Boston Butts Boost Birthday Bliss

By Dorothy Wilson ‘The Marion Mom’

I’m entering middle- age, folks, which, I’m told, is just about as exciting as entering The Middle Ages-a time period marked by oodles of pillaging, and notably lacking refrigeration, indoor plumbing, and women’s rights.

My husband disagrees with me about the time that one enters this delightful stage of life. I say, when you move into the next age bracket on the little demographic forms at church, you’ve arrived.

He always says it starts next year.

Yes, I’m moving into the next age bracket.

Some professional athletes are half my age. Meryl Streep, the leading lady in Bridges of Madison County, recently played a grandmother.

Kids I babysat as a teenager are having kids.

As the big day approaches- that is, my birthday, for those of you who haven’t finished your coffee yet-I am contemplating the best way to celebrate.

Some suggestions from my friends: Do something special for me. Well, of course, living another year deserves something special, because–let’s face it–living is hard work.

You absolutely need a reward for that.

Honestly, the most elusive treat at this point is simply a long, hot bath in my very own jetted tub, sans company. You heard me. Anyone with kids knows what I mean.

A relaxing bath quickly turns into a why-bother bath when little fingers slip under the door and little lips press against the door frame in a most urgent request to GET ME A DRINK RIGHT NOW OR I’LL DIE!

With a sigh and a prayer for patience, I usually just yell back some instructions, a scenario I much prefer over the oft-hollered phrase, “Mom! I’m bleeding! HURRY!”

I don’t often make the time to draw a bath for myself. My four-yearold, however, decided that for her rewards, she wants Musee bath bombs from Merry Magnolia.

The child is racking up the good-girl points, soaking in a tub full of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” or “Tiny Dancer” while I go about my business of laundry, cooking, cleaning, teaching, and saving the children from certain death.

I changed my mind. I do deserve something special just for living another year.

{As if to prove my point, while I was writing this column, squirreled away in my office, my children left me in peace, which should have been my first clue to suspect trouble. They invented a game in my fancy bathtub that I never make time to enjoy. They called it, “Tidal Wave.” Oh, joy.

When I told my parents what the boys did, they reminded me that my brother and I once stuffed towels in the crack of the bathroom door, turned all the faucets on high, and flooded their hardwood bedroom. Is this what Karma feels like? Can I get a redo?} Enjoy inebriated entertainment. (Read, “Get drunk.”) Okay, please. I’ll be 36, not 22, which pretty much categorically means I much prefer cuddling with my husband under my fluffy down comforter, watching my sitcoms, more than staying out past, say 10:30pm, at a grimy bar with loud music and cruddy service.

Okay, I lied. I actually turn into a pumpkin around 10pm. I just didn’t want you to judge me.

Eat cake and ice cream with the family. This is our tradition! We eat cake and ice cream for breakfast on birthdays around here.

Now I’ve said too much. You are certainly judging me at this point.

The tradition began when the twins were born on separate daysone at 11:59pm, the other at 12:29 am.

I didn’t want to host two parties for the boys, but I did want them to enjoy some sort of unique special celebration. I bought little 5” cakes to hold the all-important candle, which we all consumed despite the fact that toddlers spray their little germs all over the cake when they try to extinguish birthday candles. (It’s the truth.) Little did I know, children fall into traditions very easily. They begin to expect the same treatment as each other, and by jove, if you did something last year, you darned well better repeat it, or hearts will be dashed with unmet expectations, and birthdays will melt into puddles of tears.

So we have cake and ice cream for breakfast seven times a year for the kids. That’s plenty, don’t you think?

A little additional snafu to this plan is the definition of the word, “family.” Now, my immediate family is extensive enough-I call us the InstaParty. We get the birthday discount at Chuck E. Cheese just for showing up.

But if we were to include parents, siblings, and their children, our old house would be bursting at the seams.

And I’d have to make a giant cake… and then clean it all up.

So, I’ll pass, thanks.

The other little detail about my middle-aged life is that I’ve discovered some minor health issues that can be controlled by severely limiting my intake of sugar and carbohydrates.

Have you ever had a sugarless, carb-less cake?

We call it, “steak.”

On second thought, filet mignon sounds like a delicious birthday delicacy.

Seriously, though, I just discovered Sweet Leaf liquid stevia in the organic section at Kroger. Just a few drops mixed with some mascarpone cheese has the potential for some delightful low-carb tiramisu.

I know it’s nontraditional, but give me a break-I’m aging up here. I can no longer have pastries. I’m older than almost the entire roster of the Memphis Grizzlies. Mammograms and colonoscopies dot my future. Let me eat tiramisu.

This plan shines because my kids will probably turn up their noses at the Italian dessert, leaving more for me.

I just checked my calendar, and it looks like we will be quite busy as the big day passes with an orthodontist appointment, kids’ sports, a Grizzlies game, and BBQ nachos at the Upwards basketball concessions stand.

Yes, I wrote it in my calendar. It’s that good. I hear they’re also selling whole smoked butts this year.

And that, my friends, will make a most delicious birthday celebration.

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all the adventures life with their seven children brings. Her columns appear monthly in the Marion Ledger, with reprints appearing in the online edition of the Evening Times, including this one from February 2015.