Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my birthday, shout hooray! No wait, I am a mother; it is just another day in Motherland.

As I get older, my birthday means less and less. I take a minute to remember it as the day I was born and then continue on with my motherly duties. Even though I am now a ghastly 32 years old, I still harbor a deep, long held secret. My birthday usually comes and goes with the usual birthday greetings (which I enjoy) and if I'm lucky even Clay will remember. But every year, on every birthday, I secretly hope that this is the birthday that someone will make really special. Just once a year, I want to feel special. I love and truly enjoy my role as a mother. But just once, I would love to have one birthday that is really all about me. That sounds really selfish, but as I am always thinking about someone else, is it really that bad for me to want to focus on me for just one day? Just one day out of an entire year?

So today on my birthday, I will take my kids to swimming lessons. Then we will go to the library since Dakotah has finished her summer reading and has earned a free book. Then we will come home and do "Mommy school." I will do dishes, sweep the floor, fold the laundry that has been sitting in the living room all weekend, and do more laundry. I will try to remember to vacuum since I haven't done it for two weeks. I will clean the downstairs bathroom and guest room for guests that are coming tonight. If I'm lucky Colby will keep his poop to a minimum. Hopefully the girls won't fight and Colby will be all better from his minor sickness (he threw up on me at swimming lessons last Friday.)

And maybe, if I'm lucky, I might get a few minutes all to myself. But then, without my kids, what would my life and existence be all about?