I fret and fret over the details of everything, especially my children's birthday parties. The pressure of knowing they'll only turn a certain age once is the mother's equivalent of being told this is your last day to live. I tediously clip glamorous birthday party photos and dream up guest lists and menus. As time draws closer, inevitably and cosmically, my plans are hurried, I race around trying to secure the worlds most perfect cupcake liners and I find myself alone in Michaels when I should be at home with my babies.
My time is short and my Oakwood apartment in the dead of winter isn't a dreamy aisle of a Clementine orchard with perfect evening light. But it is where we are now and my Grandma's spaghetti, store bought mini-cupcakes and our laminated table moved across the room near the window for a view of the thankful winter birds dining in our new bird feeder just outside, is more perfect than I ever could have planned.