It Couldn't Be Worse than the Last One

A year ago, I cried on my birthday. Hot, desperate tears of fear, depression and panic. I stood on our new patio in the hot July sun, surrounded by a never ending landscape of subdivision houses, and I let those tears flow. I didn't want to cry, not in front of the kids, but I simply couldn't keep it all in anymore.

The house behind my heaving back was a mess, half-emptied boxes strewn carelessly about, mountains of stuff everywhere. Our neighborhood seemed deserted, like something out of Poltergeist, just late anonymous houses towering around us. The prospect of making any friends in this new town seemed impossible.

We'd been so busy, so focused on unpacking, but Steve had still tried to make me a cake with the contents of the pantry: a funfetti box cake with vanilla frosting. But it didn't cook fully and collapsed in the middle, and as I hate vanilla frosting, it just made me cry harder.

And then Juliette peed on me. It wasn't intentional, the bathroom I was trying to carry her to was just too far, but still the hot urine flowed down my 36 year old leg and pooled around my naked feet. She cried with shame, and I cried until I couldn't cry anymore. Only then could I laugh at the awfulness of the day.

Yesterday was my birthday, and I shed no tears. I'm another year older, definitely another year wiser, and I laughed and smiled all day. I cuddled with the kids, ran barefoot in the grass, turned my face up to the sun, and I gave thanks. Thanks that in my "late thirties" I can enjoy:

• diaper-free living and less risk of being urinated on, 
• admiring glances from my husband when I dress up a little,
• a new adventure in Chicago,
• the treasure of little hands that still get thrust in mine to cross the street,
• a loving family.