6:15 a.m. Little Dude and The Peanut Butter Kid wake up extra-early and bound down the stairs like it's Christmas morning. (Why? There are no presents for them. For God's sake, little people, go back to bed.) Little Dude is so excited that he's flapping. (If you're new to the blog, he's Asperger-ish.) He flaps his hands against the tops of his thighs: pat-pat-pat. The patting causes him to bend forward slightly so that his little face is right next to mine. "Happy Birthday, Mommy."
The Peanut Butter Kid asks me if I want breakfast in bed. No, I want sleep in bed.
"No thanks, honey, I need to get up and stagger to the coffee maker now anyway."
"Mommy, we are going to go make our own breakfast, because it's Your Special Day, and you should sleep late." She pats me on the head. Cool. So, wait, why did you wake me up then?
They leave to go make their own breakfast. I begin to drift back into my
"Chug. Ing. TON!" shrieks Little Dude. We have a problem here. There are shows that he is particularly attatched to, and he doesn't like to deviate from that list. Chugginton, which is sort of a poor man's Thomas the Tank Engine, is pretty high on the list. Even higher is Dinosaur Train, which is basically porn for 4-year-old boys.
"OhmyGodpleaseleaveitonChuggington," I beg Cookie.
8:00 "Do you know where my camp t-shirt is?"
"Wherever you dropped it last night."
"You didn't wash it?"
Cookie and the Pork Lo Maniac's camp-issued shirts are located in wadded-up balls on the floor of their room. The shirts have the heady aroma of
9:15 a.m. The PBK looks at me and deadpans, "Wow. Good-bye 36, huh? Hellooooo 37." Must. have. more. coffee.
9:15 a.m. - 1:45 p.m. Eat peanut butter sandwiches; check on garden; play Lego Star Wars; read Junie B. Jones; try, for the 243rd day in a row, to teach Little Dude how to take off his own shoes. The laundry pile gives me the evil eye, but I ignore it because it's My Special Day.
2:00 End-of-Nature-Camp Awards time. The heat and humidity create some sort of vacuum that actually sucks the air right out of my lungs. I imagine I'll require a portable oxygen tank by July.
3:00 Switch from coffee to diet Coke.
5:00 Order Chinese food online for the Absent-Minded Professor to pick up on the way home from work. Oh, happy birthday to me: I don't have to cook and I don't have to interact with anyone. I love the internet so much.
6:00 Birthday dinner. I'm so happy we finally found a good Chinese place. (South Texas may be known for great barbecue and great Mexican, but not so much with the Chinese food. The last place was so bad it made my daughter cry. We don't call her The Pork Lo Maniac for nothing. "This isn't lo mein," she snapped, devastated tears springing to her big blue eyes. "This is just ... brown spaghetti. Why did we move here?")
6:30 Presents! I adore presents! Especially the stuff my kids make for me. Hand-made cards, "one tickit to play Star Wars with me," a faux watch made of real duct tape, and a Best Mommy Award. From the Absent-Minded Professor: two thoughtfully-selected books and a gift certificate for a spa treatment. He is a god among men.
8:00 We herd the kids upstairs. I am sitting next to Little Dude's bed while he is supposed to be falling asleep. This is normally the time I spend writing, but tonight he wants to quiz me on multiplication. This is a new Aspergerish thing, I guess, but if he finds multiplication relaxing, who am I to judge?
"Mommy, what's one times eleven?"
"You are correct. Very good."
"Happy birthday, Mommy."
Thirty years ago, this is not what I would have imaged as a perfect birthday, but here we are. Many things have changed since then, but some things have not: I still like to sing Blondie at the top of my lungs, play outside, and eat beef with snow peas. Pretty sweet gig I have. Hello 37.