A plateful of birthday cake

My sister has a birthday today. I won’t tell you how old she is, but she’s nine years younger than I am.

I took her to the park every day of her life when she was two, I think.

She has four kids now, from almost-five to four-month-old twins. She will be returning to work Monday, full-time, while her husband stays home with the kids.

She has a lot on her plate. But she’ll handle it. She will be able to, for the most part, because of plentiful family support and mad organizational skills. She will probably make John write down exactly what each child had for each meal and at what time, and what color poop they each had, if they pooped. And she’ll come home from work, make dinner, nurse the twins, and get all the kids to bed before working on her lesson plans each night.

She’s totally fucking nuts, living her crazy-ass life. But she loves it, and she’s happy, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for her.

Happy birthday, sister! I love you!

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