You've had a birthday

I turned 29 on Friday.  Kind of a weird birthday.  Not quite young, not quite 30--the one age that everyone lies about being.  As in my father and I are now the same age.  You'll have to have him explain that one or maybe he just needs to have a chat with his bishop.

Now before I go and rate my birthday good/bad, I need to explain a bit about having an August 1st birthday:  In the words of my sister who's daughter was born on Christmas--I'm not sure which is worse, August 1st or Christmas Eve.  That's right: there could be a birthday worse than Christmas: mine.  People just forget my birthday, especially when I was in school and I mostly only saw my friends at school and my birthday is the middle of summer and during Girls' Camp or a family reunion.  It just slide by year after year--except the one year we went boating and I wanted to see how far my parents would let me go so I asked if I could invite a boy and they said yes but I didn't really want to invite him so I was sort of hoping they'd be lame and say no but then they said yes and I didn't want them to call my bluff and so I invited him and it was horrible because I was like 15 and didn't know what to do with a boy and my parents around.  Sometimes I wish my parents were a little less cool.

Back to this year.  As I was re-oiling my counters and sweeping my floor and pondering on the dreariness of a mid-summer birthday, the thought struck me that birthdays aren't really about me.  It's about my mom.  I didn't do anything to be born.  My mom carried me about on swollen ankles and stretching ligaments for nine months minus two weeks (you're welcome) and then birthed me in a too-sterile hospital with too-touchy doctors and nurses.  And yet it's my mom every year who's made sure to make me a sign at Girls' Camp or a cake a family reunion or let me invite a boy to my party to celebrate my birthday.  In recent years, Greg has added his own flare to the festivities.  But today I would like to say thank you to my mom for having me.  And then for keeping me.  And then for raising me.  And she did a pretty good job.  I'm witty, clever, lovable, super funny, brilliant, nice(ish), clean--what more could she ask for?  OK, maybe humble, but let's not get carried away here.

So today, two days after my 29th birthday, I would like to say thank you Mom.  You done good.

My mom on her birthday in March

For those who would like a play-by-play of the day: we started with opening presents, because we're cool like that and didn't want to wait until after breakfast, let alone after dinner.

Rex and Alice got me a knife so I could join their knife club

 That night, Greg and I were supposed to go boating with the youth (because I LOVE boating and it's even better with a boy you actually like and your parents aren't around to chaperon--bow chick-a bow wow) but it rained and was only like 70 so that got cancelled.  Since I got a babysitter for Rex and Alice, we still decided to go out.  We got sushi, which was amazing.  But since it took so long to get our food, Henry got mad so we left even though I could have gone for another roll.  We put Henry to bed then headed to the Wheatley's to get Alice (Rex was having a sleepover), ate some of their pizza, got made fun of a bit by their oh-so-young teenage boys, came home put Alice to bed and did dishes while Greg stayed and played video games with the tween Wheatleys.  Then we had cake just me and Greg around 10, watched some Netflix and went to bed.  And that's what you do when you're 29.  And since my dad has been 29 for about 20 years now, looks like I have a lot more of that to look forward to.