Really! It is! I am 30sh. And get ready to be wowed because this picture is great:
That's me and my mama 30sh years ago.
Birthdays should really be all about the moms. (After today, of course. Today it's all about me.) After all, they are the ones who did all of the hard work what with the puking and the getting fat and the stretch marks and the labor pains and the squeezing of something the size of an extra large squash out of their you know what.
Moms should be the ones patted on the back and toasted. We should make them a cake and get them a gift and say, hey, thank you! Thank you for enduring what you did... sore nipples and late night feedings, potty training and bed wetting, temper tantrums and lego messes, the brushing of snarly hair and the reading of the same story over and over again, the constant ridicule of their cooking and the scrubbing of barf out of the carpet, the payment of all that money for braces and retainers, the sitting through awful band concerts, the showing up for piano recitals, and so much more.(Thank you, mom, especially for not disowning me when I dropped baby Joshua. On the head. I think he turned out okay despite that incident. I was seriously only trying to help.)
This morning, my mom brought us bagels and juice and gave me gifts and then proceeded to wash all my dishes and clean my kitchen while I sat like a lump on my new furniture. Then she came back later in the day to watch my kids while John and I went over to a friend's house.
I'm a lucky duck.
This is kind of a lame thank you, but thanks mom. And congratulations on the whole being a mom thing for 30sh years. Here's to 30sh more, together.