You know, this was a wonderful birthday, despite all it’s attempts to be rotten.

I went to dinner on Wednesday with the kids, my darling hubby, and my roomie, only to have the Oliver man cry through the whole meal and Marlena pull her best “I won’t be eating” madness. But the conversation was good, the food was good, and I got to have some pumpkin spice beer.

As the day of my party approached, I began to miss Nick again pretty badly, and got to a point a few hours before the party when all I really wanted to do was go lie down and cry. Then I managed to seriously injure myself with the combination of a fan and mop. I was emptying the bucket with the mop still in it when the fan hit the mop handle and smacked it into the side of my face. It hurt. It left a welt, began swelling immediately, and we contemplated canceling my party due to the huge and instant headache. I cried for a little bit, got gently patted by Marlena, and felt generally sorry for myself.

Then I sat with ice on it for a while and had some Ibuprofen. Once the party began I started feeling a little better and began to enjoy myself with good friends, yummy beer, and tasty treats.

I had a super rich chocolaty cake, pumpkin spice ale, brownie bites, cape cod chicken salad on buttery garlic herb crackers, fresh crisp snow peas, crunchy chips, spicy meatballs, and more. I got to talk with friends I don’t see very often and sit back and relax a little. I was showered in love and presents all week long.

I got cards snuck into diaper bags and sent in the mail, hugs and kisses in person and over the phone, a new hard drive to preserve my memories on, a new clicky button thing for my car to make life more convenient, a dinner with the family, a massage to relax my body, romantic candles sticks with lovely candles to be mellow with, mums to brighten my day and muffins for a yummy breakfast, chocolate to spoil myself with and a panda to support my cause, a cookie basket to cheer me and sweeten my day, special birthday earrings to add a little flair, and an amazing outpouring of love to fill my heart and raise my spirits!

Boy! There is nothing better than a birthday to make a girl feel special!

Thanks to all my friends and family who celebrated with me, and all my friends and family who couldn’t, but sent their love. Thanks for letting me know that I am special to you and loved by you!

My daughter is upstairs cleaning her room.
Happily, cheerfully, and well.
Oh, and I only had to ask her once.

Why is this miracle of motherhood occurring?

It is occurring because of Little Bill, a lovely cartoon created by Bill Cosby.

Little Bill is taught how to make cleaning fun by his great-grandma, Alice the Great. She teaches him how to Zippity Zoo his room, and they have fun putting the room to rights.

“1..2.. zippity zoo.” She says, as she places a shoe into the closet.

So now Marlena is upstairs, singing “Pillow… pillow… zippity zillow” as she zippity zoos her room to rights. I didn’t even have to borrow the idea from the show. I asked her to clean her room, and she said “I will zippity zoo it right now!”

Bless you Bill. Bless you.

“No baby, don’t pull mommy’s hair, let go please. Please let go. Lee, can you get his hands out of my hair please?!”

“No biting Oliver! No biting! No…no… stop biting please.”

“Ahllizer… leggo ny lip lease…. leases leggo….”

He may be small, but my son is a force of nature, and that force is usually directed at me.

As he grows he learns to master his motor skills. I seem to be the most convenient tool for practice. My hair gets yanked on as he buries his hands into the nape of my neck, my face gets smothered with full force drooly kisses, bumped with baby chin, and rearranged as he pulls on my cheeks and lips. He pulls on my clothes, kicks my stomach, bites my fingers, scratches my chest, twists my skin.

I know he doesn’t do it on purpose, he doesn’t even understand that it hurts. Like Godzilla saving Japan from the latest monster, he doesn’t understand the havoc wrecked by his actions. I am merely collateral damage. His arms and legs don’t work as well as they will one day work, and until he masters them, I will continue to be smacked and kicked, and otherwise abused. I didn’t notice it so much with my daughter, I think Oliver is much stronger than she was. I also think he wants to be in my arms more, so his practice sessions have a more direct effect on me than hers did.

I hear the cry of baby Godzilla, demanding milk and more snuggles. Maybe I should get some kick-boxing gear and wear it around the house.