it's a party, it's a party for Broby. I mean, Mommy. I mean, me.

Okay, not to keep rambling on about my birthday or anything, but I am going to keep rambling on about my birthday for a while.  So sue me.  I get one day all year where it's my time to shine and I don't have to share the spotlight with anyone.  Anyone.  (Well, except Baby Jessica, who shares my exact birthdate and has gotten way more news coverage than me so far in our lives.  But whatever, it's fine, I'm over it.)  So I'm going to milk it for everything it's worth.

Glamour Shawts by Todd.  This is what glamor looks like at 34: still in pajamas at 6 p.m., aging-ballerina-slash-Trunchbull bun, sitting on an Ikea throne.  This is what I call The Good Life.

I mentioned before that Todd got me tickets to see Matchbox 20 and the Wallflowers this summer in St. Louis, which I'm super stoked about for a couple of reasons:

First, Matchbox 20 and the Wallflowers!  CAN YOU SAY SWOON?!  Just squeeze me into my low-rise, wide-belted, olive-drab flares and a cropped babydoll tee that says "Jesus is my homeboy," and stick a macramé choker on me and braid tiny ribbons into my hair, and you have 18-year-old Paige Van Voorst's dream summer break.  (As it turns out, it is also Aging Paige Van Voorst's dream summer break.  I like to think we're not that different, other than the fact that I'm no longer as generally moronic.  Also, I have a few more kids now.)

Second, I love his show of dauntless optimism that the quarantine will be lifted and that there will still be a St. Louis (and a Matchbox 20 and a The Wallflowers) come August.  I would marry him all over again just for that valiant show of hope and cheer and postmillennialism.  Hurrah for the one and only Todd Van Voorst (other than the other, vastly inferior Todd Van Voorsts walking around the planet, who I am confident are less optimistic, and also not as handsome, nor as beardful).

After lunch, we went on a walk.  I am an introvert who homeschools, so quarantine is just fancy-talk for All of the Days Always around here, and seeing as how I am 110% in love with my small, domestic life, I have not been all that shaken by everything.  But I was finally itching to get out of the house, so we walked a nearby trail.

We got Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner (but we didn't order coleslaw from there, since I've never fully recovered from that one time I bit into a used, wadded-up napkin someone left soaking away in the dressing and which looked remarkably like a chunk of cabbage, though it decidedly wasn't a chunk of cabbage) and cheesecake and coffee for dessert.

After dinner, the kids presented me with their cards and gifts.

Atticus made me a card and wrote me a book.

Penelope also made me a card and wrote me a book.

Finneas made me the funniest card on the face of the planet, and gave me his prized diecast model 1984 Chevy.

Laurelai made me a card, and then another card which she wrapped in a gift bag.

Rocco made me book that just said "D-Day!" on each of its eight pages, and it came with an explanatory birthday card that said nothing but "That book is D-Day."

And all the kids chipped in to buy me a pair of decent shoes.

And there.  Now I'm done reporting on my birthday.  I'll turn the news coverage back over to Baby Jessica from here on out, as well I should before fame changes me.