It was my birthday yesterday.

Please believe me when I tell you that revealing this nugget of information is not a ruse to suckle at the teat of attention. In fact, this particularly birthday was pretty sucky. 38 years old? How blah. How stuck in the middle with you. How plain donut.

It's not really the aging that bothers me, as inherently pragmatic, I know aging is both unavoidable and pretty much a state of mind. Ask my wife and she will very much tell you that she lives in a house of three boys - not two boys and a man. Hud and I think passing gas, from either end, is the funniest thing in the world and Tasman is starting to catch on. So my mental age is somewhere between 17 and 19 years old, so my actual age of 38 is hardly an issue.

I guess it means another year down, and while each age of Hud's life, and now Tasman's, has been a unique joy, I know time passes quicker every year. I remember vividly the days where Hud's long body lay asleep on my chest as I flipped through sports highlights. His body is now too long, and has been replaced by Tasman's rising and lowering slumber chest. Before long, he will be too big to fall asleep on me, no matter how big I allow my stomach pillow to grow. I don't want to stop their aging, but I do want it to slow down, and my annual birth acknowledgment is just another reminder that time slows for no man, woman or two really sweet boys.

I do enjoy the inane cards I get from Hud, all splattered with sprinkles and backward S's. They are always tucked under my pillow, and initially forgotten, until Steph picks off a sprinkle from my eyelid, and I read the broken message ardently crayoned by a fumbly, tiny hand and smile.

Maybe birthdays aren't so bad after all.