This week, we celebrate your 5th or 6th birthday. It could even be your 7th. Probably not your 4th. And who knows if this is your actual birthday. What I do know is that it's three years since you came into our lives.
You don't have to tell me, Dan, because I already know: this year has been a doosey. You were just starting to get used to your sister around this time last year, when Aaron came down from the heavens and surprised us all. I'm guessing, based on the recent consumption of one of Anna's sippy cups (yes, he ATE a sippy cup), that you're not loving all this change.
Let me state for the record-- I'm a pretty awesome dog-Mom. You, as my dog-baby, are part of the daily logistical wrangling that currently consumes me. And I'm proud to say that you eat, pee, poop, and get walked on a very consistent basis.
I think we both know where I'm going with this...
I could spend a long time explaining myself away (a woman in her thirties is very good at that), but I won't. It doesn't matter that I can't remember the last time I slept an entire night. It doesn't matter that by the end of the day my hips ache from constant picking up, putting down, and managing two staircases with two kids. What matters is...
This woman in her thirties has been a little chinsy on the love. And that makes me sad.
For your first 'birthday', I got you this:
For your second birthday I got you a new leash.
And it occurred to me this morning that for this birthday, I've gotten you nothing. I didn't even think to get you anything.
But then again, Dan, you are not one for gifts. A stick from the yard makes you just as happy as the most expensive dog treat. What you want more than anything else is a good snuggle on the couch:
Dad is good at it.
So I guess my gift to you this year is to get better at it, too.