Happy birthday to me.

I had a birthday a few weeks ago. In fact, I might have blogged that very morning (circa 2:00 a.m. - thank you migraine!). Lucky for me, I had scheduled zero obligations for the day so... I took Eve and Rachel to the art museum that morning. Then, because we could, we popped over to the zoo for about an hour. We went home for lunch to find that Tim had bought me flowers. Red roses - in a close tie with orange gerbera daises as my very favorite. .

Both girls slept that afternoon (unheard of!), and so naturally, I did too. At that point, my day could have been complete and deemed a complete success - I mean, flowers, art, animals, a NAP - who could ask for anything more? Oh wait, I could. Pizza for dinner. That I didn't have to cook. As varied as my tastes are in food - there is only one dish I could probably eat every single day and never tire of it... pizza. We hit up a place downtown that sells it NY style, went home for birthday cake and called it a night.

(Nothing says I'm a 35 year old mother of four like a toddler-sized graze mark along the side of my birthday cake.)

Can you tell I was ready to hit the sack? It was a rather ordinary, wonderful birthday. Thirty-five never felt so good.