Ever notice that expectations are inversely proportionate to age?  Some people call that cynicism; I prefer to think of it as a right sizing of emotions to adjust to a growing recognition of reality.  I am a subscriber of the ” keeping expectations low at all times so you will never be disappointed” approach.  This mantra has liberated me from years of suffering when faced with situations I can’t control.   So, in that spirit, on my 43^rd birthday, I refuse to go big this year.  I won’t wax poetic on the challenges of aging gracefully, the gratitude I feel for the life I have been handed, the tremors of mid-life realizations that invade my soul on a daily basis, or my hopes, dreams and bucket list for the rest of my life.  Thoughts on these topics have been reverberating in my head for the last week.  But what I really want to talk about on this day is… birthday cake.

I. Love. It.  Everyone has their favorite and mine is chocolate cake with vanilla frosting – and the thicker the sugary frosting the better.  In fact, I often find myself shamefully holding back at birthday parties until the right piece of cake is cut and plated at which point I swoop in a snatch it up, all the while trying to appear nonchalant, as if I couldn’t care less that I got the corner piece with the large purple and pink flower on top.  (Yes, I stop short of actually asking for a “flower.”  I have some dignity.)   I suspect my family knows my game, but are loathe to point it out because I am of advancing age and they need to be kind to people like me.

Not only do I love the birthday cake taste, but I am fascinated by the  nuances associated with the birthday cake ritual.  Everyone  has a different approach and way of “doing cake.”  For instance, after age 16, there is always a discussion regarding whether you put the actual number of candles in the cake – or some lesser variation. (In my family, we typically do ten’s and one’s – an excellent solution.)  Still someone always makes the joke that the fire company is going to show up, as if its the first time anyway has ever cracked that one.  And sometimes, you actually set off the fire alarm.   Inevitably, the person lighting the candles burns the match down to his or her fingertips, but keeps going for some strange reason, as if there was money riding on whether they could get all the candles lit in a single match.

Some families include a candle for good luck… other people smear their name.  Some sing happy birthday first and then blow out the candles – others do the reverse.  In the last few years, Noah has instituted a tradition in which we sing Happy Birthday with a quicker upbeat tempo (think double time) because, as he rightfully points out, singing it slowly (as it is meant to be sung) sounds more like a funeral march than a celebration.  And who cuts the cake?  The birthday person – or do you give that person the day off from working?  Ice cream with the cake?  Of course, but on the side or on top?

Do you still laugh when the magical candles that re-light themselves appear on your cake or do you secretly  want to kill the person who bought them?  And how about those gigantic number candles that you pay $5.00 for, only to burn for 12 seconds before they are blown out.  Do you save those for the next decade?   These are questions for the ages…. Literally.

And then there is always the person at the party who has to pipe up and let everyone know that “they don’t like birthday cake.”  I don’t trust these people (even though I may or may not have given birth to one of them.)  It’s just not something you should ever say out loud.  Memo to cake haters:  The world needs a whole lot fewer party poopers so take a freaking piece of cake, push it around on your plate a bit, and when you no one is looking, quietly hand it to me throw it away.  Especially if there is alot of icing.

So apologies for thoughts less profound on my 43^rd birthday.   I do feel tremendously blessed if not a bit rushed into Thanksgiving this year.  But again, its all about the right expectations and mine are just where they should be.  Next week Ill go back to the meaning of life but for today, I just want it to be a piece of cake.

Happy Happy Happy Thanksgiving to All MoB Readers!

If you are like me, you tend to put a fair amount of stock into how others, especially significant others, celebrate your birthday.  Did they remember?  Did they buy you a present?  Was it a good one?  All very nice things when they go your way.  Personally I’ve had some great birthdays and some tough ones – almost exclusively at the whim of others.  You too?  I think it’s time to stop this trend and ask the bigger question:   How do you celebrate yourself?  Are YOU glad you exist?

Yes.  Yes you are.

Nancy Illman over at Unburied Treasure wrote a darn good blog post about taking charge of your own birthday.  Among other suggestions, she recommends “a glittery tiara to wear while you plan and/or execute your birthday celebration.”  I put this recommendation into the file marked “brilliance,” right next to the suggestion that you argue with your spouse naked.  It sets the right mood.  How can you NOT be in a good mood when wearing a tiara? Or naked? Or naked wearing a…… never mind.

