Sins of the father

Happy Birthday to me.

There. If I didn’t say it, no one would.

At least not my daughters.

To be fair, one daughter did have an epiphany at some point during the school day and called me to apologize for not remembering it earlier. Another daughter is away at school, too caught up in her own recent 21st birthday drama to remember mine. And the third daughter? Well, there's a funny little story about this daughter.

I was with this particular daughter for most of the day. . . . a doctor’s appointment . . . . a trip to the phone store to repair yet another broken cell phone . . . three different book stores in search of just the right edition (still no luck) of a book that needs to be read by Monday . . . a two-hour car ride down the Garden State Parkway in order for her to take her S.A.T.’s tomorrow . . . a dinner together . . .

All this time together and no, Happy Birthday.

Finally, as she was headed downstairs at the end of the night, I asked her, Is there something you want to say to me?

Oh, she replied nonchalantly, Happy Birthday.

And, she then added, just so you know . . . the reason I didn’t say it all day is because Dad forgot to say it to me on my birthday.

Well isn’t that just the icing on the cake?

All of my deliberate work on this daughter's recent birthday to ensure that my husband didn't remember so that he wouldn't accompany her friends to her birthday dinner -- all of my efforts not only forgotten, but used against me.
Yes, as I have said before, the mother of a teenage girl is definitely her favorite scapegoat.

So Happy Birthday to me!