Mother’s Day this year was extra special, as it fell on the day I actually became a mother.

My golden Mother’s Day, if you will.

Sunday, Jude turned five.  That’s a whole hand of age.

In three pushes, that boy transformed me into a mom, thus ensuring I could never again wear low rise jeans, leave the house without my purse, or wear underwear without a pantyliner.

I’m thankful most days.  Though, they are living breathing reminders that I am getting older, fatter, and more out of touch.  I can’t keep up with them.  They outnumber me, they figure out technology faster than me, and the shit they watch, it just makes no sense to me.

In fact, most days, children’s television leaves me feeling like I’ve been roofied.

Is that…a dinosaur singing about…poop?

But, Muno looks like a…vibrator…right? Like the bumped g-spot kind?

Why are we dancing?  These songs aren’t even real words.

Is my skin made of pudding?  Why does it look like you all have fangs?

And then, I wake up in bed with a pounding headache, wearing a bathing suit full of raw bacon, mismatched galoshes and a headband with Shrek ears on it, wondering why it’s so quiet and…smells like…smoke?

But, that’s motherhood for ya.  Always exhausting.  Always confusing.  Always full of vaginal discomfort and raw meat.

So, on this fifth year of his life, Jude has started to come into his own.

He’s a real person, with opinions and sarcasm and clear understanding of his private parts.

Every year, I ask him how he’d like to spend his birthday, and every year he tells me he wants to go to Chuck E Cheese.

And, I am left reminding him we will never ever go to Chuck E Cheese, which then leads to a half hour explanation about what staph, semen, and the shelf life of botulism is.

He’s completely crushed, but I went to one of those singing robot animal pizza places once, on my 8th birthday, and I haven’t stepped foot in one again.

You see, you were never supposed to touch the singing animals, but I was such a big fan of the hippo playing the keytar, I simply couldn’t help myself.  But, once I climbed up on stage to give him a hug, I saw that the back of his head was missing, and in it’s place was this blinking, killer robot, metal hippo skull, and I was so scared, I fell sideways from the stage, chipping off the bottom half of my front tooth.

I spent the rest of my 8th birthday in an on-call emergency dentist office with my mom, holding half my tooth in a small cup of milk, while my little brother got to stay behind with all my friends, using all my hard earned tickets to get a pair of x-ray glasses and Chinese handcuffs.

We don’t even have dental insurance, Jude is not going to Chuck E Cheese.

So, instead we spent Mother’s Day, the day where I routinely pit my children against each other in a dog eat dog attempt to let them woo me with gifts and public declarations of love until a pick a favorite whose only reward is a bag of M&Ms and the coveted spot next to me in bed while we watch the Top Model marathon, running around the house in bathrobes carrying light sabers, until we blew the candles out on his Star Wars cake, because yes, that’s right folks, we are offically done with birthdays.

Halle-fucking-lujah.

Andy, April 5th.  Wyatt, April 13th.  Me, April 28th.  Gigi, April 30th.

By the time Jude’s birthday on May 8th arrives, we are broke, and so fucking sick of cake, I secretly pray he asks me for birthday pie.  Or birthday burritos.  I mean, you can stick a lit candle in anything, really.

Except for vodka.  Learned that one the hard way.

Arm hair never really grows back the same.

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