Adult Birthdays

Last week, I had a birthday. My birthday has always been somewhat anticlimactic due to its proximity to Christmas. I’ve never minded this. Only in the last 3-4 years have I started to really NOT like my birthday. And I thought I was being a debbie downer, but I think I just got REALLY adult in those years. The most I hope out of a birthday is that my kids give me a hug and hubs lets me get a nap in. This. Is. Glorious. 

In my 20s, birthdays meant an “all you can drink wristband” special that started at a (now) obscene hour like 10pm and lasted until 2am. It included my all time faves, Bone Thugs, Eminem, and BSB. What. In. The. Actual. Heck.? It was always fun from what I recall, but good lord, what did I do for those 4 hours? (DON’T answer that) If I leave the house past 10pm now, wait… I don’t think I have left the house past 10pm in the last 5-7 years. Target closes at 10pm, and I turn into a pumpkin way before that, so holy heck, 10pm- to START!?! Not only that, I would go out to a 7:30pm dinner at some place that did not have some sort of hat or balloon collection at the front kiosk for kids. I doubt any of the city places I considered “birthday dinner” places even had high chairs. For reals. 

Once we left the city, we moved to the burbs and spent time and money doing adult things like yardwork, backsplashes, and regular laundry. Going out became a rarity. No one wants to go to the local Chili’s at 9pm to mingle. At least I don’t. Wait…. I do. But I’m just too damn tired.

A couple of years ago at my former job, my birthday happened to fall on an institute day/the first day back to school after break. Great. No one would be the wiser and I could for sure get through the day spot free. Well, a newer employee of mine decided it was her duty to announce it to the entire (200 person) staff at the assembly that it was my birthday at 7:30am. I still shake from this. I wanted to crawl in a corner. Although she likely meant well, I wanted to knock her upside the head and give her a piece of my mind. But I didn’t. I was pregnant and nutty to begin with so I just ate and drank my weight in diet coke, popcorn and cheez-its in my office alone. Visualize that. Thank the lord for my soul sister S, who has been my sounding board for WAY longer than she signed up for. #4yearslater

This past birthday was a wonderful day. Not because it was my birthday, but because it was a GOOD DAY. I got hugs from my kids, a nap, grocery shopped without S & B, and had dinner at a place where adults go to eat EVEN WITHOUT CHILDREN! Though, I did spend a few hours at a super dumpy car dealership where they blasted techno music the ENTIRE time, it was worth it in the end! (We were REALLY desperate for the minivan at this point!)

Do birthdays end after you give birth? Or after a certain age? Or am I crazy? I don’t know the answer to any of these questions, but I do know that good days are unicorns. When it comes down to it, we are far luckier to have GOOD days than BIRTHDAYS.

Nighttime Circus With a Sprinkle of Poop Fakeouts

It is completely incredible to me how different two kids that came from the same body just 17 months apart are SO different. They of course look and sound like siblings, but their temperaments are so completely different. I often wonder if its birth order that influences this or gender or the freaking universe foreshadowing teen-hood in the Finn house. (Lord, help us!)

B: Lady, see that bed? PUT ME IN IT. Stop the singing and the story reading. I’m tired and I want to suck on my sleep sack. (This is a whole separate post that should be called “Turducken”, but Soul Sister C lent me D’s Zipadee Zip sleep sack when B was 4 months old and it became his lovey after wearing it to bed for 8 months. Its gross. SO gross.)

S: Mama, you blow dry my hair? {done with the toy blow dryer} Mama, Floss. {done} (side-note, my 2.5 year old LOVES getting her teeth flossed- that’s a win, right?). Mama, 3 books. She picks the three worst books ever which generally include this giant book of “fairytales for girls” that SUCKS and weighs at least 7 lbs and falls on my foot EVERY. DAMN. TIME., Trolls- the shortened (thank goodness) version, and the book that counts to 100. That’s it. It just counts literally to 100 a bunch. Barf. Mama, 3 songs? (start singing) NOT THAT ONE! This repeats after each song that I choose until she requests “Paw Patrol”. I do not know the words to freaking Paw Patrol, so I just repeat “Paw Patrol” for a good 3 minutes while simultaneously trying not to lose my sh*t. Then we want 3 more songs that I don’t know. FINALLY THE CRIB. Mama, ABCs and Twinkle. Ok, I can handle this. {Done} MAMA!! NO! Traveler in the Night! This completely creeps me out. Who is this traveler and why is he coming in the night? I sing that phrase over and over anyways while trying not to be afraid of whoever visits in the night. MAMA! I need socks on! {done} NOT Olaf socks! Regular socks! {Done again}

Head downstairs. Pour coffee or wine depending on what the rest of the day looked like. 

MAMA! I have to poop! I know very well that she doesn’t have to poop. But I don’t want to screw up all the potty training work and I certainly don’t want to clean poop out of a pull-up. I don’t want to clean it out of the tupperware-like potty either, but beggars can’t be choosers. So I go up there. After 6 minutes on the potty, I realize she doesn’t have to poop. OBVI. Back. To. Bed. Finally. She sings to her dolls for about 30 minutes and falls asleep. 

Speaking of the aforementioned poop fakeout… I went to the potty with S 13 times today. THIRTEEN. She only went 5 times of those 13. Three of these times were at a mall which is super easy with B screaming in the stroller while I say loudly “Push the poop out, girlfriend!” in a crowded bathroom. #noshame. My two year old found out that underpants and pottys are her power. And I am her minion. We drop everything for poop and that little boss lady knows it. Manipulation. At. Two. 

At the end of the day, although this stuff is hard, long, and at times annoying, I know that S will not want me around her (pooping, bedtime, and otherwise) forever, so I embrace it. I may lose several hours out of the day being manipulated by a toddler, but the time is spent with my little miracle who I adore to the end of the earth. I will take all the cuddles, songs, and even poop fakeouts so that I get that time with Sweet S. As far as B goes, he gives me #allthecuddles during the day and especially every morning at 4:30am (insert eye roll followed by heart melting- I’ll take what I can get). End of the day: Embrace the chaos, take a deep breath, and sing the damn Paw Patrol song that you don’t know. 

Picture: The room I spend the majority of my time at home in: the bathroom.