I’ve assumed that I would have a long and heartfelt post to write for Rowan’s first birthday, full of all the feelings and realities of this past year. But honestly? I’ve said it all so many times already. So rather than rehash all my feelings, let’s talk about Rowan.
Kids don’t care if you spend a week on Pinterest searching for the most clever ways to make a party look like it came straight from Willy Wonka’s brain. They don’t give a shit about themes. Kids want to know where the cake is and what they can climb without getting in trouble. They don’t want specific complicated crafts and games, they want a bunch of misc supplies to supplement their imagination.
I hate April Fools Day. I spend a lot of time actively avoiding looking foolish, and here is a day whose sole intention is to make me look like an idiot. No thanks. It’s not going to be pretty if someone puts a box of donuts in the workroom that actually contains carrots.
My relationship status with nostalgia apps like Timehop and Facebook’s On This Day is, “it’s complicated.”
Rowan is sick. Again. I remember well the welcome-to-daycare series of plagues, but for Rowan a regular cold seems to turn into something more. This is the third time I’ve taken him in for coughing, with the second time being the dreaded RSV and hospital admission. I think he has had more sick visits in the eight months since his hospital discharge than Lorelei has in her entire six years. He’s on his second ear infection, and we’ve gone through almost an entire box of Xoponex nebulizer treatments. He spent hours last night screaming inconsolably.
She wanted a Honey I Shrunk the Kids birthday party.
I made giant decorations. Baked the cake. Prepped and planned. The weather was beautiful; an early April day perfect for kiddie pools and bathing suits. I was 29 weeks pregnant.
My village. My friends. My family. I’ve talked and blogged about my village ad nauseam. If I ever win a major award I won’t have to write a speech, I can just go copy and paste.