After church yesterday, I came home and I fell on my face on the bed thinking just give me one . . . minute . . . Six hours later the phone drug me out of my catatonic state. I went downstairs to see what everyone had been up to. They were all gone. Went over to grandma's house on Winslow's authority. (Because you really trust a five year old to relay messages, right? Uh-huh.) Which was fine–they walked over together, and really, what good was I to them, right? Since I was unconscious. Frighteningly so–seeing as they also made Quinton a birthday cake, lit the candles, cut and ate the cake, without me, and I didn't hear a thing. Who needs Mom?
The sad thing (one of them) is–I don't even know if anyone sang to him. I SLEPT THROUGH MY SON'S BIRTHDAY! The entire thing. Yup. That's me. Mother of the year. Thank you.
So now, I think, "You know, I should get him a DQ cake today, and do it right." And then I think, well, would that send my kids the message, "Hey, thanks for being so thoughtful and helpful to Quinton yesterday, but YOUR cake just really didn't cut it. Not good enough. Let me do it right."?