TuttleTree.com

When I was a kid my brothers and I would fantasize about having a birthday-week instead of just a single birth-day. We would talk about all of the chores we wouldn't do and all of the sweets we would eat. Because when you're a kid it doesn't matter if the grass gets two feet tall, the dishes stack up to the ceiling, or the dirty laundry piles get so big you can play hide-and-seek in them and actually not be found. It's funny how fantasy has become reality, except we still have to wash dishes, mow the grass, and do the laundry. And only eat one piece of pie. And bowl of ice cream. Per meal. As far as you know. (Cavities be damned!) I remember a handful of birthday parties at my parents' houses growing up – all of my friends and family in one place for four exhaustingly exciting hours filled with cake and presents and water-balloons. And of course now that we're all growed up, and moved out on our own, it's not so easy to do that. So we get together with whomever can come, whenever it's convenient. Make no mistake, I'm not bickering – only observing. So we get together with our friends, and now that we're married, two families, whenever possible. We celebrated with Megan's family yesterday, and we'll drive down and celebrate with mine this weekend. And don't forget that whole ordeal with the Plumber and Hibachi a couple of weeks ago. So intentionally or not, birth-day has become birthday-week(s). And you won't hear me complaining… I'll be the one in the corner stuffing his face with pie, every time.