Is there an age at which we’re supposed to stop being excited about our birthdays? Should I reliquish this joy to my children? I really hope not.
Last week was the big 33 for me. My sweet neighbor took me out to lunch and introduced me to a really fabulous Vietnamese place. (Have you ever had Vietnamese iced coffee? It’s basically dessert, and it’s so good.) There were cupcakes and presents, and I watched two neighbor kids that evening so their parents could go to back to school night, which meant that my kids were busy and entertained through the longest part of the day.
But then! On Friday afternoon, our doorbell rang. I had just spent two hours in the pool for a playdate, and felt righteous on so many levels. Afternoon (post-nap) activities aren’t really my jam, but I’m almost always glad we made the effort to get out of the house. I played in the pool and didn’t have to yell at anyone, and Bub even got out of the pool without a single threat. I came home and changed straight into pajamas. (It’s 6:00 pm and you have to change out of your wet swimsuit. You wouldn’t put on real clothes, would you?)
Anyway, it was two great friend with balloons and gifts and plans to kidnap me. I was totally shocked that my husband was able to keep this secret. Usually he’s too excited about these things and gives it away somehow. I was genuinely surprised. Well done, everyone!
We didn’t even care about the wait for dinner because that gave us time to shop and take vain photos of our outfits.
We took pictures of our drinks and food, garnering looks from the couple seated next to us, but couldn’t be bothered to care!
Even though I’m the WORST self-portrait taker EVER, about 90 takes later, we got this beauty. Everyone is in the frame! Smiling! We all approve of our hair placement!
33? Not too bad, so far.