Tomorrow is my birthday. Right now, as my two-year-old sleeps, my four-year-old is sitting on the living-room floor a few feet away from me, with his daddy, making my birthday card. He’s been so excited about it that he’s been telling me all about it every step of the way. Daddy tried, for about two seconds, suggesting that they keep the card a secret. No way. My little guy has already exuberantly shown me the stickers he’s used, the pictures of the starfish from our last getaway that he’s cut out, and the green pipe cleaners he’s taped onto the construction paper for the card's “handles”. It's crazily cute.
I don’t know much about how I’ll be spending the day, other than my husband has taken the day off work. As long as my three favourite boys are by my side, there’s really nothing else I need. Although it would be nice if some strong, artfully prepared cappuccinos were involved. Yes, cappuccinos, plural. My kids are still little after all, and fabulously exhausting.
I do know that the evening will be set aside for a date, a chance to sit down with my husband and actually talk without any interruptions. It’ll be grand. But as wonderful and vital as those date nights are, there’s never a part of me that doesn’t miss my kids and wonder what they’re up to and what I’m missing.
Oh well. I know how lucky I am to get a full day with my family, an extra-long weekend, and birthday wishes from little, loving people. Happy, indeed.