December 13, 2007
You are three years old. Hard for me to believe.
I want to write more for you on this occasion, but there is a blizzard outside that demands playing in. A pig I had to rush and pick up early this morning before the blizzard started. We are going to have pork chops for dinner tomorrow.
You like pork chops, right? No, okay then it is chicken.
Laundry, schoolwork, deadlines, decorating, and christmas lists to Santa to write and rewrite. Everything piles up sometimes and I am left here treading water not sure that I am doing well any one of the myriad of things that needs to be done.
Is it better to to lots of things half-assed, or one thing really great while blowing off all of the others? This is the question of my life.
We will make you a real cake this weekend. Or buy you one as you are demanding a trip to the store where they have the big cakes. The brownie on the table with a lame candle stuck into it was just something I did for fun last night after dinner since all your siblings wanted to sing happy birthday to you.
We sang the “you look like a monkey” version.
Your sister made you a card. She ceremoniously read the card out loud to us, none of the rest of us can read squiggles, and it said:
“Happy Birthday Miles. You are three. I am four. I am bigger than you. Please don’t spit or cough on the cake when you blow out the candles.”
What else can I possibly say that would top that?
Updated to add:
I did not FORGET his birthday. We always have a party on the weekend since my husband has this annoying thing called a job that must go to. I thought that was fairly typical, but maybe that is just what self centered mothers who don’t love their children do.
I was talking about was WRITING a birthday post to my son. Which really is more for me than for him since he can’t even read yet. And do I really need to explain myself?
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