Mile Marker Forty-Five

I’ve seen a disturbing number of significant family birthdays and anniversaries this year. My youngest son turned eighteen, my oldest son turned twenty-one, and I turned old. My wife, annoyingly, has remained as youthful and beautiful as ever. She claims this to be the result of clean living, a good attitude and just a tiny bit of help from her personal assistants Miss Clairol and Mary Kay.

I’m thinking of checking the attic for a portrait. On the other hand, maybe I won’t. When I’m eighty and she still looks twenty-five, I’ll be the envy of the rest of the nursing home.

I am reminded, that birthdays and anniversaries are the mile markers of life.

My own birthday doesn’t bother me. Through years of careful inattention I have developed the ability to deny that I’m getting older even though I had to stop checking the “35-44” box on surveys last year. As far as aging is concerned, I’ve moved into the state of denial and haven’t left a forwarding address. Except, when my children have birthdays, I do the math and realize I must be older than I thought.

Over the years, my orientation to my children’s birthdays has changed. When they were very little (still able to check the box labeled “Less than one year” on surveys) I looked forward to that first birthday the way news producers look forward to a celebrity scandal. Seeing a child safely through the first year of life was proof that I (a person who couldn’t keep a zucchini alive) was capable of nurturing my very own personal baby human. (Although if you ask my wife she’ll be quick to point out that her efforts in the areas of feeding, bathing, medicating, rocking and diaper-changing far outweighed my contributions in the areas of face-making and tummy-tickling.)

Still, the first year of a baby’s life is filled with daily miracles. Nothing is as celebrated as the first smile, the first burp, and the first time the baby rolls over on his own. Those same accomplishments pale when they’re performed by a thirty-two-year-old child who has yet to get an education or a real job.

The good news (for the baby) is that every new event is likely to be documented with thoroughness that would be the envy of any news agency or even the CIA. Digital photography and video allow parents to capture every nuance of that first child’s first year and download it to disc where they’ll forget about it for the next couple of decades.

The second birthday is still exciting, but by now there may be a second child and parents have to divide their attention (and surveillance efforts) between the kids. The next big event is the fifth birthday when the parents realize that soon they will be able to work out a joint custody arrangement with a local school in which the teachers will get partial custody of the child and the parents will be awarded partial custody of their own time.

Similarly, the tenth-birthday is a big deal because it means the child is more than halfway to being legally responsible for their own actions. Then it’s sixteen with a driver’s license and car insurance payments so large they’re written in scientific notation. After that it’s eighteen and twenty-one and we’re right back to me feeling old again.

My wedding anniversaries are a little easier to take because the plan has always been that my wife and I will grow old together. Even though my wife isn’t really keeping her part of the bargain, I look back fondly on the anniversaries.

Like most newlyweds, we passed our first twelve months in a whirl of activities centered on settling down, building a life together, and arguing endlessly about a fair distribution of the covers. Our first anniversary was a special occasion. We ate a wonderful, home-cooked dinner that didn’t include anything from the macaroni or microwave groups and topped it off with the piece of wedding cake we’d saved in the freezer all year. Then we went out and collected from all of the people who bet we wouldn’t last a year. My father-in-law was particularly reluctant to part with the cash, but I reminded him that a bet was a bet.

He’s lost that bet for twenty-four years.

According to a list I found during an extensive, two-minute internet search, each anniversary is associated with a particular gift. By the modern choice for a first anniversary gift is a timepiece. I can understand a clock as a fitting symbol of the time that’s passed, but I can’t quite figure out why a pen-and-pencil set is the gift of choice for the seventh anniversary.

“Honey, in recognition of your seven years of loyal service to this marriage, I hereby award you this handsome desk set.”

Seems like a good way to start over at year one with a new bride. I don’t remember what gifts we exchanged for our seventh, but I do remember collecting from all the people who bet against us making it that far.

In a few weeks I’ll mark twenty-four years with my blushing bride. The list says it’s “musical instruments”, but I’m trying to convince my wife that it’s “fifty-four inch plasma TVs with 1080p and HDMI”. She says I’m wrong, but why should I believe her? She claims it’s “pearl necklace with matching earrings”. That’s just silly. To pay for that I’d have to collect from all of the people who bet we wouldn’t make twenty-five years, but I can’t do that for twelve more months.

I should mention that my in-laws are celebrating their fiftieth anniversary this year. They’re really gonna clean up when they collect from the folks who bet against them.

The anniversaries and birthdays keep coming and the mile markers keep sliding past. I’m looking forward to seeing plenty more of them before I arrive at my exit.