Do I look thirty-one?

Last Friday, I turned 31. As most mothers do, I have spent the past few birthdays feeling very overlooked, at best. I have a very vivid childhood memory of my own mother (who was, perhaps 31 or 32 at the time) crying and saying something to the effect of "this is the worst birthday ever". I'm sure that my brothers and I had been fighting, and yelling, and throwing toys out of our 22nd story window, and peeing on the floor and performing a whole host of acts that disabled my mother from feeling appreciated. Sadly, that is what we kids do to our moms sometimes. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry, mom.

It's not that I expect much out of birthdays in the first place. In fact, I've grown used to the fact that my children will carelessly whip out their most abominable behaviors on my big day. I've grown accustomed to making my own birthday dinner, baking my own birthday cake and sometimes wrapping my own birthday presents (this year I didn't wrap it at all, I just plopped my new toaster on the shelf where it belonged). I'm just lucky I have a husband who comes home at a reasonable hour to save the day. Most years, that is.

For the record, I had a great birthday this year. I felt way younger than my 31 years (though that could just be a case of self-deception), my meals were prepared by people other than myself and I was surrounded by friends and family whom I love dearly. I am neither pregnant nor nursing for the first time in five years and I have three sweet children who were left with their Aunt Jill so that Tim and I could enjoy a night out. Who needs fanfare when it's the simple things that bring the most joy?