I didn't really have a chance to hark back to how wonderful my birthday was. Directly following it Cooper started to have a flare up, so I hit the ground running from my little break. But phew, everyone's healthy -- except Steve and his fractured rib -- and I can report it was curiously delightful.
The boys planned a mini-surprise for me. Cooper came down (I was sewing, of course) and told me it was time for my birthday. I came upstairs to find balloons, a cake, and little horns. Mason camped out next to the cake and Cooper flitted about saying things like, "I'm so glad I was invited to your birthday party." and, "Mom, this is a great party."
Once you're a -- how shall I put it -- mature woman, birthdays are strange. On the one hand you are dreading the day and you don't really want to mention it to anyone. On the other hand, the child in me can't help but overtly talk about plans for the day and justifying little treats -- like a day of golf -- with a birthday. This year, however, was the first year that I realized my birthday is connected to a birth story. Maybe it was because my sweet sister-in-law was just bursting at the seams with baby no. 2. Maybe it was because I've had two babies of my own. Maybe it's because when you're this old you want to think about anything other than botox, weight gain, and crow's feet.
Truth is, I don't know what happened that day. Mother? It's your turn. After all, it was your big day. The first day you had your first baby. Was it bad? Were you in labor forever? Did it go smooth? Why didn't you ask for drugs (crazy martyr)?