Thank you to my mother for having my 42 years ago.  Mothers are the ones who should really be celebrated on their children’s birthday.  They actually DID something worth mentioning that day.

Thank you to my family – immediate and extended — for trying to make my birthday special.  Thanks to the brothers for eating Israeli food this weekend and to Dave for dealing with boys trying to eat Israeli food without killing them.

Thank you to my dear friends who know it is my birthday without looking on Facebook.  And to my Facebook friends for taking the time to wish me well.  I am so very blessed to have old (you know who you are) and new (you know who you are) friends.

And a special thank you to my sister for digging in her dress up trunk in the basement for me on Sunday.  Today is my 42nd birthday.  And regardless of what this single, meaningless day actually brings, I’m so glad that I get to participate in this thing called life on a daily basis.  Some days are good, some are not, but I’m really thankful I get to play.   So I’m wearing the tiara.  All day.  Even out to lunch.

This was not what I wanted to hear.  The boys ranged from tiny to kindergarten, and they were still cherubic and, for the most part, charming.  I didn’t want my friend fast-forwarding time away to the day when there would be three giant teenager boys in our kitchen, like age progressions on a milk carton.

Time waits for no man or mom, however.  And lo, it has come to pass. 

Malcolm turned 13 yesterday. 

Hugh is 15.  Ian is 18 . And yes, they do all swarm in the kitchen, often all at once, yanking open pantry, fridge and freezer in search of calories to pour into their gaping maws. 

Even  Hugh, who spent his first 12 years as an air plant, existing on only tiny portions of beige foods and water, has now taken a great interest in mealtimes.  As soon as he walks in the door at 3 PM, he asks ”What’s for dinner?”

Fortunately, the boys are all skilled at foraging for themselves.  They can manage their own snacks and occasional meals.  Hugh has taught us all that the perfect amount of time to defrost a bagel in the microwave is 23 seconds, and that pierogies are best when plunged into a bowl of warm water before sauteeing begins.  The other night he prepared pasta for a visiting friend, because Chris and I were nowhere near ready to eat – so he took matters into his own hands. 

Ian makes his own pizzas from scratch, and Malcolm makes his own tuna melts.

As the opposite of a foodie, I am personally thrilled that our boys can fend for themselves in the kitchen. 

For the birthday celebration, however, we let someone else do the cooking. 

The mansion is called Lemon Hill, overlooking the Schuylkill River.  Woody, a history nut and antiques collector, used his connections in the vintage world to rent this space, bring in a tour guide, and make the place all our own for a few magical hours. 

Tracy thought she was coming to dinner at our house, and wondered why we’d insist on a casual 5:30 start time AND very dressy attire.  Instead we got into Tracy and Woody’s car which already contained another couple, Chris and Winnie, and off we were whisked to the surprise destination.

Tracy and Woody at Lemon Hill.

Inside, notice the curved door…

and come into the oval room.

Check out the view.

 And have a glass of wine.

We’ll be using plates that originally belonged to Woody’s grandmother, with water poured into  Tracy’s grandmother’s green goblets.

A wine connoisseur, Woody had purchased a bottle of 1959 Chateau Latour some years ago, saving it for just this occasion.  Luckily, ’59 turned out to be not only a very good year for babies, but indeed the BEST year of the 20th century for this particular wine. 

We received a condensed lesson in wine tasting from Woody, with all the tips on what to look for, sniff for, taste for.  The wine was truly sublime, although I feel that it was somewhat wasted on me.  Ordinarily, I’m quite happy with a bottle of “plonk” – pinot grigio, any brand will do.

The other Chris had done some internet research on each of the 3 bottles of wine.  I recognized the Rothschild name on one of the labels.  Most of what Chris read aloud went over my head, but Winnie and I could not stop giggling over the words  ”underbrush” and “pencil shavings.”

If I look blurry to you, perhaps you’ve had enough wine.

Architecturally, Lemon Hill is full of oval shapes, a theme repeated in our grapes and crackers. 

