I am a Christmas baby, sort of. I wasn't born on Christmas Day, but in the early part of January -- which is close enough to lay claim to the territory.
In youth, the timing of my birthday was my bane.
Other children always said to me: "Gee, it must be great being born that close to Christmas." They assumed that I received lots of extra presents within the span of a few short days.
Alas, if they only knew the truth, the curse I shared with others of my kind.
The assurances of my parents notwithstanding, I always suspected I was shorted one gift on Christmas morning, only to be given that same gift two weeks later in the form of a birthday present.
I could never prove it, but I was highly suspicious because my birthday presents often came in the same gift wrapping as some of those I had received earlier for Christmas. Case in point: I once received an Erector set for Christmas and then, for my birthday, I received an Erector motor kit, wrapped in the same paper.
This really bothered me when I was young.
As the years passed, however, it became less and less important. With time and maturity, it was all but forgotten.
And then the unthinkable happened: My youngest son was born -- on Dec. 18, only seven days before Christmas!
I swore that as Christmas and his birthday approached I would never subject him to the kinds of doubts that I had known.
I would never borrow a Christmas gift and give it to him for his birthday. I would never give him a birthday present in Christmas wrapping.
I would never . . . ever. But I have. Two years ago, it was action figures for his birthday, and the corresponding action vehicles for Christmas. Last year it was a birthday baseball glove and a Christmas bat.
And, last Sunday -- oh, the shame of it -- I handed him one of his Christmas presents, brightly wrapped in red foil paper and proclaimed, "Happy birthday!" -- the smile on my face masking my deception.
And so it is for all Christmas babies.