president

One of the more disconcerting parts of growing older, I’ve discovered, is watching the subtle change in who remembers your birthday. When I was growing up, my father would herald the occasion by marching into my room in the morning with a yellow rose he had picked from the garden. My mother would follow behind with balloons and presents. That was nice. More recently, though, the most regular celebrants have been my dentist’s office (Happy Birthday! Time for your annual cleaning!) and, sadly, my insurance agent (Happy Birthday! Time for—what? Another tick up the actuarial charts??) This year, my daughter inaugurated the day by throwing up in the kitchen sink and then, somewhat sheepishly, wishing me well. At least she remembered.

In our part of the world, December is a time for ritual and celebration; for Christmas trees and Hanukkah lights, eggnog, carols, and an avalanche of holiday cards. In my house it is also, and primarily, a time of cookies—of Toll House cookies with walnuts for my husband and without them for my older son, of a chocolate-chip loaf for my mother and fat sugar cookies for my younger son, and of Russian teacakes for my daughter, who likes the fact that they come from where she does. Every year, my family chides me for getting so worked up about the baking. “It’s okay,” my mother pledges cheerfully on the phone, “you don’t really need to make so many cookies.” “It’s okay,” my husband promises, as he sees me starting to panic, “we can buy the cookies instead.” But then the lobbying begins, quiet and insistent. Don’t skimp on the Toll House, younger son urges, because last year there weren’t enough. Don’t forget the teacakes, my daughter says, because we have to have something from Russia.