In the past ten years I’ve only missed one January 31st in Boston. My family did accept lumbar surgery as a forgivable excuse, but I still felt terrible missing one of Keira’s “big days.” You see, January 31st is the Princess of Boston’s birthday. It falls short of being a national holiday, but if I could whistle up marching bands and fireworks for the occasion I would.

This year I had a very hard time believing that she was turning ten the big double-digit year was finally here. How my grinning, chubby infant, became an eager, running toddler who then changed into an upside-down, jumping adventuress while dragging a book bag through her first decade . . . well it escapes me. I simply cannot imagine that ten years have passed.

I was really eager to be in Beantown for the celebration. The fact that it was also Super Bowl Sunday and the Patriots were playing . . . well sometimes the gods just align themselves. The weekend began with an easy drive to Buffalo, an on-time flight and the family van appearing outside of Baggage Claim within mere minutes of my arrival in Boston. The usual five hours, door to door without a hitch. Piece of cake.

The drive to their house was sufficient evidence that Boston had received way more snow than we had; six to eight feet of the stuff lined their driveway. Never mind, life was good and the partying was still yet to come.

A loud, fun Mexican restaurant filled our Friday evening followed on Saturday by the family birthday dinner with Keira’s grandpa from New York City and her Bostonian godfather joining us. The birthday girl and I indulged in a special lunchtime celebration but that story has to wait until the next column.

Keira’s kids’ party was Sunday at two to be followed by a Super Bowl bash at 5:30 . . . in the same family room. I’d forgotten how physical 10-year-old boys can be and found myself looking forward to the refinement of professional football. I think the 10-year-old girls agreed with me as they ignored the grunting boys and mostly just giggled. After presents and candlelit wishes, the kids trickled out with each new ring of the doorbell. Somehow around five o’clock the rooms were re-straightened, the birthday balloons were swapped for airborne helmets and footballs and the adult party foods replaced the cake. After the Patriots showed Seattle how to take home a trophy, I headed upstairs to pack for my late-morning departure Monday. It was snowing again as I passed the stairwell window.

It was still snowing Monday morning as we checked my flight’s status on the computer. The two-hour delay gave Ian and the children enough time to shovel out the overnight accumulation . . . and it took all two hours of bitter, cold work . The light snow was deep, continuing at two-plus inches an hour. As the shovelers tumbled in, wet, cold and red, I began to gather my suitcase and gloves. I was getting ready for goodbye hugs again when the flight cancelled. The only remaining flight to Buffalo that evening was completely booked, and all of Tuesday was sold out. JetBlue offered me a Wednesday evening confirmed seat. Aaarrrggghhhh! I had a mandatory reason to be home Tuesday night to say nothing of a little daytime hobby called a job.

I began to realize that my only way home was to get to a city that could get me to Buffalo, where it was, by the way, also snowing. I managed to snag a seat to JFK in New York City supposedly leaving at 7 pm. I thought I’d also try to stand-by to Buffalo. Optimists often have irrational thoughts like that.

A few hours later, following another massive shoveling stint, we headed for Logan Airport at dusk. Both flights were delayed and we felt comfortable that we had enough extra time. The slip and slide drive in the blowing snow took almost an hour extra and we received the flight cancellation notice ten minutes from the airport. Both the New York and Buffalo flights. It was still coming down two inches an hour but the forecasters were predicting an end before the late news.

The airport was a zoo. I got in the two-hour line to try for the last evening flight to JFK at the same time I dialed my phone to JetBlue reservations. I was getting out of Logan that night – or else.

JetBlue personnel passed out big sandwiches and water bottles to everyone waiting in the airport – thousands they told us. I chatted with the man in front of me who was connecting from Manila to Baltimore for surgery at Johns Hopkins while we munched on turkey and tuna. After fifty-five minutes in line I finally got through on my phone to reservations and managed a ticket to New York. I switched lines to the baggage check-in, went through security and headed to the gate for my “on-time” flight at 9:15. Whadda dreamer. Our in-bound aircraft landed after midnight, the pilots arrived at 1:00 am, we were de-iced at 2:00 am and landed at JFK at 3:30. My best friend, who lives in nearby Forest Hills, came to my rescue when the taxicab line was barren.

I slept for a few hours before we headed back in the morning, ever so grateful for my lifelong buddy’s flexible sleeping habits, poached eggs and intrepid driving skills. JetBlue reservations said my 11:00 am departure was on time. We left at 2:30 after a three-hour wait for a captain. The Buffalo-bound gang sitting at the gate had many similar stories of the previous 24 hours some beginning in Burbank, some in Costa Rica. We collectively decided that the public address system should repeat “Our aircraft is at the gate, but we are awaiting pilots. This is a recording.”

My luggage made it to Buffalo with me and thankfully I had some help digging my car out from under the mirror-high drifts. I drove home, arriving just before seven, with barely enough time to change clothes, brush the teeth and head out for my dinner obligation. I managed not to fall face first into my beef bourguignon but I didn’t have any problem landing in dreamland that night.

It takes a lot of stamina to break the land/air speed record from Boston to Buffalo. . . a mere 31 hours door to door. Piece of cake.

I have a whole year to recover before I tackle jetting in January again.