Grown up birthdays: they ain't what they used to be. Remember when birthdays were awesome? They were all about the anticipation of amazingness to come. It was all balloons and presents and cake and ice cream and OH MY GOD IT'S HERE!!!! Alas, those days are gone.
Now birthdays begin with a tantrum or twelve from my toddler, a truly shocking diaper from the baby, and a spilled coffee. It's good times around here. All evidence to the contrary, I don't expect much from a Monday birthday. My husband was at school all day and I have two little whirlwinds to take care of. Nonetheless, I have to admit that it came as a bit of a shock when things went awry. Perhaps I'm naive. Perhaps I'm narcissistic. Perhaps I'm just an idiot, but for some reason I still expect birthdays to be fun. I also expect my parents to remember their only child's birthday, but clearly that's just overly optimistic.
It wasn't all bad. That's what makes me such a whiny little bitch. I have a glorious friend who brought me flowers- presented oh-so-adorably by her three year old- then took me out for coffee and spec-freakin-tacular croissants from Bakery Nouveau in West Seattle. YUM. Then she bought me lunch from the same amazing bakery and we sat on Alki Beach watching the kiddos gallivant in the sun and the sand (read: watching my son throw sand in his eyes over, and over, and over). It was an awesome morning. But then I got home and had to attempt to put both babies to bed (one screamed a lot and one did not sleep at all). Shortly there after I had to get both kids up to hit the road and pick my husband up from school. And there was traffic. Lots and lots of traffic.
Again, this should not bother me. I know this. The world is not out to make my birthday miserable. (The Universe IS out to get me, generally speaking, but that's another story.) It just felt like a little much. These past few weeks have been tough on our little family pod, so I suppose I was hoping for a bright spot. A big one. But then I picked up my husband and he was in a bad space after all the crap that's been going on. We got home and had a rushed dinner of leftovers (wherein he quickly and unceremoniously presented me with a wonderful birthday gift) before he had to continue his homework. All night. Again, this should not bother me. I am a teacher and I understand homework. I believe in it. But I still seem to be under the impression that my birthday should involve balloons, not homework.
Alas, my kind and glorious friend of the croissants invited me over (during what was supposed to be their Family Time, you whiny girl!) to have a glass of wine with her and her husband. And it was lovely.
So again, why am I whining? I got flowers, a chocolate hazelnut croissant and a latte, a fabulous French sandwich, time with a beloved friend and time in on the beach with my babies. And it was a sunny day. AND I got to hear my toddler sing happy birthday to me. That alone should make any self-respecting adult's day. But not me. Nope. I'm still whining. What is my problem? Why can't I stop WHINING?!? Because it was the eternally disappointing adult birthday in the midst of an infernally frustrating and difficult couple of weeks. Because my parents forgot about me. Because I am a pouty, whiny lady. I'm not proud, but there you have it. Whiny bitch? Present.