My wonderful wife, Jessica, celebrated her birthday over the weekend. Being a gentleman, and, having grown accustomed to sleeping indoors, I will not tell you her age. As she likes to point out, no matter how old she gets, she will always be younger than her rapidly aging husband. She does not approve of how I mark a person's age. For example, instead of saying a person is turning 35, I say, they're starting their 36th year. A person in his or her 40s, is into his or her fifth decade! My dad always referred to age in this way and I picked it up from him. He claimed it was more accurate but really did it just to be aggravating. I do not claim accuracy as my main motivation (not unlike my weather forecasts!) I do this strictly to irritate my wife. Then, again, her birthday signals the Season of Jessica, which runs until Mother's Day in May so I don't feel too bad about it.

Yesterday, in this space, I recounted how we spent part of her birthday weekend, wrestling and, eventually, bludgeoning a defenseless davenport. (You don't hear that word, davenport, very often anymore. When I was kid I heard it a lot, as in "Quit jumping on the davenport." I remember being very disappointed the first time we drove through the Iowa town of the same name, as I had envisioned it as a wonderland of sofas. I suspect that among furniture aficionados, there are differences between a sofa, a couch and a davenport...don't even mention a love-seat or a divan or a settee or a chesterfield. As long as you can become horizontal, still see the TV, balance a bowl of Cheetos and glass of chocolate milk on the armrest, it will be just fine.) In addition to the couchicide, we had planned on going to a movie. However, as has been the case for many of her birthdays, there was a child-related situation to be rectified. This time it involved being available to pick one up and take him somewhere else. Let me be clear, we love these child-people, but their timing is not always great. When the big boys were little, they always reminded me of those sheepdogs in the cartoons who pass each other as they punch their time-cards. Sometimes, it seemed like Alexander and Taylor actually had worked out separate shifts with one another so that one was always testing the limits of our patience. In the last 11 years, with four of them, I think they sometimes feel they are holding an intervention with us. "Okay, we know you two planned to go out to a movie and dinner but we simply can't let that happen...at least, not without a fight. You mean too much to us just to let you gallivant out in public and appear carefree. So, mom, dad, we've decided to: a) have a major fight among ourselves right before you leave; b) have one or more of us throw up; c) make you think we don't know enough not to stick a fork in a plugged-in toaster to get the toast out; d) break an arm; e) tell you at the last minute about an event we just have to be present at and need a ride to; f) all of the above. Now, just to be fair, we'll let you pick the dilemma that will sabotage your plans. Go ahead and good luck." Anyway, the movie didn't happen so we rented something instead that turned out to be lousy. We both fell asleep halfway through. Now, that's an exciting Saturday night!

On Sunday, still a part of the birthday weekend, just the two of us went to church. That was something of a gift from me to her as it meant she didn't have to listen to me bellow at the kids about getting out of bed, finding their socks and shoes, brushing their hair and teeth, getting in the car on time etc, etc, etc. After church we all went out for lunch. This almost didn't happen as a couple of the kids were still fighting a bug our daughter had brought home last week. (See the intervention paragraph, above!) To be honest, I am starting to get paranoid about when we eat out as a family. I wonder if the Department of Homeland Security has a special code it issues when we make a reservation or enter a restaurant. The reason for my concern is that we always seem to be the only people in the place...like it is a set up in some sort of gangster movie. Now, admittedly, sometimes we happen to be eating at an off time...or a shift change, which, based on experience and the fact that our older sons work in a restaurant, seems to be a bad time to eat. But, on Sunday, it was NOON! The place is nice and pretty well-known in town but, when we were there, it was a ghost town. The food was good and the service was excellent but it was rather creepy. I have a feeling that within minutes of our departure a signal was given and the place filled up. I am pretty sure I saw one of the waiters doing Morse Code with the blinds as we pulled away.

After the meal, we had cake...that I made! From scratch. Well, it was from a box and only required a cup of water but that's pretty close to scratch. (Again, accuracy is not my strong suit...and I seem to remember having an itch that required scratching as I prepared the mix so that counts.) Then, the gifts and, then, just plain relaxation.

In my head, I always plan these elaborate birthday parties for Jessica with live entertainment from Asleep at the Wheel, Neil Diamond, Cat Stevens, James Taylor and a lesser known but great singer/songwriter named Paul Thorn. (Look him up on the Internet sometime. He's terrific.) It is preceded by a gourmet meal and huge cake. Earlier in the day there is a special birthday 5K race, which she wins by a mile. After the meal, presents and all-star concert, the whole family jets off to Switzerland. Well, that hasn't happened yet. Maybe in 2008...which will be the start of her (censored) year in the midst of her (censored) decade.