Basement Files: The birthday girl

Dear Sadie,

Tomorrow at 6 p.m., friends and family will gather to celebrate your first birthday. Which means that tomorrow at 5:30, men all over the valley will stand at an ironing board in nothing but their boxer shorts. And as they drag an iron over some hamper-rescued khakis, they will say (ostensibly to their wives, but ultimately to the deaf, uncaring oxygen around them), "I just don't get the point of a birthday party for a 1-year old. It's not like she's even gonna know what's going on." Then, in a softer voice, they will mutter, "It's nothing but a big gift-grab, if you ask me."*

There is some truth to what they say. You may not know what's going on. So allow me to tell you just what to expect. First, you will look prettier tomorrow than you yet have in your young life. You'll be wearing your first party dress, a vibrant, springy sundress that probably cost more than the crappy suit I wore to your baptism. Your mother and grandmother shopped for it together. They both knew it was the exact right dress the second they saw it.

Your mother had the good grace to feign concern over the exorbitant price, even going so far as to say, "I don't know, Mom, don't you think it's a little pricey for something she'll only wear once or twice (please say no, please say no, please say no!)?" This is your grandmother's cue to say, "Look, this is something I want to do for my granddaughter. Okay?" And in this way the dress gets bought. This is a game you'll be asked to play with your own mom someday, and while there are no written rules for the game, it's remarkably intuitive.

Soon the adults will arrive. The good news is each one will arrive with a gift for you. The bad news is many will arrive with children of their own. All of these kids resent that it's your birthday and not theirs. They will look upon your birthday cake with a mixture of scorn and envy, perhaps even trying to mar its perfectly frosted surface with their pudgy fingers. Keep an eye on them. They are not your friends for the next few hours.

They will look upon your mountain of gifts with pure hatred. And they, even more than the khaki-ironers, will resent your inability to fully grasp or participate in the day's festivities. They will "offer" to open your gifts "for you," hoping to tear at the ribbons and wrapping with those pudgy, but now icing-begrimed fingers. It will be presented as an attempt to "help" you. But it's not. It's the ugliest kind of greed.

One child in particular, a cousin, will grow restless at the lack of attention and will begin flying through the house like a trapped sparrow. He/she may or may not break something, but he'll/she'll certainly shriek like a banshee. When the tone reaches its most piercing, your parents will lock eyes over the kitchen island and communicate wordlessly, "Whatever our little girl may become, whether a surgeon or an ax murderess, she will never be the child who acts like this in another's home."

This is a wonderful moment of marital solidarity, but it's a brief veneer that hides a deeper pattern of cracks and faults. For your mom and dad both believe it is the nephews and nieces of the other family that are the worst-behaved. From your perch in the backseat on the way home from countless family gatherings, you will hear this argument played out for the next 18 years. Sit back, learn how to cripple a loved one with a single venomous phrase, and avoid the temptation to take sides.

If only to silence the screaming child, your parents will make a big show of bringing out the birthday cake. The cake itself will be lovely, but you'll probably be given a cupcake with a single, pastel candle. It will be lighted and its flickering flame will burn with a glow as pale and faint as your godfather's career (and just as easily extinguished). A repetitive, royalty-free song will be offered. At its conclusion, you will be expected to lean forward, fill your tiny lungs with air and make a wish. Make it a good one, sweet pea.

And don't bother wishing that the khaki-ironers were more involved in the night's celebration. Driving to your home and carrying a gift-bag to your door marks the full measure of their participation. Nothing can change that. Once installed on your couch, they have but three responsibilities: a) eat your parents' food, b) talk about the Final Four match-ups and c) issue a frozen smile when your mother thanks them for a gift they didn't know they bought.

But at least they'll be there. That's more than I can say this year. I'll be stuck a long way away when my favorite girl turns 1. Were I there, I'd probably just follow you around, slipping my hand into the space between your head and whatever sharp-edged furniture it wobbles toward. In a sense, that may be a godparent's only job. To follow you from a distance and to offer my hand as the buffer between your soft heart and the world's jagged edges.

Happy birthday, Sadie Belle. I love you much.