Monday was my birthday and I’m not sure if it even happened.
We just moved into our new home several days ago, both of my boys got sick, ended up at the ER with ear infections, and after four nights of the baby not sleeping, I’m not sure I can count anymore – so who gives a crap how old I am.
My birthday was spent holding a crying baby for hours on end while entertaining a sick but very awake four year old. My husband was good enough to pick up sushi on the way home so I didn’t have to cook, but my mother didn’t call because of her work schedule combined with our time difference, and my father didn’t call because he probably didn’t even know what day it was.
There was no cake.
Birthdays are weird after you have kids and get older. Responsibilities take no pause. There are no party hats and cute invitations sent out to all your friends. There are less and less milestones… sweet sixteen, voting age, drinking age, old enough to rent a car.
This is how people start to forget how old they are.
So for my birthday, I ask that you please read this post from a year ago. Then, by doing some simple math you can figure out how old I am and fill me in…
But first I’m going to take a nap.
That’s a lie.
I’m just going to wish I could take a nap.