This Saturday, I turn forty. Forty years old. The big Four-Oh. As in, OH my goodness, you must be kidding me. Moms are forty. (And we all know moms are old!) People who say things like, “I remember when I used to go out and do that!” are forty. In fact, when I was younger, forty was so old I was amazed that my parents actually knew how to go out and have fun without having kids show them what fun really was all about. Forty was so over-the-hill. Forty marked the difference between us and them. It was huge!

Today? Oh, today forty means something entirely different.

You turned one today. That's one entire year of being compared to your brother, something I know I'm not supposed to do, but can't help doing every single minute of every single day. It's what you get for arriving second, I think. There's not much I can do about it. I mean, the both of you are just THERE and he's not so much older than you that I've forgotten what he was like when he was your age. He took his first real steps at his first birthday party, for example, while you didn't even want to bum-scoot. You probably could have used a morning nap today (though you're refusing them at all, so I don't even bother) and that meant you refused to leave your perch on my right hip. It's your preferred method of transportation even when you're in a good mood, so it'll probably be a while before you deign to plant your feet on the floor.

I'm turning thirty on Saturday and I'm feeling pretty good about it. None of this, "It's my second 29th birthday!" stuff for me. I spend my days looking after a husband, two children and a blog, and I'm pretty proud of those things. I own this mom body and my mini minivan and the two gray hairs I decided, for the first time, not to pull out this morning. I'm 30 and I've earned it.

Now I know why we are only given one birthday per year. Sure, you can argue the logic there can only be one birthday because you are only born once and therefore you can only have one day to celebrate. That is absolutely not the reason we only have one birthday a year. The real reason? Because parents need an entire year to recover from their kids’ birthday parties. For real. Look it up.

My daughter turned eight on April 2nd but through illness after illness after illness (with some swine flu scare thrown in for good measure), we had to postpone her party until this past weekend. Birthday parties where I live are usually a big event. I think it is written in the city by-laws that it has to cost a fortune and be held somewhere fun. You spend hundreds of dollars to show up somewhere with nothing but the birthday girl and some cake and leave with presents and a lighter wallet. But my daughter decided she wanted to have a slumber party. I thought that was a brilliant idea. Both of my boys had sleepover parties when they were around her age. They were easy. They were loud, but easy!

You see with the boys all that I really had to do was put them in the game room with some video games, movies and a pizza. (And occasionally some air freshener to cover over the boy-feet stink.)

Jack's first birthday is Saturday. And do you know what that means? The first birthday party. Gah. Kill me now.

For someone who loves throwing parties, this lack of excitement is new territory for me. Usually I've got my calendar out weeks in advance, plotting when to buy the food, make the favors, put up the decorations and bake the treats. I always end up inviting a ton of people and spend the days leading up to the party oscillating between aaauuuuggghhhh what if nobody comes?! and auuuuuuggghhhh what if we don't have enough room?! I make my husband absolutely insane with my Deranged Clean Freak persona (which only makes her entrance right before a party, unfortunately) and my insistence that the entire living room needs rearranging. But then the guests begin arriving and I start filling wine glasses and oh, I love having parties at my house.