Thirty-Two

It feels the same as thirty-one, but this year was extra special because this morning, at 3:27 am, Bubba called for me because his sheet "was wet."  "Wet" is a really nice toddler-ism to describe a bed and child caked in a quart of vomit.  I prefer to call it: A Fucking Wasteland. Somehow, it just fits.  And, if you know me, you know I'm not too good with bodily fluids in general, but vomit specifically.  Really, I don't need to see (or smell) what you ate the previous day.  The fact that it's my child spewing forth the toxic waste does not make me any less grossed out. 

But, the girls rehabilitated the situation by preparing me a lovely breakfast of toast, eggs and fruit.  Soon, we're heading out to some cultural event with kids in tow.  Later, my mom will stop over and there will be cake and some family-friendly revelry.   Maybe Seal, Ray Winstone, or Benicio Del Toro will also stop by and we can all celebrate our birthday together.