So Blogland, it's my birthday today.
I've always had an iffy relationship with my birthday. For anyone potentially planning a baby, please avoid if possible August 31 . I won't pretend is as bad as Christmas or its vicinity, but still, it's bad.
Here's the thing. For my entire childhood we spent our summers out at our camp. (That would be a "cottage" to anyone who is not from the North and is envisioning either a campground or a cabin with bunkbeds and organized sports.) My dad being a teacher, we moved out to camp the day after school was out and moved back to town literally the day or two before school started. My parents were, and remain, cottage die-hards.
So this summertime move meant that I wound up with a group of camp friends and a group of school/town friends and never the two did meet. The problem? By August 31, all my camp friends (none of whose parents were remotely as die-hardy as mine) had all moved back to town and, as for my school friends, I hadn't seen them in what seemed like forever and since our camp was a half-hour out of town, they weren't going to get dropped off for a few hours of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. So, I wound up never really having a party per se. I think maybe some of my camp friends stuck around but since we'd been joined at the hip for 10 weeks, I'm sure it was not much different than any other day, except there was cake. My parents would give a me a Doodle Art or new pair of snazzy polyester Gauchos (that was a bad year) and that would be that.
Some years, depending on when school started, there was nobody around but us and we would be busy packing, sweeping and closing up for the winter. On those years, I'm sure we would have stopped for cake, but the mood was always slightly off.
When I started university, I found that my birthday was always spent on the road on the way to Ottawa. Or in Ottawa, where I wasn't yet in touch with any returning university friends. In those days, since my brother lived in Ottawa, I think I spent a few birthdays with him taking me out for a pity dinner.
Finally, when I was officially all grown up and the end of summer no longer meant re-location, I figured things would heat up, and admitedly I had a couple of good years, but nothing to write home about. (Or blog about for that matter.) Finally, when I was about 27, I decided to take matters in my own hands and DO something. Something fun. So, I decided to fly to Halifax where one of my good university friends was now living. (Shout out to Dar, who I don't think reads this blog!!) She was/is a good partier, so we planned quite the shindig for Saturday night although technically my birthday was Sunday. She got a huge group of friends together, the vast majority of whom are actors and gay. Sounds like a good time, right?
It started off great...we went out for a nice seafood dinner and then to bar to meet up with a few people and I remember thinking to myself, Halifax is awesome, the people are all ready for a good time, THIS was a FANTASTIC idea! Then all of a sudden, I notice that people seem to be gathering around a TV in the bar and things have started to get really quiet. I'm still drinking and pretending that nothing is weird, but finally, the situation could no longer be ignored. I joined the crowd gathered at the TV to find out that Princess Diana had been killed in a car crash (well, she clung to life for a few more hours so that her official date of death could be August 31 in all time zones). NOOOOOOooooooooooo! No! I want another round of drinks, not an international incident!!!! Instead of feeling horror and sadness, I was pissed. Gay actors are NOT interested in any type of party when princesses are killed. Party over.
The next day, I forced my friend to go barhopping in the afternoon, but Halifax was a ghost town, as most people were still holed up in their living rooms glued to their televisions.
And on it goes. After that, I officially threw in the towel and decided that, as far as my birthday is concerned, I should keep my expectations as low as possible. And I have. I started to just invite a good group of friends to a favourite restaurant for low-key dinners. All good.
Then I got married, and figured, well now at least I'll never have to worry about being ALONE on my birthday. Even, if everyone else is camping or squeezing in one more weekend at the cottage, my husband and children will at least be with me. Although par for the course, last year, I remember I took the day off work because I was a) getting a new furnace installed and b) barfing my brains out at 8 weeks pregnant.
So, this year, I should not have been surprised when Eric sheepishly asked if it was OK if his band accepted a gig (Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights) in Grand Bend. Remember my expectations are always low, so I said OK, and proceeded to make some plans for the weekend so at least it wouldn't be totally wall-to-wall me-and-babies. And aside from a few passive-aggressive attempts at making Eric feel guilty, I was fine.
Until today. August 31.
Instead of sleeping in until almost 8 as they have been all summer, both kids are up at 7. I blearily make coffee, feed the cats and settle in for some repeat episodes of Mighty Machines. (OOOH, it's the one about the sawmill!) My parents call, and while we're chatting, Kieran who has been potty training for the past few days and doing really well, decides to stand on the arm of a chair in the corner and pee directly into his plastic bucket of Mega Blocks. I get off the phone and start mopping up and then dump all the blocks into the sink to be washed. I start to tidy up a bit, and walk outside to put a few things in the Blue Box only to see that some kind animal has spread the contents of our festering Green Bin all over the driveway. I try to shovel up the rotting, fly-infested organics and but finally have to resort to using my hands to get the last of it. Gross.
I go inside, finish cleaning, get Kieran breakfast, and while I'm off getting the baby dressed, I hear him screaming. He, is standing on his booster, unable to get down, peeing all over the dining room table, chair and floor. So much for potty training. And breakfast. And dinner invites to anyone who reads this blog. I toss him in the bath, disinfect the dining room and start getting dressed. Eric has arranged for a babysitter to come for 1130 and I'm going downtown to meet a friend for brunch at noon. At 1125, Eric calls. His wallet is gone. Lost, stolen, hiding in the bottom of his duffle bag perhaps, but gone.
Seriously. I am devoid of all sympathy and tell him so. The only place left that it could be is some music store in Grand Bend that doesn't open until noon. The babysitter has arrived. She's a high school girl that Eric trains, seems perfectly lovely and intelligent and I hurriedly go through the basic instructions. At some point she says, she's never babysat an infant, so I go into more detail, but I'm only going to be gone a few hours, and am anticipating that both kids will be napping while she's there.
I email Eric the bank phone number to cancel his cards and head off. I'm on the road 10 minutes, not even out of Mississauga when the phone rings. It's not, as I hoped, Eric with a found wallet. It's the babysitter...Kaya is crying inconsolably and she doesn't know what to do. Ten minutes, I've been gone and it's already disintegrated into calling the parent? NOT a good sign. I tell the girl to give Kaya a bottle or put her in the swing, both surefire tricks. Five minutes go by and she calls again. The baby is still wailing. I contemplate turning around but suddenly she says that it sounds like Kaya is settling and all is good.
I have a lovely afternoon full of brunch and Frappucinos. I come home and everything is fine.
Both kids are now in bed. Its quiet. Eric's wallet is still MIA and I just ate Kieran's leftover soup (from lunch) for my birthday dinner. On TV, are the annual obligatory Princess Diana tributes to mark my day. A very peaceful evening to bookend to a chaotic, and mostly disgusting morning.
Bring on September 1.
1 comment:
So...where was the wallet?
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