No matter how different we may be, there is one thing that we all have in common. Each of us has a birthday.

There are a few ways that folks approach their birthdays. Some people hate it and don’t draw any attention to it. (Group 1). Others don’t give it too much thought and quietly celebrate it (Group 2). Then there are the rest of us in Group 3. We celebrate the day our presence graced this planet with an exuberance that the other two groups find acutely annoying. I won’t lie. That’s part of the fun. It’s not that I expect the world at large to celebrate my birthday with decorated trees, lighted displays, and a feast, but I wouldn’t object, either.

I’m not sure exactly what determines which birthday personality someone develops. Like any other trait, there are probably genetic and environmental factors. In my case, I believe it’s wholly genetic. I inherited it from my father. There isn’t a genetic test to prove it, but since my mother is solidly in Group 1, it all comes down to Dad’s contribution to my genome.

While there’s no test, I do have some evidence. No one in my family likes buttercream frosting; well, no one except for my father and me, but we were heavily outnumbered. My buttercream threshold, while impressive, is much lower than what my father could tolerate. He loved those big, gooey, colorful roses that topped the cakes at his favorite bakery. Every year he would test the fitness of his pancreas by getting a heavily frosted treat while on his lunch break. Until that one year when he went all out.

On a warm afternoon in late August, as he entered his early forties, he also entered a bakery and specifically ordered a birthday cake. He asked for extra roses. The woman behind the counter asked if he would like anything written on it. Of course he did. The baker waited, her pen poised over her order pad in anticipation. He beamed and slowly, cheerfully enunciated, “Happy Birthday,” then paused, “to Me!” And yes, the “me” was capitalized.

Before you think my father faced the bleak prospect of a sugar-free birthday celebration at home, you should know that my mother made special birthday desserts for each of her five children and her husband. The dessert topped off a meal of the birthday celebrant’s choice that she also made from scratch. As much as Dad loved buttercream, he also loved pie. No doubt, my mother had baked some kind of pie that had enough candles to blow out but wouldn’t require the fire department. We’d sing “Happy Birthday” while he conducted and then we’d devour the pie. That was the plan until he came through the door that evening with a big white bakery box, red roses peeking through the cellophane window in the top.

We were all surprised as he happily presented the buttercream rose-laden confection. But the surprise turned to hilarity when he removed it from the box and we could read it. I can still hear my mother’s exclamation, “Oh, John! You didn’t!” He was smiling like he’d won the lottery. In a sense, he had. He came home to a loving family who laughed and celebrated with him on his birthday and every other day of the year. Plus two birthday desserts!

Although I don’t buy myself a cake on my birthday, I start the celebration by thanking my mother for bringing me into the world. I mean, it’s the least I can do. Over the course of the day, each of my thoughtful siblings calls and sings to me. My sister adds a lovely descant to her rendition. My husband reserves a table at a favorite restaurant downtown for dinner, where there is sure to be a frosted treat on the dessert menu. As the night concludes I spend time in grateful reflection for this beautiful life and all of the wonderful people who make it so. As delicious as some of us in Group 3 find buttercream roses, gratitude is truly the icing on the cake.