The day September 17 was just another day on the calendar.

So today's my birthday. Forgive me for being so ho-hum. I'm less enthralled than in years past. Oh, it's not because I'm 41. Come on, you know you wanted to know but were pretending to be too gentlemanly/ladylike to inquire. I'm not one of those women who eschews her birthday and fears laugh lines. I don't have a botox fund or anything. I don't even fall victim to all the Strivectin and Hylexin ads. I don't pay mind to what jiggles and what body parts resemble a certain product in a tub in the grocer's dairy aisle. I don't yet have creaky and achy parts and I'm not counting gray hairs. I certainly don't pine away for my 20s.

Nonetheless, this year, my day is kinda craptastic.

Bird is home sick with pneumonia. Mac Daddy has bolted for some business trip. I have no family around to lend a hand. No one to share the load. No one to spoil me and shower me with attention. I maintain a childlike exuberance when it comes to my birthday. I'm confident it's annoying to everyone around me but I say celebrating a birthday sure beats the alternative. This year, not so much. You see, I love my birthday. Love it. In fact, I love everyone's birthday and make a way bigger deal than Mac Daddy likes. I think he's still miffed that the boys and I flocked him last year. Unlike me, Mac Daddy could care less about his birthday.

I, on the other hand, like to think that only I have a September 17 birthday. Please don't ruin the illusion for me. I like the rose colored world I live in, thank you very much.

But this year, in a week that leaves me sleepless and stressed, tuckered out and settling in, I can't muster up what it takes to celebrate. September 17 is just another day. Getting Deal off to school. Nursing Bird. Cooking dinner. Folding laundry. Sorting through junk mail. Cleaning up stray LEGO pieces. Mediating rifts. Wiping bottoms. Getting dishpan hands.

No one to cook for me. No one to take me out. No one to cut the cake, much less bake it (or buy it, as the case may be). No one to toast my 41 years.

So join me, today, September 17, for the little pity party I'm throwing for myself.


Addendum:
In true Mac Daddy fashion, he left a spread of chocolate croissants and coffee on the kitchen table before he left town. He left a giant slice of my favorite coconut cake from Hayes Barton Dessertery in the fridge. And he even packed Deal's lunch for school. Those little displays of thoughtfulness count eons more than expensive gifts and fancy dinners. Mac Daddy's gestures, waking to my boys running in to wish me happy birthday, the emails, tweets, and Facebook posts, and the sound of my dear friend's children calling me to sing Happy Birthday have already made my pity party a whole lot less pitiful. I'm a thankful birthday girl today.