In a couple of weeks my daughter will turn twelve so, naturally, the only thing which has occupied her thoughts for the past month is her birthday.Â I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone get so excited about it and she does this EVERY year.Â She’s planning, thinking, looking at pictures of cake on the internet, figuring out what she wants, what she wants to have for her special dinner, where she wants to go out to eat after church the following Sunday because it’s the one Sunday of the year which she can choose.
In short, she’s just about driven me crazy with it.
We finally settled on a murder mystery party–age appropriate, of course–and she’s got seven little girls coming over in costume to figure out the crime.Â It’s set in the 1800’s, so we’ve done up the invitations, complete with the wax seal and have them ready to go today.Â (Probably should have thought about the 100+ degree weather before that little stroke o’ genius, but…Â )Â
“Okay,” I said, once the last invitation was ready.Â “We’re not going to talk about your birthday anymore until it’s here.”
“But what about my–”
“We’re not going to talk about it.”
Pitful, whining, miserable face.Â “But it’s my birthday!”
Yes, I am an evil mother.