The kids and I went around the dinner table talking about what makes Alison so special.

“She gives us lots of kisses.”

“She’s a great cook.”

“She’s really pretty.”

“Without Mommy,” Peter said thoughtfully, “none of us would be here.”

Everyone smiled and nodded in solemn agreement. It was one of those still and sweet, albeit brief, moments we yearn for as a family around the breakfast table, but rarely find amid all the accidents, spills and general mayhem of mealtime.

“Well, speak for yourself guys,” I inexplicably interrupted, “but I’d be here. Lonely and miserable, yes, but I’d technically still be here.”

I’m not very good at birthday celebrations. I’m neither a chef nor a decorator. I cannot draw even a stick-figure birthday card. My idea of a thoughtful gift is a small pile of cash. “You can get whatever you want,” I always say, “no strings attached.” Except there almost always are.

“I mean it this time,” I told Alison as she counted the crumpled wad of small-denomination bills. She smiled back with a look of fond exasperation. Years of experience reading the fine print on my cheap, overly practical soul had taught her otherwise.

“C’mon, let’s go” I said, clearing her plate and shooing her out the door. “We have a lot to do today on your birthday.”

Minutes later we pulled up at Zingerman’s.

“It’s a little early for lunch,” Alison said.

“Who said anything about lunch?” I asked thoughtfully. “I’ll just wait here while you go in and get your six free birthday bagels.”

“Get whatever you like,” I added as she stepped out of the car. “But you know how much I like egg bagels.”

Next we hit Ben & Jerry’s.

“I wish it were my birthday,” I said, releasing a sad, droopy sigh. “I’m dying for something chocolatey.”

Alison pretended to ignore me as she unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Don’t forget your driver’s license,” I warned in a tone wrapped in vast experience. “They card.”

One of the biggest misconceptions I had about parenting was that I would be able to easily influence my children’s ice cream choices. Though I never thought I would be able to select their spouses or vocations, I always thought that — at least up to a certain age — I’d be able to steer them toward flavors that I like. But, despite my proddings, they always seem to be picking coconut almond, blue moon, plain vanilla or sherbet.

So when Alison came back with something called “Chocolate Therapy” — chocolate ice cream with chocolate cookies and swirls of chocolate pudding — I temporarily lost it.

Before she could settle into the passenger seat I snatched the cone from her hand, and, deliberately unfurling my enormous tongue, took an overly aggressive hybrid bite-lick off the top.

“Hey,” Alison chastised, grabbing the cone back, and removing it to the safety of her far hand, well out of my reach. “Now I want to go spend some of my birthday money.”

So we parked and headed toward the clothing boutique, but not before stopping to pick up a free cupcake at the bakery.

Still high from all the free sweets, I was of no disposition to complain when Alison tried on nearly everything in the store. An hour later though, at the bookstore, as my blood sugar plummeted so did my patience level.

Several times I had to be reminded of my “no strings attached” pledge. I was getting ornery and anxious to get back to where the goods were nice and free. Every minute we spent in the bookstore represented a minute of missed birthday deals.

Soon we were comfortably seated in a booth at our traditional birthday stop, ready to cash in on Alison’s free birthday meal.

They say birthdays come but once a year, but in Ann Arbor I have found that if you have enough young kids, the birthdays can come much, much more often. It does feel odd at first, but armed with a 9x12 manila folder of vital documents, a willing 3 year old and a total disregard for social graces, you can eat like a king several times a year.

With a bit of practice it rolls right off the tongue: My little birthday boy here will have the corned beef hash with sausage, eggs over easy, buttermilk pancakes and wheat toast, and I’ll just have a small cup of applesauce. On the continuum of exploitation it doesn’t rank as high as say, sending them into the salt mines, but it’s not anything I’ll win any parenting awards for either.

But Alison is no 3 year old, and our morning of birthday plundering had caused her to work up a considerable appetite. After she quickly polished off half of her sandwich she signaled designs on my Santa Fe omelette. I pulled my plate back and splayed my knife and fork in defensive reflex.

“Bring that back here,” Alison playfully scolded. “It’s my birthday.”

It is hard to say no to someone who hardly ever sits to eat. Someone who subsists mostly on leftover kid scraps. Particularly on her birthday. And so I relinquished control of my plate.

“Besides,” she said as she squirted ketchup all over my omelette, “you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

Paul Fredenberg lives in Ann Arbor with his wife and seven children. He can be reached at psfredenberg@gmail.com.