I have yet to share the details of Birthdaypalooza,
(which, of course, included lots of kisses and lots and lots of cake. And cupcakes.)
like the fact that we spent my birthday weekend in New York City.
It was magic.
Or, as some may say,
it was the icing on the cupcake.
It was the perfect day.
This year, my birthday meant strolling through Central Park with a peaceful sleeping girl nestled into the nook made by my husband’s arms.
It meant having an occasion to point and shout, “Follow that bird!”
It meant eating an ice cream sundae, smothered in malt balls and fudge. At brunch.
It meant getting a t-shirt for my baby, and then a matching t-shirt for her Bitty Baby. And then the matching t-shirt for myself.
It meant snapping photo after photo of my parents and my daughter smiling at one another.
It meant feeling a bit old, and then being mistaken for the “big sister” a moment later.
It meant watching my girl feed herself my freshly made tomato basil spaghetti by the handful and then letting her hug with me with red, saucy paws.
It meant hearing my daugher learn 3 new words in one day.
It meant spotting feathers.
It meant dancing on a giant piano.
It meant everything.