I am 39.

I hardly cringe at all as I say that.

I am determined that 39 will be my best year ever. It’s going to be fabulous, dammit.

That said, my “39 will be fabulous et. al.” outlook was in danger of being squashed before I even had my first jolt of caffeine this morning.

I woke the girls and expected a chorus of “Happy Birthday Mommy” given that they have been counting down to today for two weeks. All weekend long they kept telling me “Happy Almost Birthday” and “Happy Last Days of Being 38.” They were particularly gleeful when I gave the green light to making the cake early so that they could sample it prior to the actual big day.

So I was a little disappointed when they both just growled and pulled the covers over their heads this morning when I tried to wake them for school. Both burrowed back into bed like moles refusing to face the light of day. “You have to get up and get dressed and you can’t give me a hard time this morning,” I said. “It’s my birthday.”

“Can we take the day off from school?” Tate asked her voice muffled by the blankets over her head.

“No, despite my lobbying efforts, my birthday is not a national holiday.”

“Grrrrrrr.” she responded.

“I concur but you have school and I have work so let’s get up and get after it,” I said. “And the law of birthdays says you must cooperate and not give me a hard time.”

“Grrrrrrr” she repeated.

After 10 minutes of this fun, I gave up on them and retreated to brush my teeth. Eventually Cat wandered in and muttered a half-hearted “hey mom – happy birthday” before crawling into my bed and pulling the covers over her head.

“Geez, I am the one turning 39, not you two. I would think that I would be the one who is grumpy and moving slow,” I joked.

Cat stared at me a second and said, “You aren’t moving slow Mom, you are on the fast downhill slide to 40 now.”

I don’t think I am sharing my cake with her tonight.