My birthday was this week. I don't really care about my birthday. I mean, I don't expect anyone to make a big deal out of it or buy me an extravagant gift or anything.
If you were wondering, I got a heart rate monitor and some roses. Which is a pretty dismal gift in comparison to my thirtieth birthday gift. And most importantly, I slept for 13 glorious hours during which I did not deal with any kid BS. I wore ear plugs and woke up totally refreshed and without a sore throat for the first time in a week.
(Adelle is trying to kill me by not sleeping, and Olivia is trying to kill me by attituding me to death. That will be the extent of my parenting woe. For now.)
I keep thinking that at some point I will become this really put together, efficient, goal-attaining bad ass. I can tell you for sure that at 33? Not yet. Maybe next year.
Right now I am way overweight. And not in the, "I feel so chubby you guys tell me how skinny I am so I can feel good about myself" way, but more in the, "wow, I just had to buy the biggest size in a normal people store and let's not lie, it was kinda snug oh noes" sort of way.
Last week, after doing drop off and pick up at preschool and running a bunch of errands in between, I came home to find that my pants? My maternity pants, by the way, which I haven't stopped wearing since July 2010...had a hole in them. A big hole. In the crotch. And not all hidden and discreet. More like, HEY EVERYONE I AM CROTCH AND I AM BUSTING OUT!!! I know that I have a tendency toward hyperbole so please let me prove to you that I am not exaggerating:
|HEY EVERYONE I AM CROTCH|
AND I AM BUSTING OUT!!!
I can't really complain though, can I? Cute kids, fab husband, a weight problem, and bizarro dreams. This is 33. I'll take it. Maybe when I'm 34 I will be a put together, goal-attaining bad ass. Or at least manage to wear hole-free clothing at all times. Maybe.