it's my birthday!

Well, it was. Last week I celebrated my birthday and it was so awesome. I'm not sure if being with all my family or the Snickers cheesecake made it so kick ass, but I'm thinking maybe it was the combo, but a little more nougatocity. That's a real word, in fact, it's in the dictionary...the Urban Dictionary. Nougatocity often occurs during or at the end of eating a wonderfully delicious Snickers candy bar. Or cheesecake. Yum.

We celebrated at La Gloria Ice House. The food was yummy, the atmosphere was bustling and the company was impeccable. My kids even ate their whole meal with minimal fussing. Mase was partially enthralled with an iPhone from Aunt Yaya and Max was fully spoiled in the arms of his grandmas (who had too much fun wearing superhero capes). Allegedly.

Everyone enjoyed too much food and cold, refreshing margaritas (except the birthday girl). I can't believe I thought Mexican food sans margaritas or imported beer was a good idea when pregnant. But I did it. My margarita was nougat. Or something close to it...pretty much as intoxicating.

It's funny how when you get older birthday's mean more, because you realize they only come once a year and a year is a long time and it's kind of like this huge reflection of how busy and crazy your life has gotten in the past 365 days. Every September 8th I kind of think wow that was a quick year it's already my birthday again, what did I even do or accomplish this year?

But when your 3.5 that is not what a birthday is about and my inquiring, enthusiastic preschooler wanted to know what kind of birthday I was having and what kind of cake I wanted and how many dinosaur toys I'd be receiving. He was mortified I would not be picking a theme related to prehistoric beasts, pirates, or superheros. When you are three if you don't have a theme, well it's not really even your birthday. Mason was extremely concerned the night before my birthday while I was tucking him in, reminding him that, "When we wake up it's mommy's birthday!" His face immediately showed distress. And then came the wrath of 21 questions. Who would get me a cake? He was much too little to get to the store. I'd better remind daddy that my birthday was tomorrow or I'd wake up with no balloons, no toys and worst of all "no pwincess cake". I assured him that someone would remember to get me a cake. And if I needed to remind daddy it was my birthday we'd be packing up all our toys (okay, I didn't really tell him that).


I did not have to remind Michael and instead woke up to roses, lots of candy, cupcakes and even some sparkling cider (in yo face Margaritaville). Michael served and cleaned breakfast to the munchkins and it was a happy birthday indeed! And hey, I ended up with a cake. Have I mentioned that yet? Because it was the bomb and I know I've mentioned it. But alas, when you grow up, you can bear the thought of letting someone else blow out your candles. So long as they're cute.