This week, we're prepping for the birthday party. That is, amid the pre-school orientation, the meet-the-teacher day, the new cleaning lady starting, my sweet niece spending most of the week with us, this stupid incontinent dog, and our first week of homework, we're doing the best we can. 

And, by we, I mean me. Adam is in California. Of course. (Which isn't to say he wouldn't rather be here, just that he isn't, which is a whole other post. Maybe later.)

But, here I sit, sweating bullets after cleaning the toy pit we call a basement and painting two walls (after trying to clean up some spots turned out a little disastrous.) The favors are done, menu compete, inside decorations done, final arrangements made with a helpful caterer. (The cake was cancelled. Womp, Womp. We'll make do.) And for naught, because Annie bounces around without a care in the world, the least of which her birthday. I do it because I love it and I love her and because that girl deserves a party. And, to be perfectly honest, so do I. 

With every speck of glitter (and there are lots of those) and every pshhh of the spray adhesive can, every brush stroke of paint, every revision of shoes, of dress, of absolutely anything, I tell myself it's worth it. And it is. We all do it. 

To be honest, the party isn't really for her. It's for us...for another first year complete, for first milestones, captured and not, for the passing of the seasons and the integration of our daughter into the family. And those reasons alone are enough to celebrate, and although she hasn't a single opinion or worry about her party, it's actually fine because her "day" is actually "our" day. Our day to show our family and friends, "Here she is, our daughter, and we all made it through this year. Isn't she perfect?" And they all say, "Yes, she is." 

And we'll all sing a little song and have a shot of fireball whiskey and eat some cake...er, cupcakes.

Details to come!