Today is my birthday. I’m 33, so — as I’ve been reminded by my husband — I can no longer claim to be “just into my 30s” or my early “30s.” It’s mid-30s now, or so he says. He’s six years older than me, so all those years of teasing him about being old are coming back to bite me.
This morning I told Baby Girl that today is my birthday, hoping she’d sing Happy Birthday in the adorable way that she does.
“No, it not,” she answered. “It not Mommy’s birthday. It’s Batman’s birthday. Happy birthday, Batman!”
“No, it’s Mommy’s birthday today,” I tried again.
“No! It NOT Mommy’s birthday. It Batman’s birthday!” she argued. And then she started singing. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Batman, happy birthday to you.”
She cut her toy birthday cake and sang to her Batman again later — not a word for her mommy. Fucking caped crusader.
The birthday was pretty good, but very non-eventful aside from getting flowers. We’ll try to celebrate on Sunday after the Busiest Week Ever finishes. Little Man has had soccer every day since Sunday and will have it again tomorrow (his team will play for the All Star Championship). Plus I’ve been trying to complete a laundry list of deep cleaning chores, get our sweaters ready, get Little Man’s costume stuff together for the program on Monday, go to appointments, decorate, plus the usual stuff. I believe the drinks I have on Saturday will be well deserved.