Humming a Sheryl Crow song and Happy Birthday at the same time as I try unsuccessfully to make the frosting come out even

Thirty nine years ago today, my husband was born, just 11 months after his older sister. The fact that he was a teenager before he realized that he wasn't planned never ceases to make me wonder about the validity of that high IQ he claims to posses.

Thanks to my inlaws' inability to wait the requisite 6 weeks after the birth of their first child (an amusing idea since they have long since gone their separate ways), I have a life partner who balances me and completes me so effortlessly that I never even appear to be unbalanced or incomplete. He tames my boisterous side and quells my overanalytical side and somehow keeps me laughing in the process. My kids have the most natural father I've ever seen, one who teaches them and giggles with them and cares for them not just because he's supposed to but because he genuinely loves to do it. Paul makes our lives rich and he makes them fun. There are days when I still wake up and look around at the house and the kids and all of the "adult" trappings of my current life and I wonder what the hell I'm doing here. But then I look over at Paul and I realize that it's OK, because we're doing it together. And none of this would ever have happened if that old wives' tale about not getting pregnant while you're nursing hadn't turned out to be complete bunk.

Happy birthday to my favorite mistake. I hope you feel the same way about the lopsided cake Julia and I will present you with tonight as we feel about you.