By Dan Miller, Today's Family Editor

I was born on Thanksgiving Day, and every year I manage to tell someone that my birth is the real reason people should be giving thanks. Of course, I’m kidding. Everyone knows the entire world doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Okay, I’ll stop.

This year, my birthday falls on Thanksgiving again, which has me thinking about what it was like growing up with a holiday birthday. There are some advantages. There is always food. People are already gathered together. Nobody has to wonder what they’re doing that day. There are also some drawbacks. Mainly, Thanksgiving has always been considerably more famous than I am.

The story I heard throughout childhood was that I arrived a little late and caused my parents to miss Thanksgiving dinner at my grandparents’ house. My apologies, Mom and Dad. I’ll try harder next time not to be born on a major holiday. Besides, they got leftovers. And me — all 8 pounds, 14 ounces of love.

Apparently, being born on Thanksgiving also gave relatives permission to work poultry into my identity. I was “the little turkey,” “our turkey” and probably several other variations I have mercifully forgotten. Dad went in a different direction and called me “Meatball” because I was round and chunky. Strangely, I always liked that one.

Most Thanksgivings when I was young were spent at my maternal grandparents’ house with my parents, younger brother and an aunt who never married. One year, however, there was a much larger gathering in my grandparents’ basement with relatives coming in from out of town. I remember my mother introducing me to her cousin Jean, whom I was instructed to call Aunt Jean. Mom described her as “amazing.” Jean immediately corrected her: “Yes, amazingly plump.” She was referring to herself, not me, which is probably why I found it hysterical. I was about 8 years old, and I still remember the exchange almost word for word. It’s funny which tiny moments decide to take up permanent residence in your brain.

One Thanksgiving was especially traumatic by childhood standards. A friend of my mother’s got married, and the wedding happened to fall on my birthday. I had to attend Mass. On my birthday. Then celebrate with somebody else’s family. The nerve. I only got one day a year when I could reasonably expect to be the center of attention, and this woman scheduled a wedding right on top of it. Looking back, I recognize that this was perhaps a slightly selfish reaction, even for a 12-year-old. Still, there was no Grandma’s stuffing. And worse, no leftovers. Oh, the humanity.

My parents also never quite figured out the birthday-sharing thing. My brother’s birthday is Dec. 12, and there were years when they celebrated both of our birthdays together. I never understood the math. He got his presents more than two weeks early, while I had to surrender part of my day. Later, Mom would make him a special birthday dinner every Dec. 12. When I occasionally pointed out that I didn’t get one, she reminded me that she made me a birthday dinner every year. On Thanksgiving. I loved my parents, but that particular logic remains under review.

As I got older, birthdays naturally became less important. I’ve only had two actual birthday parties as an adult. My wife surprised me with one years ago, and two years ago I used a milestone birthday as an excuse to gather family and friends in one place — honestly, more to celebrate having them in my life rather than to celebrate myself.

Still, when Nov. 26 rolls around, I appreciate a little extra attention. What became strange later in life was that my parents gradually began recognizing my birthday on Thanksgiving rather than on Nov. 26. Whatever date Thanksgiving happened to fall on, that was apparently now my birthday. It never bothered me much because I knew the phone call was coming. Mom and Dad would sing “Happy Birthday,” with Dad accompanying them on guitar.

The first birthday after he died, there was no call. Of all the birthday traditions I’ve had over the years, that is the one I would give just about anything to have back.

This year will be different again. My wife surprised me by asking her mother if we could host Thanksgiving and then checking with her siblings and our many grown nieces and nephews about changing venues for one year. So, for the first time, Thanksgiving — and my birthday — will happen at our house.

Naturally, we’re pulling out all the stops: a live turkey show, a historically questionable reenactment of the first Thanksgiving, and personalized cornucopia party favors for everyone. OK. None of that is happening. I’ll just be happy having everyone here.

And I should probably remind our guests that they are coming to celebrate Thanksgiving, not my birthday. Nobody needs to bring a card or gift. In fact, please don’t. But if someone absolutely insists, twenties and fifties are remarkably easy to wrap.

I suppose sharing a birthday with Thanksgiving hasn’t been so bad. After all, sharing a birthday with a turkey is one thing. My nephew was born on Christmas. Try competing with the Savior of the world.