The remainder of my birthday yesterday was very nice; in the true party spirit, I took some Nyquil and fell asleep on the couch before 9:00. Wooooo! Do I know how to live on the edge or WHAT? Too bad Otto felt the need to give me his cold as a pre-birthday gift. (But guilt is a handy thing, because to make it up to me he gave me a spa certificate for my actual birthday. As soon as I stop leaking snot everywhere, it’s massage time, baybee.)
You’d think that today everything would be back to normal, but NO, because today is Licorice’s birthday! Well, sort of. The truth is that no one knows when her birthday is, of course, because rescue dogs rarely get picked up with a little note pinned to their fur. (“Please take good care of my baby. Her name is Foofybottom and her birthday is on ________. She enjoys rodent entrails and long walks on the beach.”) But the rescue that nursed Licorice back to health assigned her birthday as August 18th, and their vet estimated her age at three, so although it may not ACTUALLY be her 4th birthday today, we’re acting like it is.
You know, for the kids. Stop looking at me like that.
There has been MUCH DISCUSSION over the last few weeks about what Licorice would like to do for her birthday. Licorice has strong opinions on the matter, as you might imagine, what with being a creature who enjoys licking her own butt.
[Digression: For months and months after we got Licorice, she was happy to lay around and sleep in the middle of the floor wherever I happened to be. She did this for a REALLY LONG TIME (just emphasizing that this was not a “new dog” thing but apparently a perfectly “regular thing” with her). But ever since her PTSD freakout at the sight of suitcases this summer before we left her and went on vacation, Licorice has become Cave Dog. If I am in the office? She is under my futon couch. If we are in the family room? She is wedged up against and halfway under the ottoman. In our bedroom? Under the bed. Our standard family joke now is that she is Emo Dog, and hiding in the dark under the bed or the futon is all the better for her to write her sad poetry. And then one day my husband had way too much time on his hands, so please remember that whenever you’re tempted to say that I’m the one who’s a little overinvested in this dog’s internal monologue.]
Anyway. I got up this morning and Licorice and I enjoyed a few minutes of solitude before it was time to get everyone else up.
I have to say, I love my kids at every age and stage, but 4 has always been one of my least favorite ages. (My children did not have Terrible Twos, they had F’ing Fours.) This is the kind of 4-year-old I can really adore… one who is always happy to see me and never tells me no.
Tonight there shall be laughter and merriment and possibly a candle stuck into a hamburger. I can neither confirm nor deny this rumor. Also, I have no idea where that stuffed chipmunk in my closet came from. Let’s just close that door and pretend you didn’t see anything. Now; who wants a belly rub?