That little son of a ....

I woke up this morning, fully prepared to write a birthday missive for Ryan, as it is his birthday today.

How I love the little guy, and how I'd lamented last week to Mr W, "he's gonna be EIGHT!  already!  My baby, my little guy!"  (not that I'm discounting Audrey, who is actually the baby,but really, she is in a class all by herself).  There was the wringing of hands and furrowing of brows and beating of breast that is usually seen only in the best telenovelas.

Mr W countered with a snort and a tale of his own, about how Nolan was on the other side of the dining table, standing on a footstool, which is dangerous as they to tend to scoot out from under the kids and Mr W thought Nolan might put himself through the window behind him.  He said he was about to yell at Nolan to get off the footstool, when he realized he wasn't standing on anything at all.  He is just that tall. 

He felt that the sudden increase in height, the change in Nolan, trumped Ryan's increase in age.

I'll give that to him.  Mr W wins that round.  Because Nolan forgot his shoes at my Mom's weekend before last, and wore a pair of my old sneaks for a day or two.  Wore.  MY.  Shoes. 

At least he didn't ask for the sparkly flip flops. 

But anyway, it's Ryan's birthday today.   He had a little celebration at my Mom's yesterday, with a cake and some pizza and his two cousins.  We usually do this because it's easier to do it over there, for that set of relations,  and the kids dig it because they get an extra 'party'.

So sometimes that's it, sometimes they have a few friends to the local pizza place and we have the "real" birthday party.   (I say a few friends, because if I left it up to Ben, he'd have the whole class there, and there just isn't enough overtime in the world to foot that kind of bill.)   

Ryan had mentioned to me that he wanted to have a pizza party.  Then he said, no, let's have it at home.  No, the pizza place.   (I sighed, because I was hoping we'd be phasing out of these by now, but know I have a few years of them left because of the younger kids.)  I told him that as his Dad was on call this past weekend, we wouldn't do the party then because he might get called away.   And we couldn't do it today, as it is Monday.   How about this coming weekend?

Ryan wasn't happy, but he was okay with it.  Or so I thought.  I got the invites, and was talking to him about it this morning, when...

He told me he really wanted to do it today.  "It's my birthday."

Lest anyone think I'm a pushover...

Oh, screw that.  You people know I'm a pushover. 

I told him that if that is what he truly wanted, he was crazy.  No way I can get anyone to come on a Monday with no notice except us, and the three boys we always do things with..."and Kaylen?"  and Kaylen.  "But I really want Kyle to come, too." 

"Just Kyle?"

"Yes, just Kyle."  
"Honey, he might not be able to come.  And if we do this tonight, this is IT.   Are you sure that's what you want to do?"

"Yes."

In between all of that, I was trying to talk him out of it, thinking I should put my foot down, and say no outright, which as you know is probably the best course of action.

But.

It's his birthday.  I'm coming off the heels of bargaining with Ben all summer, my sweet Ben who always gets shuffled, who didn't get a party or cake-at-Nana's like usual because he was sick on his birthday and school let out and his mother is unorganized and selfishly wanted summer to come so she could have relief from the grind of pick-up/drop-off then bang, summer was over; now I'm trying to save birthday face.  (Ben and I have his party for this year on the books already, Mr W-is-my-witness.  Poor kid isn't getting stiffed again.)   They're good kids, who don't ask for much (ha) and I can do this one thing. 

Good lord, I gave birth, why is that not enough?

I'm being ridiculous and I know it.

What is it they say, that acknowledging you have a problem..???

Also, this Kyle he speaks of, I'm not sure which one he means.  There's a Kyle A and a Kyle B in his class, and one of their mothers hates me.   She is a petite little-you-know-what that treats me like I'm the bull in the china shop.   Really.  She's smirky and repunante, and makes me uncomfortable. 

As I leave the message on the answering machine, I'm hoping beyond all hope that it's not that Mom. 

I guess that this is my birthday missive to Ryan, that I love him enough to try and make this happen for him today.  As unreasonable as the request is, this is one of those Mom-things that Moms do.

I can do this.  I feel better.  Well, I felt better, until:

Audrey just came up to me, with a question.

"Mommy, does everyone have ducks?"

"Ducks?" 
"Yeah, ducks."  She points at her girly parts.  "Peepee comes out of them...."

Are you kidding me?

"Does everyone have one?"

It's 9:15 am on a Monday morning.  Do I not get a running start before I have to jump through this hoop?

<No, everyone doesn't have one, but everyone can be one.>

I'm a little baffled as I don't do slang words when I talk about parts with the kids.   I tell them that other words exist, what they are, etc.  She says she asked one of her brothers the word, for where the peepee comes out.  Fabulous.  Now I get to figure out who's giving out false information.  And who isn't closing the bathroom door when they're in it.

"Sweetie, if you have a question, ask me or Daddy.   Not your brothers."

She has school today, and it's her turn for show-and-tell.

I hope she sticks to ponies.