worst-case scenario

If I had to think of the worst birthday, I might describe a day like the one I had yesterday. Throwing up, sick kids too, husband trying hard to finish a job an hour away, dinner plans cancelled. I had my little pity party, I did. I had it at 12:05, barely five minutes into my birthday, when my eldest crawled into my bed and started throwing up. I threw a little tantrum in my mind right there, staring angrily back at the evil red numbers of my alarm clock. I charged on rapidly through the 12 stages of grief, and resigned myself to my fate. By morning, I had caught the bug, and it didn't really matter anymore.

I have good kids. They get it when I need a little extra cooperation. They were quiet and watched movie after movie, and generally were low maintenance. They were kind to each other, mostly.

I got various phone calls both to wish me a happy birthday and offer help. In short, I was cared for. My husband made it home with pretty gifts, feminine, artsy gifts that were just perfect. I let the little people stay up to see him, since we hadn't seen him since Monday. They whirled and danced around him, until we all tumbled down to read some stories. They were scooped into bed, and Dan and I sat down to a cup of Earl Grey and some chocolate ( thanks Jess!). We caught up on our week, laughed about our kids, watched an episode of Life, and collapsed. I'll take my worst-case scenario.