In my family of origin we have a little tradition whereby the birthday celebration somehow gets streeeeetched into a weeklong fun-stravaganza of indulgences for the lucky celebrant. I’m not sure how this got to be the case, considering there are seven of us kids, but so far it’s something I’ve managed to carry into my own little family, basically throwing it around as a blanket excuse for partying for longer than 24 measly hours.
And so I give you Joey’s 3rd birth week. Yesterday, because I hate myself, we went to the zoo at/around naptime. And then to a major league baseball game. Yes, all in one day, and no, it wasn’t planned. And yes, I know what causes that. Stupid mommy guilt, that’s what causes that.
Anyway, we had a free zoo pass gifted by a sweet friend who had the temerity to meet us for the first day post Noah’s second flood (we had nary a spot of water damage in our ‘hood, thankfully) with her 2 daughters, one of whom is 4 weeks fresh and came with a matching c-section scar for mommy. So basically super mom. Who was I to say ‘no, we can’t possibly do the zoo at 11.’ So we went. And honestly, it was so much fun for all parties involved, that I took nary a picture, but let it be known that Joey thinks Giraffes are “Big, biiiiig zebras” and that mommy tigers have nurses to nurse their baby tigers. And nurses = boobs.
Around 4 pm, when nap time ought to have been ending but was only just beginning, Dave texted me to say he’d scored 4 Rockies tickets at work and didn’t we want to take the boys to see the Cardinals get poached at 6:40 pm that very evening, 20 minutes before bedtime? Why yes, yes we did. So up came the boys, 70 minutes into their ill timed naps and very, very angry about it, and off went we and a pair of Jimmy John sandwiches and smuggled water bottles to Coors Field for a very lovely 6 innings of baseball.
This was another huge home run with the boys, if you’ll forgive my saying so, and Joey kept raptously singing out “GO ROCKIES” and whooping whenever anybody did anything and the crowd made any noises of approval in response. On either side. He also wore his Uncle Patrick’s little league hat from last season, and was in full-on big boy mode as he strode manfully about the rows and rows of seats, reassuring me when I coaxed him back down to our row, 30 levels below, “I’m just being up here right now Mommy, it’s okay.”
Alright son. It’s your birthweek, after all. Counting down till the real party gets crunk on Saturday night, complete with cousins, a gluten free chocolate cake, and a Superman pinata filled with tiny bottles of something special for all the adults forced to participate.
We love our little Jojo, attitude and all. What a wonderful three years it has been.