Nearly 28 years ago today my mom was probably hunched over in pain as I pushed my big noggin further and further into her pelvis getting ready to meet the world in about 24 hours.
Too much? Thought so.
Anyway. I was a 3rd kid. So I bet by this time, all those years ago, she was still going about normal life, walking a few miles a day, helping my dad run his businesses, cooking, cleaning, mothering two older kids, and then the next day around 3pm, she took a whiff of pepper, sneezed, and I flew out. Let's be real.
Birthdays as an adult are stupid.
There, I said it.
They're even stupider (not a word, I know) when you have kids.
Nothing, I repeat, nothing is about you anymore when you have kids. A birthday? HA! HA! HA! How silly of you, ma, to think YOU get a day for yourself?! pish posh. Kids laugh in the face of that crap.
Will I get sung to by my too-close-to-3-year-old about a million times? You betcha. Will I still have to wake up at 5:30am to nurse a baby? You betcha. Will I still have to drag my butt out of bed early and feed two starving faces breakfast and get kids clothed and off to preschool and blah blah blah? You betcha. Will I still workout? You betcha. Will I still have to come home to a house that looks like it's been raided by a bunch of robbers and then realize it was just us leaving in a rush? Yep. (Happens every freaking day. Just me??) Will I still have to make lunch and then clean up the bomb that is my kitchen? Yerrrrrpppp. You know the mom drill.
It's not that my husband isn't awesome. He is. And he makes me feel special and all that mush. But it's a work day. So we'll sprinkle random bits of birthday stuff here and there, but most the time, I'll just be mom. Doing my normal mom stuff. Life will go on as usual. And then I'll pass a calender, remember, oh hey it's my birthday, and birthday's just aren't as cool when you're old like me, and that's a fact. And I guess I'm ok with that.
Or am I?
I always have a hard time believing when people want their birthdays forgotten about. I was clicking through the channels the other day and stopped on some dumb reality show, where Joan Rivers (gag) was fa-reaking out about her birthday. Literally, didn't want anyone to utter the dreaded words, or remind her about it. Not even an age thing, I don't think. Just because.
Does this really happen? Do people want to be forgotten about on the one day you can claim as your own mini-holiday? I don't know. I have a hard time believing it. I admit that it gives me that warm fuzzy feeling to know I was thought about when someone does something special for me. When they text or (gasp) call you, versus put it on your facebook wall (not that anything's wrong with that, especially for more acquaintance-type connections).
It's just. Birthday's are weird as an adult. And especially as a parent. Or at least I think so. But, whatever. I had my time of fantastic kid birthdays and now I get to re-live that joy through my kids birthdays and set them up for disappointment in the future (hardy-har, sorry kids).
So this year. Year 28 (hold me). I want to get stronger. Be healthier. Be nicer (yep, my husband will laugh at this and then nod). Be more intentional. Smile bigger and more often. Push myself further than I thought I was capable. Continue loving on these precious girls of mine. Spend more time with God. Not be pregnant. Be warm and embracing. Stretch myself in uncomfortable situations. Meet new friends. Challenge myself. Get more haircuts (a year between haircuts is absurd). Drink less diet coke. Clean my house more (just kidding). Read more (won't happen).
This slowly turned into a New Years Resolution post. Whoops.
Well, this is me waving 27 goodbye. Peace out. Bring on the two-eight...I guess. Because, there ain't no stopping it anyway.
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