Everett is turning one this week. I know, I know, plenty of people have children who turn one and yes, they've probably already blogged about it, but did you hear me?
Everett is turning one!
Somewhere in the last month I stopped referring to him as Diddlydoo, the nickname I so lovingly gave him in utero so people would stop badgering me about what I was going to name my child—people are so greedy for information, aren't they?
He's started crawling and babbling; the name Diddlydoo started to feel...piddlypoo.
My own birthday hits this time of year as well. As anyone with a birthday in late-December/early January knows, it's the worst time of year to have a birthday. Presents and cards are an afterthought, if they even come.
Plus, there's something downright shitty about clocking in another year against the backdrop of naked, barren trees and stiff brown grass. Reflecting on your life as you watch signs of life die around you doesn't do much for making light of crow's feet and laugh lines.
Gray, lifeless sky = ample tears about gray, lifeless hair.
I know, boohoo. Boohoo.
I'm not the only one who is doing some end-of-year reflecting. Junior's been doing some too, although it's aloud.
Me: "Junior, Everett's going to be one. Can you believe it?"
Junior: "I wish he was back in your belly. We had more fun playing when he was in there."
Me: "But soon you can play with him! All the time!"
Junior: "He'll probably still slobber on my toys."
Nothing sucks the life out of a happy preschooler like a younger sibling. I can literally feel the malaise settling in.
To celebrate Everett's birthday, we're having pizza and cake with some of the neighbors and their kids. It'll be a much smaller affair than Junior's first, for which we commissioned a damn cake and threw a 100-person bash.
Huh? Wha? Post-Christmas, pre-New Year's birthdays what again?
Oh right. Suck.
And ok, it's not just the time of year. I'm learning that everything you do for your second (or third or fourth) child is with much less fanfare.
But! It is not for a lack of love. Oh, no. I couldn't possibly love that high maintenance, diva-like, giggly, precious, precocious, daredevil of a boy any more than I possibly do. I can't kiss him enough. I can't tickle him enough. There are days that I literally want to eat him.
And really, amazingly, I don't even know him yet.
Happy birthday, you little stinker. Next year Mommy will bake some cupcakes.
Maybe.
5 comments:
If you're looking for appreciation, don't bother with the homemade cupcakes. I made homemade muffins last night, mostly to take to my inlaws to affirm that I'm not QUITE as bad as he claims. Pretty damn good muffins, too, as it turns out (pear-cranberry-pecan). Finished at 4:00 this morning (don't ask). As I cheerfully presented one each to my daughter, son, and husband, separately, as it turned out, I got to watch the fascinating display of personalities my muffins provoked. My daughter, sweet child that she is, excitedly said, "You made muffins, Mommy? Yay!!! YUM! They're really good. Thank you!" Two minutes later, said muffin and daughter were gone and in walks the son. Son: "What's THAT?" Me: "I made muffins, sweetie. You want one for breakfast?" Son: "Ummm. I don't know--what's in them?" Me: "Pears." Son: (Deep, elaborate sigh) "Why couldn't you just have gotten blueberry?" Somewhat similar initial reaction ten minutes later from the husband, including the same suspicious look, except that he did eat it and actually said (albeit in a rather incredulous tone), "Pretty good!" And they were--I think I shall in fact go polish off the last saved bits of batter right now. I think maybe little boys are just a lost cause for the homemade baked goods subject--slap down a WalMart tray and call it good.
Happy Birthday to Everette.
I hope your back is better.
Happy Birthday to Everette! My daughter turned 1 a few days before Christmas, and I still haven't blogged about it. Because I am either incredibly lazy, hibernating, surviving the holidays in a blanket-wrapped cocoon on my couch, or all of the above. And pizza is the bomb, at any age! Happy first year of Everette's life to you whole family!
OHMIGOSH--where has this year slipped too? Happy Birthday to the sweet little man.
Don't bother. My oldest daughter has a January 9th birthday. Since she has learned to talk she has BERATED me for being the bad mother who had her so close to Christmas. I now want to THROW cupcakes at her when she stars moaning about that. Your baby will be a teen in a blink too, so I just thought I'd warn you. Stupid kids. Oh, and ah, Happy New Year and Happy Birthday!
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