I’ve been going to bed pretty late the last few days. Nothing about this surprises you, I’m sure. But it’s been especially late the last couple of nights as we’ve been helping the kids with some school things.
Last night, as I half stumbled half walked to my bed, I noticed a little something that Ramona had left me.
I’m not sure what we did that was awesome, but she had left a similar note for The Dude on his side of the bed. (I’m the only one who got flowers, but that makes perfect sense. DUH.)
For two seconds I wondered what she might’ve done. We’re these covert “I’m sorry” flowers? Am I gonna get a phone call later?
At any rate, it was adorable and wonderful and a perfect pick-me-up after a really (REALLY) long day. I can’t even worry about a possible phone call. This time.
I’ve never made my age a secret…but I spent a lot of years avoiding the question. Especially when my kids were much younger. Divulging my age brought more questions and, well, judgment. It was just easier to let people do the math on their own. If they said anything, I was just glad to not know about it.
Thankfully, I’ve gotten better at not caring. And, hey…this past Saturday, I turned 37. (I just thought I should throw that out there.)
To be honest, I’m pretty proud of 37. It’s been a while since my age has felt so…strange. And maybe it’s not that 37 sounds so strange, maybe it’s just that I feel like each year should make me feel more like a grown-up. Although…is there ever a point you feel like a grown-up? Isn’t sending a kid off to college grown up enough?
At any rate, I enjoyed the hell out of my birthday and I just don’t think that’s a bad thing.
IT WAS JUST SO NICE.
As I finished up getting ready Saturday morning, The Dude sent me a text message from downstairs with a picture similar to this one telling me I should come downstairs and start my birthday.
And do I did.
My brother happened to call just as I took that first sip of my Super Special Birthday Bloody Mary (I’m pretty sure that’s the official name) and I laughed when I realized how spicy, but delicious, it was. Explaining to my brother what had happened, and me mentioning the spicy, my husband says (loudly) that I must like my Bloody Marys like I like my Mexican husband.
(For the record, he’s not wrong.)
At that point, all you could hear was Ramona sputtering how gross and “Ew! Ew! EW!” it all was and I’m pretty sure we’ve scarred her for life. But I guess maybe that’s how you know that you’re doing old and grown-up-type-person right. You know, when you completely and thoroughly disgust your children with what can only now be described at spicy talk and that you find it completely hilarious and awesome. I think THAT is how you know that you’ve made it.
Last week I took Ramona shopping for her birthday. She had a very specific and capable ensemble in mind for her birthday and last week’s birthday party. Not only the outfit but very specific shoes.
Each time she explained what she wanted, it didn’t register that her ideal boots were super specific. The morning of the shopping trip, I was discussing the fact that I had been looking into getting a pair of Birkenstocks (I KNOW) when the conversation turned to the fact that Ramona was looking to get a pair of white Doc Martens.
Apparently we were going to need to hop in a time machine to 1992 for our shopping needs.
My feet have never been happier. And 90’s Jill is completely in love with Ramona’s shoe choice. Hell, current Jill is completely in love with her shoe choice.
I’m gonna stop talking like I’m not here.
By the way, since Vogue says these shoes are coming back. Or are back. Or were back. (Because, let’s face it, I’m always behind the trend.) Whatever. THAT. Since they said that, I have completely disregarded Ramona’s concerns that my new shoes are old people shoes.
Her shoe choice has given her a pass. This time.
We celebrated Ramona’s 13th birthday this past weekend. A little early because Easter and spring break can make scheduling a birthday party rather difficult.
Friday afternoon, Ramona informed me that she would love to have an emoji party.
So we did.
I’m not gonna lie, I was a little proud of pulling it off with so little notice. With only a mild amount of danger. (I even went the long way home because I just couldn’t see to merge into traffic.)
I punched out yellow circles and drew as many emoji faces as I possibly could. We pink and yellowed the crap out of all the things.
But because I am 12…I couldn’t help but make chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting. With eyes. As the smiling pile of poo emoji. As one does.
I almost talked myself out of it. (What if our parents hate it and are appalled!) (They weren’t.) WAS I TAKING OUR EMOJI THEME TOO FAR??!
Luckily Amy brought me back to my senses and reminded me it was damn funny. DAMN. FUNNY.
Emoji poop for everyone.
I promised myself that I would get to go to more softball games this year. Afternoon games are hard when you have to leave work SUPER early but this year is important. It’s always important. But you know what I mean.
Today, I got to see my kid play AND somehow I was roped into keeping the scorebook. I haven’t done that in a million years. You can tell by all the mistakes I made. Ha.
The games were at my old high school and I’d be lying if I said that it wasn’t a strange walk down memory lane. I mean…that’s where I met my husband. The guy I was standing next to tonight keeping track of runs and strikes and outs – watching our kid play one of her first games of her senior year.
Time is weird, you guys. My kid is the same age I was when I met The Dude. Watching her play softball where we met is just funny.
It was strange and awesome and completely perfect timing.
I’m glad I left work early.