up with it all on her own. I’m sure they will promote her to first grade a few days after preschool starts.

The conversation went on.  “I am going to be 4 years old,” she said, “How old will you be?” I answered quickly. “I think I will be 5,” I said. She threw back her head with a laugh that showed partial amusement.  However, I sensed a bit of mocking in her laugh.  “No, Daddy. You  are lots and lots older than I am.” She’s right. I am 44 years older.  Good gracious. But still, no mocking was necessary, my dear.

“I think I’m not going to have my birthday this year. I will just eat your cake and ice cream and play with your toys. Would that be OK?” She thought.  “I will share with you, but you have to have your birthday.”

Well, alright.

Just then, my next-to-the-oldest son came in. He is deep voiced and pretends to be a brooding teenager. However, he is actually a middle-aged man himself. He turned to his little sister and asked her if she would be turning 2 on her birthday.  “No!” She is always ready to answer and defend herself when her big brother is around. He is the chief aggravator of the house. Usually, I find his cheek hilarious and I usually join in a bit.

“Dad, how old will you be?”  Now I know that he already knows the answer, so I counter with a zinger of my own. “Too old,” I answer.  “I’m going to be too old to take care of you kids soon. You need to start thinking about finding your own place.”

“No, really. Will you be 47 or 48?” Gee, maybe he really doesn’t know how old I will be.  Maybe he’s lost track. Still, I size him up suspiciously and wait a few beats before I answer him.

“Yes, dear. I will turn 48 on my birthday. I was born in 1967. It is 2015.” He went on to ask my how old grandma and grandpa were when I was born.  “In their early 20s.” I knew there must be more to this conversation, because he had that look in his eye.

“So, 48, huh? That’s gettin’ up there. That is really close to the 50.” I knew it. Rub my nose in it. Turn the knife. Get in that dig. “Yes son. I’m pushin’ 50. Pushin’ pretty hard.” He smirked and said, “I’d say.”

As I told you, he is cheeky.  I don’t know where he gets it.