It was my birthday on Tuesday. I turned 33. It was not quite the birthday I had expected.
I love birthdays. Mine, the kids, other people: doesn’t matter. I. LOVE. Birthdays. A chance to celebrate, to get together, to share your love for someone? PERFECT. So, typically I’m one of those people who always has a birthday party. Sometime after kids, I skipped one because, well, kids. And one I skipped because I felt bad that I was one of the only people still having birthday get together. And then I figured SCREW IT birthdays are awesome and we don’t see people we care about often enough anyway.
So, I was determined to have a party this year. For Ianiv too, actually, who had his 35th in October. Well. Life happened. We bought a cottage (crazy, stressful, amazing). Aiden started school (amazing, so great, an adjustment on our schedule). We had weekends packed with events (which I love, but still crazy). I had a lot of ups and downs with work (mostly ups). Damien started potty training. And dropping his nap. And both kids were sleeping like crap. Put it all together and my birthday just crept up too quickly and I never did get around to planning something.
The day of my birthday involved a feverish 5-year-old and a potty trained 2.5 year old who withholds for painful periods of time, with much stress and tears and anxiety along the way.
But at least there was cake? And beer advent calendars?
As Aiden’s teacher kindly reminded me, moms and celebrations don’t often mix! ;)