Birthdays are the poop.

Everyone has to start somewhere, right? And not always at the beginning. Some stories start at the end. Some, like this one, start in the middle.

Ok. Technically, I'm off by one year, but who's keeping count? Certainly not myself. Anyway, happy birthday to me. Woohoo. 39.

Before you start blowing all those noisemakers and singing "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow", notice the face. Yeah. Not so jolly. (and what's with the fellow there anyway?). Far from excited.

I mean, let's face it. 39 isn't anything to write home to mom about. In fact, it is actually pretty scary when you think about it. It's one number less than 40.

Yeah. We are not going there.

So, I think I am just going to kick back, listen to the clock ticking those hours by, and smelling the goodness of those fat free blueberry muffins baking in my oven. I am going to dream of said fresh baked blueberry muffins, which, I can promise you, are NOT fat free in my dreams.

I'm going to dream of the spacious, never gets dirty historical pink and green Victorian with the Olympic sized heated pool in the backyard that my husband (who by the way looks like George Clooney's identical twin...MY DREAM PEOPLE!!) promises to buy me someday.

I'm dreaming that I have the world's most perfect children (literally I do. Except, most days I don't, but I'm working on that). Never a scratch, never a speck of dirt, perfectly polite and mannerly, never an angry outburst or toddler tantrum.

And I never, ever, ever raise my voice. (MY DREAM, PEOPLE!!)

Then... I wake up.

The 2 year old is crying under his door because he has a poopy diaper and his sippy cup is empty even though he's already pooped three times today (not to mention well past his bedtime) and had a refill on his cup, while the 9 year old ignores the "put the game away, lights out" requests, and George Clooney snores from the bedroom. (I can pretend can't I?)

C'est La Vie. Same poop, different day.