Kishore Singh: Happy birthday, son!

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Since friends of ours had invited us to their neighborhood club for the evening out, it was well past the witching hour when we got back home, but we still hoped to wake up our son to wish him a happy birthday. But we needn't have worried about ruining his beauty sleep because just moments before we'd arrived, a "special" friend had had a bouquet of very expensive flowers delivered home.

Accompanying it was a "kiss bag" covered (my wife later counted) with 101 puckered lips echoing "mwah-mwah"! "Happy birthday, baby!" said my wife, tousling our son's hair. "Not now, Ma," he responded, "I'm on the phone." We changed into our nightclothes, made ourselves coffee, watched TV, but the adolescent's phone kept him busy and away from us until, finally, we decided we might have better luck at the head of the queue next morning.

But the following day proved no better. Could he take some time off from his friends so we could give him a hug and our wishes, my wife finally demanded to know. Did we have a gift for him, he shot back. He might get one, I suggested, if he'd care to join us for breakfast. "Gotta go," he responded, ticking off a list of chores he'd set himself for the day, and was gone before we could say, "Happy birthday."

"Perhaps you could come home for lunch," my wife had suggested earlier, "so we can have a family meal together." My son had looked horrified at the suggestion "" it turned out he was taking his special friend out for lunch (and could he have some money please?) and spending a large chunk of the day with her. So okay, I consoled my wife, we still had the evening that we could spend together, and I'd even try and come home a little early.

As it transpired, I needn't have bothered. Having gone out for lunch, and then a movie, our son took another "best" friend out for a pizza late in the evening (a proper celebration for his other friends was being saved up for the weekend). And since later that night he was headed to a nightclub with another batch of friends, where was the chance that we would have a family meal together? So, on the exciting day of our first-born's last teenage year, we sat by ourselves and toasted each other quietly.

Sitting around the dining table with the children the following morning, my wife asked: "What does this 'mwah-mwah' mean, anyway?" "Don't you know," said my shocked daughter, "it's the sound of kissing." "Actually," I hastened to explain further, "it's the sound you apparently make when air-kissing, such as socialites tend to do at parties." "Hmm," said my wife, practising the pronunciation, "Maw-maw!" Please, no," shuddered my son, "It's 'moo-aah'!" "Moo," mooed my wife, "maw!" "Mooh-aw!" said my daughter to her, pronouncing it sibilantly. "Mawh," said my wife heartily, "mawh!"

Now that we had his attention, we thought we'd spend a few precious moments with our son, but he was in a hurry to go chat with his friends on the net, since they'd all sent him SMSes with their best wishes the previous day. But yes, he asked again, what was it we were getting him as a birthday present?

"What about a nice family meal," I suggested, "at some fancy, do-dah restaurant?" "Naw," hesitated my son, "I don't think I have the time..." I suspect he wanted to add "...with you old fogies", but checked himself in time. "Maw," said my wife later, when I was leaving for work. For once, I understood. "Maw-maw!" I responded in sympathy. Clearly, our little baby had grown up and was flying the coop.