We ended with a fantastic chocolate-shelled creme brulee, courtesy of Trader Joe’s.  And that was the perfect way to celebrate the nice round number of 50.

We were honored to be part of this small group celebrating a big birthday.  Chris and I agreed this was one of the most special, memorable parties we’ve ever been to.  A reminder that thoughtfulness and creativity always trump flash and splash.

And a reiteration that quiet, old-fashioned elegance is a quality all too rare in our crazed, over-technological lives.

As you know, I’m 51, which puts me right between the two people in this photo.

That’s newborn Ian, 6 weeks, and my beloved Grandma Grace, 99.  They represented the two age extremes of the 1991 family reunion.  Grandma lived to be 100.  She was sharp as a tack almost to the very end.  Well into her 90′s, she would drive around visiting “the old people” who were all younger than she was.

For the last several years of her life, she was in a plain old nursing home, which she viewed as a luxurious break from all the chores she’d done forever.  She was especially glad not to have to shop, cook and wash dishes anymore.  May we all be spry, as alert, and – most crucially – as adaptive as Grandma Grace.  That was a quality bred into pioneering prairie families like hers.  There was no point in complaining about things.  You had to just make the best of every situation, no matter how dire. 

The point in my life where I felt the most exhausted and worn out was in July 1994, pregnant with twins in an un-air-conditioned house, with a pre-schooler who needed lots of TLC.  Everything was swollen, I shuffled around in mules, fell asleep reading simple books to Ian, and felt worn-out and ancient for months on end.

Compared to that, even 51 feels young and frisky!  

If I didn’t know that today was Jennifer’s 51^st birthday, I would never have guessed it.  That is why, among a few other reasons, I never joined the traveling carnival as the age guesser.  The carnival would have lost big time.  But seriously, if I saw Jennifer on the street and was asked how old she was, I would have said “uh…younger than me”.  If you promised me that I would be as cool and good looking when I was 51, I wouldn’t worry so much about it.  Age is kinder to some – Jennifer is one of those wenches people.

So, in honor of Jennifer’s birthday, I am asking all MoB readers to leave a little birthday comment for my amazing blogging partner today — with well wishes and your personal answer to the following fill in the blank:

I am ___  years old.  Most days I feel physically  ___  years old and emotionally ___ years old.

No pressure readers but I would LOVE to get 51 comments in honor of Jennifer.  That means that all you lurkers will have to come out from behind the safety of your anonymous screens and weigh in., which BTW you can do so anonymously.  I’ll start the bidding below. 

Happy Birthday Jennifer!

Well, maybe not too high… 

Okay, I actually think Jennifer and I have come to terms with our most recent parental misstep… 

Fine, we don’t have any guilt whatsoever but we do feel obligated to recognize a birthday.

Last week, on May 15, 2009, as the two of us were blogging away about nothing, Mothers of Brothers quietly turned 1 year old.

Happy Birthday MoB!!   (Look, we made you a cake!)

It’s not that we aren’t excited.  It’s just that this blog = youngest child for both of us.  Those of you with more than one kiddo understand how this works, right?  The oldest gets the huge 1 year old birthday party complete with “friends”, relatives, deli platters, maybe a creepy clown, and lots of cake.  The next child gets a smaller party (no deli and you learned your lesson with the clown; the kids were fine but you had nightmares for a week).  By the time you get to kids 3, 4, 5 or more, those children are lucky if you even remember because at that point you are wise enough to realize that they won’t.  And since MoB is, um, a blog, it will hopefully not remember that we failed to throw it a party.

But make no mistake.  We are still very proud.

I think we happily surprised ourselves, blogging every weekday for a year.  And while it consumed hundreds of hours, it never felt terribly burdensome.  We never stopped to think about the time it took or the effort it required.  We just did it.  Behind the work was a tremendous amount of pride and joy.   Like having children.

It seems like it was just yesterday that we were interviewing midwives WordPress developers to bring our blog to life.  And after a full year, I think we can finally enter the theme editor pages of the admin site without worrying that we are going to break it.  Almost.

If you feel compelled to sing Happy Birthday to MoB today, my boys request that you sing it quickly because “when you sing Happy Birthday slowly (as most people do), it sounds like a sad song.” 

