Hi, my name is Sarah. I'm a birthday freak.

First of all, I'm having two birthday parties for the new 4 yr old in the next two days. My house needs cleaning. I have work to do. I need to prepare my self-employed tax info for Captain America to do this weekend. I need to balance the checkbook. It's lunch time.

But no. Blogging. That'd be a GREAT use of my time right now.

Since the dawn of time, I have been a nut about my birthday. I have always thought it's a day to be celebrated. BY ALL. Even if we've never met. I don't know where this came from, but it's an illness. Too many sitcoms? Too many Babysitter's Club books? I don't know.

For as long as I can remember, I have imagined grand surprise birthday parties in the making. I mean, even when I was 9. Somebody whispers. It's about my birthday!! The house is dark. It's my party!! Captain America is hesitant about making a plan for something -- it's because he's whisking me away for the weekend!!

Peeps, let me tell you, this causes nothing good. Nothing at all. Because when I turned 21 (*ahem* TEN YEARS AGO), my friend Amy called late in the afternoon. Did Captain America and I want to come over to watch the 90210 she'd taped? Sure. So we walked the two blocks over. Headed up to her apartment. Opened the door. TO MY SURPRISE PARTY. Where I nearly had a heart attack. Because for the first time in my life, I suspected nothing. When there was actually something to be suspected. It was wonderful! People had parked blocks away so I wouldn't see their cars. The shoes were all hidden. Surprise perfection. It was the sweetest thing. Only, in my shock, I didn't display the Proper! Excitement! I'm not sure what happened. Did I look like I was assaulted or something? I don't understand. But Captain America felt like it was a downer of a response, and has vowed to never, and I mean NEVER, throw me a surprise party again.

And in real life, I know. I know that the Birthday Excitement is supposed to be for my kids now. I know this because God gave me a child born one week before me. And I want Natalie to always feel like her own birthday is special.

Perhaps I have been overzealous. I have created a new Birthday Diva. The other day she made me her list for a party. There must be balloons! And a Curious George cake! And so I knew the paper was hers, she traced her foot. Even though she'd already written her name on it. Some kind of FBI coding or something.

So yesterday I called to order the cake. Our usual spot (I heart their frosting) had nothing to create Curious George. What??? "Natalie, you'll have to pick something else. They can't do George." Her response? "If I can't have a Curious George cake, then I don't want a cake at all."

Nice.

And being the lesson-giving mama I am, I did what I had to do. I called around until I found a place that could make Curious George. It is my understanding that George will actually swing back & forth between trees.

Please don't think I've substituted my birthday obsession with trying to control hers. I'm still as sick as ever. Do they have a rehab for that?