I have a confession to make. I'm perhaps the worst birthday celebrator in the world. Really. I'm not sure the last time I was on time with a card or a gift. My sister jokes that someday she'll find a package in her mailbox, and she won't know if I wrapped it in birthday paper because it's belated from last year or because it's early for next year.
Lately, Lauren's been quite obsessed with birthdays and birthday parties. I should take a minute to explain that she has a whole class full of imaginary friends -- too many for me to count. It's not at all unusual for her to spend much of her day wrapping her toys up in construction paper so that she can throw a birthday party for an imaginary friend.
Yesterday was my dad's birthday. (The gift will be in the mail sometime, Dad.) I called him late yesterday afternoon, interrupted his birthday dinner, and let all three kids holler, "Happy Birthday!" at the top of their lungs on the speaker phone.
At our dinner less than an hour later, Lauren pipes up and says, "Tell Daddy who's birthday it is."
I think.... and then I think some more. I didn't remember pretend birthday preparations that day, but perhaps I had missed them while I was juggling school assignments for the big kids. Finally I give up and guess. "Jose? Lennie? Grace?"
"No, Mommy. It's Colonel Opa's birthday."
Thankfully she hasn't mastered rolling her eyes at me yet.