Your Birthday, After Children
“This one, or this one.”
He held both up. Very serious.
It’s for Mommy’s birthday.
You hadn’t been asked your favourite colour in about thirty years.
Apparently it’s still blue.
You picked. He approved.
Wow. This is so nice for Mommy’s birthday.
The balloons are blue. You have opinions about placement.
Your hype person is now a toddler.
No one will sing Happy Birthday with more conviction.
No one will watch the candle situation with more investment.
He stopped everything midway because you’d forgotten to put on the party hat.
Asked with great consideration what colour hat you wanted.
At least one child will be sick.
Not might be. Will be.
My last birthday: one child projectile vomiting across the table, directly at me, as I sat down with cake.
The other: fever of 38.5, passed out on the sofa clinging to a party hat.
You might not blow out the candles on your actual birthday.
We did it the next day.
Or you might not blow them out at all — you can see them trying so hard to hold back.
You look at their faces.
You let them.
The morning is still just a morning.
The baby doesn’t know it’s your birthday at 6:50am.
He knows he wants Weetabix. He knows he’s annoyed about something.
The Weetabix leaves the spoon before either of you has a chance to discuss it.
Please don’t throw Weetabix at me. It’s my birthday.
Said in complete seriousness to someone who has already moved on.
You still do the bedtime. The bathtime. The morning.
Your birthday happens inside all of that now.
Around the edges. Between the sick child and the balloons you picked yourself.
The balloons do look good, though.