Thanks to all the MoB readers who have joined our party for the last year – whether its everyday, a few times a week, or whenever you are wildly procrastinating.  Here’s to another terrific year!

{nBoys > 5  + Cake * (Parents ≠ Children) + (TypeAMommy – TypeBDaddy) x 2 hours} = Outsource

This formula has never been wrong and this year was no exception.  We took a group of Chase’s friends and cousins to the aptly named Oasis Family Fun Center where they followed strict birthday rules:

Rule #1:  Maintain perpetual motion at all times, especially in ball blaster area.

Rule #2:  Pose for just one annoying picture so Mom will stop stalking you.

Rule #3:  Consume some sort of food dye that turns your mouth blue.

Rule #4: Get embarrassed when everyone sings.

The fact that the only heavy lifting we did for this party was to hand over our credit card to the fine people at Oasis, I suddenly felt that my personal Mommy Universe was out of balance and required an extraordinary effort to reset my guilt level back from its current state of  ”considerable” to its perpetual state of “mild”.  There was only once way to do this, of course – the birthday rainbow cupcake cone.

There are two types of Mommies who even attempt this classroom birthday treat:  The Qualified and The Guilty.  The Qualified Mommies realize that bigger is not better and follow directions when the box says to fill the cupcake holders 2/3 full.  The Guilty Mommies think that larger rainbow cupcake cones will make up for the fact that we were out of town for three days last week.  Needless to say, the Guilty Mommy’s motivations and cupcakes are slightly askew.

Yet both are solely born out of love for this kid of mine.  I marvel at and wonder how we could have possibly created such an exquisite creature.  My son, the world is a better place with you in it.  Chase, Chachi, Bubba, Crimefighter, Cha-cha, Moocha-Loocha, Face – Happy Birthday.  Or as they say in the land to which only you and I travel:  Meep.

So when Rob called me a few weeks ago and asked if he could fly me out to the Buckeye State for Alison’s 40^th birthday (today), I really didn’t think hard.  I even agreed to the surprise element which MoB readers know I abhor. 

I have to say it was pretty awesome.  Yesterday, there was a party at an art studio already planned for Alison and when she arrived, there I was, clad in a smock, holding a brush, and standing at an asel – you know like I do all the time.  In Ohio. 

Rob, Al and I were often the three musketeers in college.  I think our tri-closeness may have sometimes intrigued confused people but, alas, there was nothing remotely interesting going on there.  Simply put, they were meant for each other… and I was meant to be the third leg of our stool of silliness.  It has held up well.

Later today we are having a huge dance party.  In our pajamas.  In Rob and Al’s living room withtheir kids because this is what you do with people you love. I brought the CD of cheesey 80′s dance music. (Two words:  Milli Vanilli)  I think it might be the best party of the year.

I hope when the brothers grow up they have friends like I have friends.  You know, the kind who scarily enthusiastically embrace the concept of recreating a Penn Football game photo circa 1989. Or the kind that  you can dance with in your pajamas.  Or the kind who never mention the fact that it took you 8 years to come join the fun once again.

In this world, there are “the haves” and the “have nots”.  Who you are really depends on where you are standing at any moment.  It would be easy for me to feel like a “have not” after attending a party such as this one, where there were more than a few guests wearing crushed velvet jackets or thousand dollar gowns – including my dear friend, the hostess, who looked gorgeous in the same Dolce and Gabbana green dress Rihanna wore at the World Music Awards.  We toasted, ate and danced the night away… and, of course, we had to get in that cage at some point, if only to appease our friend S.B. who was relentless in his pursuit of photographic documentation of the evening (using MY camera).

In lieu of gifts, D asked that guests make a donation to Autism Speaks, a national organization poised to change the futures for all who struggle with autism spectrum disorders.   D is also a mother of brothers and her oldest was diagnosed as being on the spectrum.  He is the sweetest little boy and is doing very well because his case is on the milder side and they caught it early.

D. has always been an extremely blessed in her professional success. She also happens to be one of the most generous people I know.  Even back in college, I raided her closet frequently, often at her insistence.  But I bet she would give it ALL away today if doing so would help her son and others. 

Sometimes we are “haves”. 

Sometimes we are “have nots”. 

Never are we “have all”.