Erma Knows Better

"One thing they never tell you about child raising is that for the rest of your life, at the drop of a hat, you are expected to know your child's name and how old he or she is."  Erma Bombeck

Another thing they never tell you is that for the rest of your life, you'll have to remind your children how old you are, and your date of birth.  They will never know the answer.  The other day, I took the youngest to get a flu shot at SCH  (Seventh Circle of Hell).  The nurse at the More-Than-A-Minute Clinic asked him his father's date of birth.  His father is the primary insurance cardholder.  I am the primary reassurance provider.  The question, a simple one, you'd think, elicited a blank stare.  "You don't know Dad's birthday?" Whereupon he looked at his iPhone, as if the answer lurked within.  "This isn't something you can Google.  You're on your own." He started pulling random numbers out of his tush. I was embarrassed to be seen with him. He got the month right, but not the day or year.  Not even close.  "Do you know my birthday?" I asked, certain he would know it by heart.  He knew the month, but that was it.  When we got home, I asked his older brother, busy resting on the sofa, if he knew his father's birthday.  The month and day, he nailed.  The year, he completely botched.  "1954?" he guessed.  "1954?  How self-involved are you?" As for my birthday, he got the month and day right.  A personal victory.  My year of birth?  He was only off by six.  "I wasn't born in 1952, for @#$%'s sake.  I'm younger than dad."  "1955?"  "No."  But listen, it's okay.  It's fine.  I shouldn't be so sensitive.  I was put on this earth to take care of their every need, their every birthday, and not the other way around.