I turned 36 on Tuesday. It’s not a big birthday or anything, so I spent the morning watching The West Wing and eating peanut butter cups, which—believe it or not—isn’t the way I normally act on a Tuesday.

As it was Election Day, I did take some time out of my busy Netflix-streaming schedule to study the gazillion propositions on the local ballot. That afternoon, my mom and I walked (I use this term very loosely) over to a garage in our neighborhood so I could do my civic duty. They had a low booth for people in wheelchairs, and I mostly ignored my struggling hands as I connected arrows on 7 pages. I love to vote. I love the sticker they give you. I’m totally serious about this.

The night before my birthday, Scarlett was beside herself with excitement. “Your present is a Bandwagon shirt!” she screamed. “IT’S PURPLE!” Bandwagon is the name of the company my sister and her husband run, and this was a great gift because I’m always trying to figure out how I can be more involved in their business without actually doing any work. Wearing the uniform is the perfect solution.

Still. “You’re not supposed to tell me what my presents are!” I told her.

Rob got home. “Mama’s present is a Bandwagon shirt!” Scarlett yelled.

“You’re not supposed to tell her what her presents are,” he said.

“I didn’t tell her what color it was,” she smirked.

Fast forward to the morning of my birthday. Because she has somehow developed a rudimentary understanding of the concepts surrounding puberty, Scarlett climbed into bed with me and said, “Happy birthday! Can I see if your nipples have grown?”

“They haven’t,” I informed her.

I opened my amazing purple Bandwagon shirt, and then Rob reminded Scarlett that there was one more box. “IT’S A SCARF!” she yelled, rushing off to get it.

Fine. Like most 4-year-olds, she’s not great at surprises. But it’s possible this actually runs in our family, because when I talked to my Dad that afternoon:

“I understand there’s going to be a surprise for you tonight,” he said.

“Is it a Bandwagon shirt?” I asked. “Because I already opened that.”

“It’s more fleeting than a Bandwagon shirt,” he said.

I thought of fleeting things that a person might enjoy on their birthday, and concluded that my family was going to do a song and dance routine reminiscent of old episodes of The Cosby Show.

“It’s less fleeting than that,” my Dad said. “And stop fishing for clues.” Which I wouldn’t have been doing if he hadn’t brought it up. 

That night there were numerous surprises that were more fleeting than a shirt, but less fleeting than Theo, Rudy and the gang entertaining the grandparents.

First there were the decorations. It turned out I was having a My Little Pony themed party! There were plates and napkins, streamers, hats and masks. Scarlett was ecstatic. My nephew Jack couldn’t stop laughing. The two of them danced in their vaguely terrifying pony masks like small wild animals.

This is the part where I explain that birthdays are different in our family now that we have kids. Sometimes there are fake mustaches involved. We spent my sister’s birthday at a pumpkin patch. It’s like that.

After a delicious dinner, my brother-in-law set up a huge screen in our backyard and we lit a fire, threw sleeping bags on the deck and snuggled up to watch a movie. The night was clear, the drinks were flowing, and the movie (Disney’s 2011 Winnie the Pooh—see previous paragraph) was one of the cutest things I have ever seen.

This is the kind of party that my 16-year-old self might have mocked, and my 6-year-old self likely would have loved—that is until the champagne took full effect. As it is, I’m 36 and it was absolutely perfect.

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