As a countdown to my 30th birthday on March 18, I’ve committed to offering 30 people, things and experiences I want to celebrate from the last 30 years. Grab a piece of cake and enjoy reading!

If you’re not one of the few who mistake my looks for Russian, you may have guessed that I’m mostly of Irish ancestry. My dad’s grandparents, if I remember correctly, all came to the U.S. from Ireland. My mom is packing about 50% Irish heritage and the rest is your typical American mutt story.

Perhaps its the proximity of Ellis Island. I don’t know. What I do know is that people on the East Coast are strangely attached to the roots of their ancestors. And in my neck of the woods, being Irish during the month of St. Paddy’s Day provides an opportunity for excessive pride.

Some examples, for those who care:

• The St. Patrick’s Day Parade
• Irish Philadelphia
• The Irish Center
• The Irish Times Philadelphia

So I’m Irish. And my birthday is the day after St. Patrick’s day. And I live in Philadelphia. I know what you’re thinking: nothing could possibly symbolize the convergence of these important factoids like green beer, right? Close, but no four leaf clover.

For me it is another green beverage: the Shamrock Shake from Mickey D’s. Yes, there was the making of Irish Potatoes and the hanging of paper shamrocks around the house, but when I was a kid nothing said, “Jen, your birthday is here!” quite like the Shamrock Shake. I religiously requested and enjoyed one every year in the days leading up to my birthday.

I don’t eat at McDonald’s more than once a year (have you seen Super Size Me?!?) and I’m not thinking the Mickey D’s in Spain (where I am today) stock up on the minty green frozen “milk” beverage, but it doesn’t matter. I know where we are in the year the same way I’ve known for so many years prior: the Shamrock Shake has hit the stores!

As a countdown to my 30th birthday on March 18, I’ve committed to offering 30 people, things and experiences I want to celebrate from the last 30 years. Grab a piece of cake and enjoy reading!

A year or so ago my husband and I met up for dinner with my brother Sean and his wife, Andrea. After waiting briefly to be seated, the maitre d’ turned toward Sean and said, “Mr. Gleeson, your table is ready.” I almost spit out my gin and tonic.

That’s because Sean cannot be Mr. Gleeson. He’s the kid I had to bathe with after he puked on the back of my head. The kid I used to fight with for control of the remote. The kid who convinced me to eschew New Kids on the Block, who tricked me into telling Andy that I like him and who tortured me endlessly when I shaved my head. This person, quite simply, cannot be Mister Gleeson.

But, of course, he is.

(While camping, no doubt.)

Sean was born a year and half before me and was my best friend until the time came when all older brothers stop being best friends to their little sisters. I was probably about eight. Even when Sean became a cranky adolescent (and may I state for the record that “cranky” is an understatement?), he was older brother enough to merit a certain level of hero worship. Part of that just comes with the territory. But most of it is because he is one of the smartest, funniest and most generous people I know.

(In 2009)

Today, though, I’m skipping Sean’s great qualities.

I’m celebrating him because we share two parents, the same frizzy hair and an affinity for power tools. Because up to this point in my life, there is no one with whom I have shared more of the same experiences, which means he represents continuity to me and steadfastness.

I suppose a part of me will always be making mud pies on the front steps and trying to get the mean kid in the neighborhood to eat poison berries. The part that  built forts in the living room and switched back and forth between my parents’ houses. And that part of me will always have a best friend. Because I have Sean.