Sunday was my birthday — 29. This is the first birthday that I feel old. Like, I am almost thirty old. Eek! And yes, I realize you may be someone reading this who is well into their 30’s. And no, I don’t think you’re old. I think I am old. For me. For someone who has always had a love / hate relationship with being the “young mom”. And suddenly — like your baby no longer crawling — you find yourself longing to have it back.

But, this birthday I was loved and celebrated. And I fell asleep on Sunday thinking of how lucky I am to have this group as my family. Just lying in bed and remembering what a great day I had.

I woke up to coffee, snuggles, and a million versions of the Happy Birthday song. My favorite (by far) was the one that ended with

“Happy Birthday to your poopy.”

Followed by two boys rolling on the floor laughing until they couldn’t breathe. And their dad laughing almost as hard. Potty humor is our jam right now. It’s awesome. Especially in public.

Knock. Knock.

Who’s there?

Diaper

Diaper who?

Aren’t you glad I didn’t say poopy?!

Yes, Brooks, I am very glad you didn’t say poopy. Though, technically, you just did.

But anyway, back to my birthday. The kids had each written me a poem introducing their gift. The poems hung in colored and numbered envelopes from pretty paper lanterns. The poems. They were so sweet. Clearly, they had some “help” pulling this together from Dad.

But their excitement as I read their cards. And tried on their gifts. It was infectious. I remember staring at these little smiling faces and thinking,

“I am not doing a terrible job raising them”

It makes me so happy to teach my littles about the great feeling of giving to others. They were so happy. And I don’t know if they’ll ever fully realize how happy days like this make me. 

Ciao! Girl