So yesterday was my 31st birthday. It whizzed by me in a blur of temper tantrums and poopie diapers (is that another “feces” tag? Why yes, yes it is) and doctor visits. Let’s face it, girls – birthdays just suck from here on out. I was cool up until I was twenty-five, and then I got to the “kay-we-can-stop-the-whole-aging-thing-now” phase. Now that I have kids, birthdays suck not only because I get so many years past twenty-five, but also because they will never, ever be about me anymore. My birthdays are all about Nora. And I realize with chilling certainty that they will also be all about Ava as well in the not-so-far-future.
It didn’t help that it flooded so badly in this God forsaken city the night before that I thought I was going to have to build an ark. We lost power for two mind-numbing hours as the sun disappeared into the horizon, and TH, who is known for either seriously overreacting or seriously underreacting in such situations, decided he was going with the former this time and flew to Home Depot to buy out their stock of flashlights. He returned home just in time for the power to come back on. But I’ll tell you what, if we ever have a repeat of Hurricane Ike, we’ve got miner hats, if nothing else.
In addition, Ava started running a fever of 102, so I was certain she had the swine flu. I tossed and turned all night, listening to the thunder and dreaming about diseased pigs. I took her to the pediatrician yesterday, who gave her a flu test and said, “And NO, she doesn’t have the swine flu.” I laughed as though that were the funniest thing I’d ever heard. Stupid paranoid parents. Thank God I’m not one of them. Uh-huh.
In the midst of all this chaos, TH took us out for my “birthday lunch.” We went to the Aquarium, since it’s kid-friendly and has big fishies in tanks. Just as I was beginning to think lunch was going to be a pleasant experience, TH fucked up. Big time.
TH knows (Or SHOULD know by now) that Nora wants everything she eats to be separated – if, say, a piece of bread touches her “mac ‘n sheeeeez,” she ain’t eating either of them. They’ve been polluted. Sure, she’ll eat an Eggo waffle after using it to scrub the kitchen floor, but she won’t eat cheese-covered bread. Makes perfect sense in Kiddie Land, I guess. Well, we ordered an ice cream cookie sandwich to celebrate my birthday (after tricking Nora into eating calamari. It’s chicken, I promise….*sinister cackle*). It came with two little bowls, one filled with M&M’s and one filled with sprinkles. Nora gleefully began eating the sprinkles one by one as her ice cream began to melt. TH, having a raging case of OCD for all the wrong fucking things (one of which is desserts), couldn’t stand to watch the ice cream melt, and said impatiently, “No, Nora, you’re SUPPOSED to do it like this,” and dipped the ice cream sandwich into the sprinkles.
I thought Nora’s head was going to explode. The banshee screech she emitted was powerful enough to shatter the glass of the aquariums. The tantrum that ensued has never been rivaled in all of history, I am certain of this. I even tried to pick the sprinkles out of the ice cream, but the damage had been done. The sprinkles had been defiled. The world had come to an end for Nora, and “birthday lunch” had come to an end for me.Happy biiiiiiiirthday to Mamaaaaaaaaaaa….