Recently, I was cleaning out Rubbermaid tubs full of old papers and school things with my mom. You know, things made of popsicle sticks, purple glue sticks, and too much glitter. While she got teary-eyed and insisted on keeping some poorly colored-in pumpkin I had made when I was 3 years old, I found handfuls upon handfuls of birthday cards from family. Mom had kept my birth announcements, 1st birthday cards, all the way through my 18th birthday. I come from a big family, both on mom’s side, and dad’s, so, after doing some quick calculus, I came up with nearly 200 bazillion cards.
Today I am 27 years old.
Because of my crazy card-sending, Mickey Mouse ice cream cake-eating family, I have grown to LOVE my birthday. It’s a whole holiday to me. Between public countdowns, reminding people about my love of peanut butter cookies, and practically yelling from the rooftops that my birthday is approaching, I like to make sure no one could possibly miss such an important day.
Happy birthday to me!