Today is my sweet Jireh’s seventh birthday.
We have a fun day planned, filled with presents (a vintage sewing machine for her and Miriam to sew on), a cake at her grandmother’s and a sleepover with cousins.
So, this morning she woke up and bounced into my room, excited about her day as only a sanguine can be, giggling and exclaiming how she can’t believe the day she counted down to was already here! We snuggled and I told her the story of her birth, how her father told me “I don’t know if I can handle this today” when he found out I was in labor as I made his breakfast between contractions, and how she was born with frosted-tip hair as though she’d just stepped out of a salon rather than a uterus.
Unfortunately, it was a doozy of a weekend, and we woke up to a mess. And reality set in. And I started asking for help with the chores that certain children (including birthday girl) had been remiss in attending to over the past week. And since we have a time limit, well, yeah I was getting slightly loud about it. And birthday girl started crying about how it wasn’t fun and I didn’t love her.
So I gave the kids a choice. They could have a sweet, calm mom who had nowhere to go, and could take the day in a stride, and relax, and give hugs out like they’re going out of style. Only there’d be no leaving the house.
Or they could have a grumpy mom who clapped frenetically, shouting “Let’s go, let’s go!” and who loaded them up in the van and took them to MorMor’s house for a party and cake and a sleepover.
To a man, they voted for Grumpy Mom.