Myth is revealed
February is the birthday month for Daughter #1. The good thing — or bad thing, depending on how you look at it — is she's no longer a teen-ager.
I always felt birthdays were a big deal (as long as they weren't mine). So it's partially my fault that Daughter #1 celebrates her birthday for the entire month of February.
It was cute when she was little. Now it's just expensive.
We begin the month with a daily countdown and plans for a culminating event — the grand finale — and presents.
In her world, Valentine's Day is just the prelude to the "official" reason for February — her birthday. She's thoroughly convinced that Presidents' Day was declared a national holiday for her.
This year, the main event was dinner at a Japanese steakhouse in Wichita. I can't for the life of me figure out the attraction for this place. The food is prepared at the table by a knife-wielding cook in a chef's hat. He makes a lot of noise; slices, dices, seasons, and stirs with much ceremony, then serves a mediocre meal.
I've figured out it doesn't matter what you order off the menu, everyone gets served pretty much the same thing.
The whole process takes about an hour and it's nearly impossible to carry on a conversation while a cook is throwing eggs and shrimp.
The "birthday" part of the meal is when the hostess puts a decorative candle and a bowl of fruit in front of the birthday girl and takes a picture while some stranger (presumably another employee of the establishment) stands holding the honoree's hands in the air and shouting "Banzai!"
(Big shrug of the shoulders and heavy sigh.) Apparently the novelty is lost on me. It's just too much ceremony, time, and money for food.
The official birthday is today (Wednesday) so there will be another celebration tonight. We'll meet for dinner and probably have some sort of birthday dessert.
I'll have to break the news to #1 that since she's no longer a teen-ager, the myth is revealed — there's no such thing as a birthday month. She'll have to join the rest of us in the real world, where birthdays are celebrated for a few hours, squeezed in between family, work, and the reality of daily living.
— DONNA BERNHARDT
