36

Yesterday was my 36th birthday. It was the first time, in awhile, that I felt relatively normal and wanted to do celebrate it. Four years ago I had morning, afternoon and evening sickness and the last three years I've been too tired to remember what year it was, let alone how old I was going to be (The Monkey wouldn't sleep much, but that's another post). So, Tom jumped on the opportunity and arranged for our little family and couple of friends to have dinner at a Moroccan restaurant in Sacramento. Let's just say The Monkey was bored and tired. Tom ended up leaving with him hoping he would fall asleep in the car. We'll he did, until Tom got home and turned off the engine. The Monkey woke up to asked, "When we have cake?" and "When we open presents?". We did have cake and we did open presents. And The Monkey finally went to bed.
It's funny how life shifts. If someone would have told me years ago about my 36th birthday, that my kid went to dinner with us and was tired, fussy and bored, I would have said, "What? No way. Where's the sitter?" So, I would tell myself now about how excited my little monkey was and that the first thing he said to me that morning was, "Happy Birthday, Mommy."