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Moms Have Birthdays Too

boots

I recently celebrated a birthday, inching me dangerously close to the mighty 3-0. I am quite certain 3-0 will be mighty but still uncertain about whether I'm ready for that power. I'll tell you next year.

As we sat around the lunch table on my birthday afternoon, Laylee chatted about her waffles, "I like mine with peanut butter and dad got you boots."

Me: Isn't that supposed to be a secret?
Laylee [keeping her eyes on the refined carbs]: Yes it is and that's why I will never tell you so you'll never ever know.

Oooo. I get it.

I find that the longer I'm a mom, the fewer surprises I have in my life and I guess that's okay. Many of the surprises that come with motherhood smell bad and are hard to remove from your upholstery. I actually wanted leather boots and it was a surprise when she told me about them, so no harm done.

Later in the car she was humming to herself. "Blah blah blah. He got you boots. Blah blah blah."

I tried not to laugh outright, tipping her off that she'd spoiled the surprise.

It was a day of crazy errands. It started with a 6:30 a.m. appointment, then straight to be preschool helper, then straight to host a church group at my house. Back I went to pick Laylee up from preschool. Ballet was that afternoon and then straight to the chiropractor for double adjustments because of the car accident we were in last Friday.

I should not have to go in to the chiropractor's office at all, seeing as she's been known to diagnose me after reading my blog. She agrees that it was not a heart attack. Alas, there are times when I need actual treatment so I schedule visits for Saturdays when I can go alone, saving the masochistic trips with squealing toddlers for special occasions like my birthday.

It's fun trying to relax with your 18-month-old repeatedly smacking the exercise ball while screeching like a pterodactyl. It's downright festive when he and your 3-year-old daughter fight over the giant ball in loud screams, lifting it high above their heads until they topple over in fits of laughter.

What? My muscles seem tense? SHUT! UP! It must be from the accident. I had both of my kids on purpose.

But then, like a beacon from a glowing haven of romance, my husband Daniel entered the small vibrating exam room. He had left work early, found my chiropractor's name and address, mapped the location and driven 30 minutes to surprise me and watch the kids so I could have a nice appointment. Many blessings on his head.

He took us out to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants after calling to make sure they served cheesecake. On the way in, Laylee pointed to the gift bag and without making eye contact she said quickly, "Those are boots in there. Boots."

Yes, thank you.

To go along with the boots, I got a lovely piece of Plexiglas, molded with "my" new heat gun into a contraption to keep the blankets on the bed from touching my feet. Once or a hundred times when I was sick or pregnant I complained about the pressure, oh the agonizing pressure, of the sheet and comforter squashing my toes like grapes.

Dan heard my complaint and fashioned me a doohickey.

We put the children away, shared a happy birthday snuggle and off I slept to start another year. I'm still the mom this year and the kids are still loud (BOOTS, I tell you!), but I feel a certain likishness towards them. This is not a bad gig.

say cheese

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