Everyday for the last several weeks Quinn has thrown a birthday party in his room. He wakes up, comes into my room and announces “It’s your birthday today, Mommy. I going to have pahty for you in my room. A really special birthday pahty, Mommy.” I like this because it means he will spend the next half hour or so setting up the party while I eek out some last precious moments of sleep (something I cherish). “Setting up the party” largely consists of him filling small bags with countless little “treasures”. However, these party mornings also mean that later, while I am attempting to enjoy my first Cup of Coffee of the day (something else I cherish) and check my email, there is a relentless little voice in the background: “Mommy, I really want you to come to your pahty, Mommy” — repeat every 30 seconds for the next 30 minutes.

On this particular Saturday morning a friend is over who spent the night last night. She is also on the receiving end of the Quinn broken record treatment. But how can she resist when he asks oh-so-sweetly “Please you come to mommy’s birthday pahty for a littlebit? Just a littlebit please? ”

My theory about these daily birthday parties — complete with invisible pinata, strawberry cake, presents upon presents and actual ticket sales (yes, I have to purchase a “ticket” to attend my own birthday party) — is that he is warming up for his REAL birthday party next month. And not only is he warming up, but he is making it very clear what he expects. I am taking notes.