I wish everyday could be my birthday.

I woke up with coffee and manapua--a Hawaiian steamed bun filled with seasoned pork--in bed and my almost-two-year-old jumping on me and saying, "Happy burpday, Mommy!"

The morning was relaxing: I received phone calls from friends and my brother, the girls watched cartoons, and one of my preschooler's friends came over to collect her for a two-hour playdate, leaving me free to go to the library and hang with my toddler. She was sleepy, though, so I put her down early and enjoyed a delicious hour of near-silence.

My husband came home early to pick up our eight-year-old from school and get dinner ready, leaving me free to ... well, do whatever I wanted. Which was play around on the Internet, catch up on Glee, and receive more phone calls.

We sat down to my favorite meal--steak, my mom's macaroni and cheese, and broccoli--and topped off the meal with an adorable cake that the kids helped frost.

And then the topper? They got me the bracelet that I wanted.

And some pretty yellow flowers.

I know that every day can't be my birthday; if it was, I wouldn't appreciate all of the nice things that my family did for me. It's so nice to be taken care of instead of caring for everyone else, though, that I wish I could hit "repeat" at least once before getting back to the grind.

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