Happy Birthday to me

So, 27 years ago today, my mom was in labor. Two weeks late and focusing on a picture of a wave (which in the birthday email that she sent me she informed me that she was about ready to tell my dad to get the *$%^@!* picture out of her face and get something for the pain), my birth was evidently a family celebration. I remember the birthday cards that my grandma used to give me where she would retell the story of the day I was born. Grandma was so excited that she burnt half a loaf of bread trying to make herself some toast before going to the hospital. Mom and Dad were so excited that they could hardly contain the joy bursting forth. They tell me how proud they are of me. How happy I've made their lives. And every year when I would get grandma's birthday card, tears would stream down my face. There was nothing better in the world than my grandma telling you she was proud of you. Because she wasn't just proud, she was darn near ready to take out a full page ad in the paper about how much she loved you.

Twenty-seven is kind of one of those meaningless birthdays. Much like 17. You aren't exactly making any milestones. Last year marked the cross-over from mid-20's. And I'm nowhere close to 30 (although it's much closer than I'm quite ready to admit).

I'm so not where I thought I was going to be by this point in my life, but I would not have it any other way. I probably haven't accomplished very much in the grand scheme of the world, but I feel pretty darn successful. I have two awesome kids, great friends, an incredible husband, and a good job. So what more could you possibly need, right?

I'm off to continue my little celebration of me. So far I've had breakfast at Starbuck's, bought some new hair color (ginger red), and played annoying computer games. I intend to spend the rest of my afternoon preparing for the sock hop tonight. It's not the greatest birthday day, but I can't complain. :)