America, my brother had a birthday. How do I know? Because we have been celebrating it. FOR A MONTH. As you know, America, I love my Jacob. But, seriously. A MONTH?
I’m going to be honest with you, America. It has been . . . how to put it? . . . Oh yes. INSUFFERABLE. He’s a year older. I get it. ENOUGH WITH ALL THE HOOPLA. (What if we use up all the balloons before MY birthday?)
First Jacob had his party with his school friends. Then he had his party IN SCHOOL. Then we had a party with our friends from our old town. By my calculations, this means Jacob is now three years older than he was before. So, riddle me this: how come Mr. Mature still collapses in giggles after hearing the words “pu pu platter”??
Anyway, while we’re on the topic of birthday parties, here’s something NOT to do to a toddler: talk about a party, unless it it going to start RIGHT NOW. Or NOW. Or maybe in a few seconds like . . . NOW. Because when you talk about going to a party The Emma starts to prepare. I put on my party dress. And wait for someone to give me cake. If you then look confused and tell me that NOOOOooooo, the party won’t start for another two weeks, this is what is likely to happen:
1. I will throw myself on the ground in despair. (No, Mommy. It’s not cute. Take. Me. SERIOUSLY.)
2. My blood sugar will drop to dangerously low levels: BECAUSE MY BODY WAS EXPECTING CAKE. (This may trigger #1. If it hasn’t already occurred. But let’s be honest. It probably has.)
There is really only one way to right this wrong. I. Need. Cake.
But moving on. Here is a quick recap of Jacob’s many birthdays:
First there was the party with friends from school. At an arts and crafts place. Someone started a drinking game. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what it was supposed to be. ‘Cept that the arts-and-crafts place apparently does not have something called a “liquor license”. (Major. Oversight.) So instead Jacob and his friends played, “Raise your hand if . . .” It went like this:
Some six-year-old: Raise your hand if you are in Ms. S’s kindergarten class.
(They were all in Ms. S’s class. About half the hands went up. Oh, Ms. S. You have your work cut out for you.)
Some other six-year-old: Raise your hand if you are ready for cake.
(SING IT, BROTHER.)
Jacob: Raise your hand if you have an adorable little sister named Emma.
(It’s possible that the last bit there never actually HAPPENED. At least not out loud.)
After this party was over, I saw Mommy loading a bunch of presents into the back of our car.
Me: Dat peh-sent for me, Mommy?
Mommy: No, Emma, these are all for Jacob.
Me: Dat one for me, Mommy?
Mommy: No, Emma. I’m sorry, these are all for Jacob. On your birthday, you will get presents.
So, I climbed into the car. Sat down on the floor. And did what any rational, introspective two-and-a-half year old would do. I screamed. For about fifteen minutes. There is simply no justice in the world, America. And if I can’t bring about justice, I will AT LEAST bring about migraines.
On the way home, I asked Mommy for a wipe. “Do you need to wipe your nose, Doodle Bug? Here you go.” Wipe my nose? HELLS NO. If no one is going to take me seriously, it’s time for me to take action. Minion tattoo from my goody bag: check. Wet cloth: check. One inch of awesome on my left arm: CHECK. That’s right, America. The Emma is getting her tatt on.
When we got home from the party, Jacob started opening his presents. He got some pretty cool stuff. And then it happened, America. I’m almost too ashamed to admit this. He opened up one of the boxes. And said this:
Jacob: What’s this thinga-ma-bobber?
It. Was. A. Football.
Nice work, Mommy and Daddy. Your child made it six times around the sun without being able to identify a football.
A few days later, Mommy went into Jacob’s classroom for the birthday celebration at his school. Jacob’s classmates made him a big birthday banner. And drew pictures on it of everything he likes. Minions. A Mo Willems pigeon. Animals. It was awesome. (Except for one major oversight: did they run out of yellow crayon before they could draw my thick mane of golden hair?) Anyhoo, Mommy read the class one of Jacob’s favorite stories. About a knight and a dragon. And then, just as Mommy was about to leave, Ms. S. asked her to give Jacob a birthday message. In front of the class. Mommy was not prepared to give Jacob a birthday message. In front of the class. Or anywhere else for that matter. Mommy had to do some fast thinking. And said something like this. “Well Jacob, it has been a wonderful six years. Not a lot of sleep, but . . .” And then Jacob yelled out, “I sleep until 7:00am!” And then EVERYONE ELSE IN THE CLASS yelled out how late they sleep. Take home message: the mommies and daddies of kids in Ms. S’s class are probably REALLY WELL rested.
And that was the end of Mommy’s birthday message.
Because even that wasn’t quite enough celebrating, a few weeks later, our friends from our old city came to visit us for one more party. This one was for me and Jacob. (So, clearly, it was the most important.) I had a lovely time catching up with M’s daddy. He and I used to have a lot of play dates together while Jacob was playing with M. I dragged my lawn chair over right next to his.
Me: I sit RIGHT next to YOU.
(I could tell he was thrilled.)
M’s Daddy: So, Emma, what do you think of the implications of the recent supreme court decision?
Me: I go to the zoo with Mommy and Jacob. We saw de giraffes.
M’s Daddy nodded vigorously. (He. Gets. Me.)
Well, America, that’s all for now. Stay tuned for my next blog when I relate the mystery of Mommy’s secret admirer . . . I’m not sure who it is but he has poor spelling (and apparently fairly low standards. Just kidding, Mommy. Kiss, kiss.)