The mama birthday

Now that we're weeks nearer to the birthdays of my children than my own, I figure what better time to finally post about my big day.

Okay, so it was a good day. A solid day. Big day? Maybe a bit over the top. It began with me calling my folks before I got out of bed. Yes, it's less normal to call others on your birthday, but necessary information was to be had - Mom, how do you bake my birthday cake?

Every year almost without exception, my mom makes me what my grandma's recipe card calls "Hot Milk Cake" but what most would label Boston Creme Cake. It's an entirely from scratch, two-layer yellow cake with a custard-like cream in the middle and light chocolate icing on the outside. I had visions of baking the cake of my youth with my two daughters and enjoying a cool slice of yumminess together upon daddy's arrival home.

That was not to be.

Frankly, I don't remember the early details of the day. What I do recall is this:

Weeks before my birthday, my friend Kim offered to child-mind for the upcoming event. She then called again days before and reminded me of said offer! We lapped up the thoughtful persistence and I set to determine our destination. There was an ultra hip, tapa-serving, Spanish restaurant that we went to last April while here getting acclimated to the DC housing scene with Anna and Noah (who just happened to have a conference that same weekend!). It was a stellar evening. I wanted to return. I couldn't remember the name of the restaurant, so I just did a search for Spanish restaurants within walking distance of where we stayed and with lots of vowels in the name - no problem. Kurt and I both were excited to catch Juno, so I figured out a movie and dinner reservation time that would allow Kim to get here post-work and head home pre-a.m., 'cause hey, it was a school night.

Now, in order to feel the way a girl wants to feel on her birthday, certain preparations had to be made. And when I say preparations, I mean I didn't want to look down at my legs-ankles and think mmm, hobbity. The last time my legs had seen the light of day, it had been a different season. Unsure of my Venus' shearing ability and knowing I'd need to have Drano on standby, I chose to investigate the use of my husband's trimmer. Having never handled a trimmer, it took me a bit to figure out how to do more than scrape my skin (do I leave this plastic thing on? what level do I set this thing at?) but we got the preliminary work done. And ever thinking of blogging audience, I shot this with one buzzed, one to go. Zoom in, don't zoom in - I'll leave it up to you. Post-shower, the girls even inspired me to paint my (and their) toes. Due to the pre-move purge, all we had on hand was little girl hot pink (mommy would have liked some hot red), but it still made us feel pretty.

By the time all the "preparations" had been made, the birthday-day cake had to be sacrificed. On the way to pick Kim up at the Metro, I asked Olaiya if she'd help me make it the next day. She said, "But mama, if it's your birthday, someone else makes the cake for you if it's your birthday." Amen, sister! Which she followed with, "....and I don't want to help." Ah, the reality of the mama birthday.

Once dolled up, I jumped into my hot mama ride (mini-van with two car seats and too many and too miniscule snack particles to count) and headed to meet my man at the Metro-accessible theater. Then it was on to dinner. Now the mama had forgotten to acquire driving directions, address and phone number of the restaurant. So we called Kim, who hooked us up. And we found the restaurant...only it wasn't the restaurant. Now I had checked out the online pictures of the place and thought, hmm, I remember it looking a bit more modern than this, but figured maybe I just hadn't seen that specific area? No. Completely different restaurant. Very Old World looking with Napolean-esque portraits on the walls and very ornate, Baroque-y decor. So I'm pissed, incredulous that I could do the research and *still* not end up where I wanted to be. We went ahead and took our table and opened the menu. There is no lovely list of tapas - only very expensive entrees. Awesome. Kurt, being the gentleman he is, excuses himself outside to call our it's-late-at-night-here-and-we-need-the-Internet source, his mom. While he paced outside vicariously searching the web, a very nice young waiter asked if I'd like a drink. Um, let me think, yes. While I came down from my angry place over a glass of wine, I motioned for Kurt to come inside (yay for sitting next to floor-to-ceiling windows!). I summoned the nearest waiter and asked, "Is this pulpo prepared like the pulpo in Galicia (the area where I studied and where Kurt and I just honeymooned in June)?" And he replied, "No, no. I'm from Galicia, and you're looking for this," and hands me a *huge* tapas menu! Redemption!

Mr. Santiago (his hometown and the city we know and love) took care of us for the rest of the evening. And when I say take care of us, I mean perpetually served us wine like it was free refills on pop. I had asked him some questions, desiring an education about wine, and he took that as a cue. Seriously, when we got our bill, there were two glasses charged - he had served us eleven. (Let's hear it for closing down the restaurant, week night dining, ow!) He chatted with us, asking what street mi familia lived on, etc. And Kurt and I got to eat (and drink) all the things that we loved from Spain, including a little cafecito for me to cap off the experience. It was perfect.

So this is to all of you mamas out there who have had the feeling of "I don't feel so special on my birthday any more", whether it be because you have to take care of your own cake or because nobody knows and understands your very specific aesthetic or culinary tastes or because you didn't have the chance to have freshly-shorn legs or because your loved ones are far away, I am here to tell you, take the bull by the cuernos and have yourself a happy little birthday - you'll be glad you did.

(Hey Mom, do cake containers count as carry ons? ;)