Jane is nine-years old today. Actually, since 3:33am this morning, but she let me sleep in a little later this year*
After swimming lessons, we went out to lunch at the restaurant of her choosing,** and then attended her godparents’ annual Christmas/New Year’s Bash, where two hundred people in three huge rooms sang Happy Birthday to a kid who couldn’t decide whether to float off the ground in ecstasy or curl up in a terminally mortified ball.
But she did bow to the crowd afterward—to thunderous approval—and if her smile had been any bigger, the corners would have met at the back of her head.
Her real party is tomorrow. Bellydancing in a real studio with real zils and jingling scarves and a Monster High cake in the likeness of Frankie Stein.***
I’ve been reliably informed that it doesn’t get any better than that.
Happy Birthday, sweetheart. Thanks for being born to us—it’s hard to imagine what our lives would’ve been like if you’ve decided otherwise.^
We love you.
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*But not much. She didn’t wake up this excited on Christmas.
** Which I hope had more to do with the prospect of Chocolate Lava Cake for dessert than the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese she ordered as an entree.
***Which has nothing to do with bellydancing and may in fact be the least appetizing confection I’ve seen outside of the Groom’s cake in Steel Magnolias—but I’m not the demographic. And cake, to me, has always, and forever will be, cake.
^Quieter. Less expensive. More serene. Tidier. Boring as hell.
Earful of Cider 