. . . that I turned 18. And how long ago that seems. I wouldn't go back to being 18 again for all the money in the world, even though I'm not that thrilled with turning 38.
I'm feeling particularly Eeyore-like today, which is not good. Usually, my birthday is my favorite day of the year. I announce to strangers at restaurants that it's my birthday. I throw myself birthday parties and make my own birthday cakes.
Not this year.
We had an early celebration on Monday since my mother was here. She and the girls made me cupcakes, and the girls only licked their knives a few times while frosting them. B scrounged a bedraggled candle out of the junk drawer, and everyone sang to me. That was quite enough of a celebration. The girls also presented me with a huge card that they made, with lots of funny notes and pictures and several very large 38s.
The problem with not being in a birthday mood when you have kids is that they think birthdays are the BEST.THING.EVER. The girls woke me up at the crack of dawn this morning to remind me that it was my birthday, and they've been begging to have another party, complete with cake, ice cream and all of their friends, all day.
I briefly thought about humoring them, but then I considered the cleaning that would need to be done before and after and the cake that I'd have to either make or go to the store to buy, and it all just exhausted me. So I've told them that we're having a quiet day, just us. And I told them that the best gift they could give me was to clean up their room without fighting. They groaned at that idea, but they're in there being quiet, so I'll take that as their gift to me.
Perhaps in a week or so I'll wake up in a birthday mood and declare a do-over; it's happened in the past. Or perhaps I'll just ignore this year's birthday all together.