A’s actual birthday was yesterday, so we let him pick the restaurant for his birthday dinner. Among all the great options in this city, he was fixated on one – East Side Marios (hereinafter referred to as “ESM”).

I hate ESM. I’m generally not that fond of chain family restaurants, and ESM is easily the worst. We rarely eat there, and when we do, I feel sad about spending $50 on crappy food instead of going to an independently-run place that actually puts a bit of effort into its offerings.

So, I tried in vain to convince A that we’d have a much better meal at another restaurant. “Let’s check out the new Works around the corner. They have elk burgers!” “Wouldn’t you like to go to the New Mee Fung for some nice Vietnamese spring rolls?” Alas, all he wanted to do was have dinner at ESM and spin the birthday wheel to win a prize. Sigh.

ESM failed to live up to my already low expectations. The service was poorly coordinated, the meal I ordered wasn’t available, the pasta I ended up getting was mushy and bland, the salad was drowning in dressing…it was depressing. And for the pièce de resistance, the wheel of fortune that A had talked about for three days no longer existed. I thought the poor kid was going to have a major meltdown, but he was assuaged by the box of cheap birthday trinkets they brought over instead.

Still, that was the only downside to an otherwise spectacular weekend. We had a nice visit with Kyle, Sue, and my nine-month-old nephew Ian, went to soccer practice and swimming lessons, took A to a play date with his friend Dexter, and played some road hockey over at the park. It was the very picture of middle-class domestic bliss.

For some reason, the thought of having nine kids under the age of five in our home for two hours has my stomach in knots. We’re doing our best to plan interesting activities for them, but I have this feeling that after five minutes, one of the boys’ friends will say “This sucks. Where’s your Xbox?” and it will go downhill from there.

Back in my day, nearly all birthday parties were at someone’s home. I do remember being invited to Michael Jackson’s birthday party at a Burger King when I was around seven or eight [Ed. note: for clarity, it was not MJ, the alleged pedophile / entertainer]. As I recall, it took place in a dark storage room in the basement. A fun mirror leaned in one corner, obscuring a few crates of condiments. Burgers were eaten, presents were unwrapped, and we went home.

These days, birthday parties are a major growth industry. Movie theatres, museums, indoor playgrounds, and even Loblaws will gladly host your kid’s party, complete with pizza, cake, and loot bags. Mommy and Daddy need only fork over a couple of hundred dollars in exchange for two hours of peace of mind and the undying love of a grateful child. According to this news story, some parents are spending thousands of dollars on custom birthday parties. For a three-year-old. [Ed. note: Idiots.]

With less than 48 hours to go until the big event, I know I should just relax a bit. We’ve got a cool party theme, games and activities have been organized, and there will be lots of juice, cake and ice cream on hand. At the first sign of a bored kid we’ll fill’em up with sugar and bring out the water balloons. What could possibly go wrong? [Ed. note: Lots. Kids could escape and wander into neighbourhood swamp, boys could find loaded handgun in bedside table, etc.]

Three years ago our trio became a quartet as K made an early arrival. He began stirring at midnight on May 7, 2005, burst onto the scene at 4:00 am, and was packed up and ready to leave the hospital by 8:00 am. Clearly this was a boy of action.

Like many pre-schoolers, K has been struggling with the word “three” – it comes out more like “free”. It’s been very cute over the past week watching him practice making the “th” sound. He sticks his tongue out in an exaggerated manner and slowly drags it across his top front teeth, which usually results in a fair amount of airborne particulate.

For me, this birthday is accompanied by a bit of melancholy. The last few years seem to have flown by, and suddenly I’m no longer the father of two cute little toddlers. Although we haven’t closed the door on having a third child, I think it’s pretty unlikely. While this means I may never have to change another diaper or get up for a 4:00 am feeding, it also means I won’t get to enjoy the indescribable feeling of a baby sleeping on my chest or burying his head in my shoulder.

In any case, tonight will be a low key event with a small family dinner of K’s favourite foods (no fruit, vegetables, or meat allowed). I’m sure he’ll freak out when he sees the tricycle we bought him, and the chocolate cake and ice cream should give him enough energy for a couple dozen laps around the block.

Coming up later this month: A turns five, and I get a sports car in a futile attempt to retain my youthful appearance.