A Birthday Tradition

My memory is fuzzy, but I think the first time I poured pancake batter onto a hot griddle in the shape of my firstborn's age, it was a number one or a number two. It was a simple way to begin a happy birthday with sweet returns. Children love pancakes. And I grew to appreciate a tradition that didn't send me to the store in a panic for expensive ingredients. Milk, eggs, flour, and butter. Very doable, every time.

Now I have three sons, and I haven't skipped a birthday yet. I like to think of each one of their this-is-my-day smiles before they gobbled numbers along with a buttery stack. Considering they're twenty-two, eighteen, and nine--throw in a couple decades of flapjacks for their dad--and I've become a real pro. 

Today is my birthday, but I did not stand at the stove. First thing, my youngest took the lead with a spatula in hand. He measured, mixed, and painted the pan with a lovely four and a six. Golden brown and delicious. It was a perfect start to the day.