At the still point of the turning world

I've realized on earlier birthdays than this one that birthdays change considerably as you grow older. No more bringing cupcakes into class or birthday parties at the roller rink of course, but also no more princess-type of days, where everything is special. Yesterday I woke up at five in the morning to feed Henry, woke up again at eight to ferry both boys downstairs (Henry in my arms and Finn clinging to my shoulders and hanging down my back as I barump, barump down the stairs to his glee) made breakfast-peaches and cheerios and coffee for me and settled in to watch Sesame Street. So far nothing straying from every other weekday morning except that when James kissed me goodbye he said "Happy Birthday, I'm glad you were born". The day progressed with both regularity and a few very princess-y moments:

My one consolation on making my birthday special-when the boys were both asleep so no nutritional accountability hovered, I made myself five pieced of bacon and cinnamon rolls-the kind that pops out of the refrigerated cylinder-because that was exactly what I felt like eating

When putting my makeup on later that afternoon, I found my foundation particularly thick and cakey and realized that I still had cinnamon roll frosting on my fingers and had smeared it on my face with my makeup.

About 50 of my 87 friends on facebook wished me a happy birthday including my old friend from elementary school, Janet who reminded me that I shared a birthday with my almost first boyfriend Chad-who asked me out by the bus in fourth grade and I said no (what a heart-breaker I was).

James came home for lunch and announced that we would be going out to dinner sans children in a ridiculously extravagant way (at a restaurant with no color crayons on the table and where the cost per prawn would buy a number of McDonald's ice cream cones) while James' parents watched the boys.

While straightening my hair getting ready for said dinner, I realized that I had a line of yellow smodged down my index finger and onto the back of my hand that I could not distinguish-either baby poop or yellow paint from earlier craft project. Later at the lovely, fancy dinner, I realized that I also had yellow smeared on my wrist with a hue of black marker making me look like a domestic violence victim being taken out for an apology dinner and confirming at least that with the evidence of marker, it was in fact yellow paint and not poop.

As a birthday wish, I requested that James take care not to refer to me as mommy the entire time we were away from the boys.

I ate braised lamb with gnochie and yukon potatoes at a restaurant called Veritable Quandry, which even if the food had been yucky would have been worth eating at for its name alone. The lamb, which I don't normally eat because it reminds me of Finny's white lamby in his crib and the lamby's live counterpart, was delicious and which I justified in that it was a very special occasion.

We arrived at Cupcake Jones a little after eight and ordered four itty cupcakes: bananas foster, thin mint, pearl chocolate and something coffee-ish that I can't remember the name of to eat later when dinner had settled a bit.

And finally to finish the night, we came home and watched the two hour season finale of October Road- a guilty pleasure we share and can only stomach the cheesiness of by regularly berating the lines and the dramatic montages. This episode did not disappoint us for material-there were three lengthy montages of angst and making out. We watched ten minutes of the evening news, long enough for the weather man to comment that he had "a forecast for our travel plans" making me pause and then comment, "Travel plans? What about a Monday night in March, nowhere near a holiday weekend makes him think we have travel plans?"

I turned the TV off and gathered a handful of shoes, toy trucks and dishes to deposit in their various destinations before climbing the stairs, brushing my teeth and going to sleep-all in all a wonderfully ordinary day leading up to a lovely extraordinary night out as an adult-where I ate leisurely with no one else's food to worry about and where I wore high heeled boots and a dress and eyeliner for crying out loud.