It’s my birthday…
After about 22, birthdays kind of suck. You wake up all, “Yeah, it’s my birthday!” And then… you go to work, or get up and tend a child. After being disappointed for about 10 years, you just come to expect it. Especially if you, like I, have a special needs child.
My husband (he’s home from work since it’s a Saturday) got up and took care of Chance’s morning needs, but then he left to go shopping (he’s a beyond late kind of shopper). So here I am, on my 51st birthday, changing Chance’s diaper, getting his formula, worrying, worrying, worrying. Actually, the worrying never stops:(
Will he have a seizure today? Is he getting enough nutrition? Is he in pain? What if he breaks another bone? Why hasn’t he pooped in 8 days? Can I keep him alive?
Of course, we’re going out to dinner tonight where we’ll meet up with my Mother and one of my sisters. I’m really looking forward to that! Plus, it’s an Irish restaurant and I plan on having an Irish coffee, maybe two!
Update! I had 3 Irish coffees and I’m not really 39.