So we celebrated my arrival on the planet.
The Mister and the Boys got up early to make me a cake.
The Mister now contends that by the time he has celebrated my birth 30 times, the cake will be perfect, having learned from all mistakes. Honestly, this is the first cake he has ever really jacked up. I hope this does not set a precedent for the year. And really, it was mostly the frosting that was... um... not traditional, but we all know that I am not harmed by foregoing the frosting. And Betty Crocker is just not the best place to get a cake recipe... unless you like the fluffy box cake type thing, and then it is just easier to open a box and crack a couple eggs.
All this being what it is, My Mister made me a cake for my birthday.
My Mister loves me.
I love my Mister.
I love my cake.
Oh, and I got a bike for my birthday.
It is hot pink.
I feel like a 10 year old.
Now I need a helmet and a lock and I am hoping to find a white wicker basket for the handlebars with big colorful plastic daisys.
Oh, and it needs to stop being February and start acting like April outside so that the boys and I can go around the block.
Geesh, I get demanding-- just because I was born.