About me: I'm 40 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 8-year-old Junior, our 5-year-old Everett, our baby and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
We're having pizza and store-bought cake. Because Mommy loves you
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.