What I Always Say About Birthdays

On my birthday, J gave me the ultimate gift of letting me sleep in, and making an amazing, fancy, multi-dish breakfast. While he was supermanning around, playing with Little One and French-poaching eggs, She begged him for a taste of what he was cooking with.
She has this obsession with spices. When we cook She often pleads for a little taste of whatever we are shaking into the pot, maybe because it's the only ingredient type She is routinely allowed to sample. One of Her most cherished possessions, I should perhaps be embarrassed to admit, is an empty curry bottle which She keeps in Her play kitchen and shakes vigorously over the plastic ice cream cone in the little pot. And then sticks in Her face and inhales in a way that gives me uncomfortable flashbacks to that guy in the back of the living room at college house parties.
Apparently the mustard bottle looked like "spiteses" and She begged for a try. After carefully reviewing the ingredients listed, J gave Her a tiny taste. She loved it!
And then She got a bit flushed. And then a blister popped up on Her cheek and started to grow. And by the time they got upstairs to wake me, She looked like this:

It got worse. And worse. So after hastily rinsing the worst of the copious vomit that erupted after jamming some sharp metal into Her thigh, we left the beautiful breakfast on the counter and spent a lovely morning in the emergency room. It's not a party until someone pukes and someone ends up in the ER right? That's what I always say!
And the fun didn't stop there! When we finally got home, we realized that the dogs had kept the party bus rolling while we were out. Our little beasties went rampaging through the house fighting for the right and jumping on the sofa. For instance, they are not allowed to put so much as one hairy toe into my kitchen. But yet. Gone was the lovely breakfast. Gone was the entire baked butternut squash for dinner, the pan shining and clean on floor. Bits of napkin littered the dining room like a tiny snow storm. And don't let me tell you what happened to Little One's puked-on clothes. Oh! Too late! Ha Ha.
We had just enough time to begin wrapping our minds around the evidence when Little One's voice rang out, "Uh-Oh!" And in the silence that followed. The pitter-patter of liquid on the hardwood floor. The fun never. Stopped. After Her third costume change of the day and the banishment of the dogs to the backyard we decided to eat the one part of breakfast not thieved- because it was hiding in the oven! Except it looked like this!

It's not a party until someone pukes, someone ends up in the ER, someone gets kicked out of somewhere, someone pees themselves, something catches on fire, rules are broken and a serious case of the munchies breaks out. That's what I always say!
I may be 28 now. Rounding awfully close to 3-0. But do I know how to rock a birthday or what Peanuts?

Oh yeah.

Still got it.

Later, my cousin took me to a movie, J made this beautiful cake, and Little One unwrapped my presents for me, giggling and healthy and safe. So 28 started off with a bang. But all's well that ends well, right Peanuts? Right. That's what I always say.