the birthday boy

My brother Matt turned 40 yesterday.

I'm not sure who felt older -- Matt or my mom.

I remember when he turned 30 and thinking that was over the hill. His fiancee (now wife) Margarita threw him a surprise party at his Brookline, Mass. apartment. Meg, Jamie and I flew in to be there. We got sauced on green beer and had a dance party in his living room. "Authority Song" was played, cake was eaten without utensils, and I got locked out of the house at around 4 a.m. About a dozen people passed out in that same living room, arranged like Jenga pieces in sleeping bags.

Thirty ceased sounding "old" after that night.

Forty doesn't sound so old either these days. When my folks turned 40, they had four children, two in high school. That's an old 40 (sorry mom and dad). Matt has two wee sons, the eldest being 4 (although he is about academically ready for high school), making this milestone not seem so dauntingly ancient. Hell, I'll be 33 in a couple of weeks. Just rocketing toward mid-30's, as my husband likes to remind me.

I've been thinking a lot about Matt lately. Like June, he is my parents' first born child. Also like June, he was a sweet, easy baby (my mom tells me), arriving at a time where my parents were struggling financially but at the brink of something bigger.

When Matt was born, exactly nine months after their wedding day (gross), my folks were living in Phoenix. In 1971 it was a dusty, fledgling cowboy town filled with ex-east coast mobsters, real estate speculators and other non-natives. Hardly the sprawling metropolis and snowbird haven it is today. Whenever I get down on the loneliness, the winter desolation and the expanse separating New Hampshire from "civilization" my mom says, "Oh, I've been there."

Matt was their hobby. Convenient, as they didn't have two nickels to rub together, so other pastimes were out. My mom stayed home to care for him, even though it made little financial sense. My dad, meanwhile, was flopping around between jobs, but with a laser focus on what he wanted to do.

This scenario -- plus a few dirty snowbanks, a dusty barn, and a whole lot of dog hair -- does sound awfully familiar.

From what my mom says, Matt was just pure joy as a baby, just like June. I don't know if Matt's disposition falls under the "nature" or "nurture" category, but he is the nicest guy you'll ever hope to meet. He will do anything for you and will not complain about it (an attribute that seems to shrink exponentially with birth order among Leonards). When I was in grade school, he used to craft elaborate scavenger hunts for me and my friends on gray Saturdays stuck indoors, and later, would gamely drive me around before I had my license -- and there were some faraway spots that my mom, with her hatred of expressway driving, feared to tread. Just ask Brendan about what role Matt played in his childhood. Get comfortable, as it will take a while.

Matt, not my parents, dropped me off at college my first day freshman year. He made my new roommates laugh, breaking the ice considerably, then waited through every last awkward exchange until I gave him the nod that he was ok to go.

We used to clown on him for being "nerdy" or a home body in high school (not that I had a brace-faced leg to stand on) but he would always be one step ahead with some hilarious, self-deprecating remark. I would have stormed off in tears for a lot less. Oh wait, I did.

My dad has said, "If you have skeletons in your closet, teach them to dance." Matt's Loyola Academy club team bowling trophies would be doing the watusi if they could.

Meg, Brendan and I would feign shock talking about how he landed Margarita -- a hilarious hottie who my mom and I have decided is one of our favorite people on this planet. But she adores Matt, and why wouldn't she?

Now that I'm a parent I think about how proud I'd be if I were my folks. They poured more love into that baby than he knew what to do with. But he figured it out and poured it right back into the universe.

June gets a whole lot of love from me and Greg. Like Matt, more than her little body knows what to do with. Let's hope she takes her cues from her uncle and gives it right back.

On another note, Greg let the dogs out last night: they romped, they went "potties", they walked back inside and... immediately Dilla puked on the floor. What the hell.