thirty-two, party of one.

Yesterday I only did one load of laundry.  I didn’t get angry when Sam turned the crayon box out onto the floor in the kitchen, nor did I growl at the dog for eating robins-egg blue.  I had chips for with lunch and read my book during nap time instead of washing the breakfast dishes.

The telephone chimed every ten minutes and messages added up.  Starting at six-thirty in the morning, people remembered my birthday.  Before even emerging from the tent over her bed, Ladybug’s first words were a morning-whispered "happy birthday mommy” as I laid her school uniform out for the day.  I turned on the radio in the kitchen and poured cereal and heated water for oatmeal.  I cut the crusts off a ham and cheese before putting it in the lunchbox with something chocolate (gasp).  Two wishes I rarely grant for the first-grader.

“it’s your birthday, don’t get angry.” was my mantra. don’t get too tired, it’s your birthday. just be happy and make them happy, it’s your birthday.  Sam got filthy at the park and the kids ate a whole bag of Goldfish crackers after school.  Yes was the word, mostly, to the ever-flowing stream of questions.  No, you can’t ride bikes in the street.

My brother in law called me.  My mother in law called and sent me an early-morning text.  My best friend called from New York and then called back when the connection was bad.  Jed called for Chinese food. My mom didn’t call.  Nobody cried that I can recall.  

But today I really feel like crap.  I tried to treat it like any other day.  Gift-wrapped a little slack for myself.  No guilt allowed.  It was nice.  Not enough, but nice. Next year I’ll try something else.