I just came across this account of one of my birthdays from when my daughters were little, probably six and seven. I’m not sure where I originally posted it–probably on my old blog–and I have no idea why I backed it up. But I’m glad I did. Although it’s not my birthday, I had a lot of fun unpacking this thirteen-year-old time capsule.

My first birthday present of the morning: I had slept nearly eight hours, without waking up once. It was going to be the busiest of days.

The girls brought me an assortment of homemade gifts. D. had fashioned a bird by gluing together pieces of paper. She had used her art set to color it blue, “your favorite color.” A.’s contribution was a pink velvet pillow she had made with her sewing kit and decorated with a single purple ribbon. I had seen it before, sans ribbon, and she had explained that it’s for soothing your forehead when you’re sick.

They also lovingly lumbered in with a big flat package wrapped in violet tissue paper. I had to be careful when I opened it lest it slide apart, because it was a enormous plaque made from three tongue-and-groove wood pieces fit together (left over from the job contractors did on our ceiling a few weeks ago). Toward the top, D. had written with a marker, “Angela, you are wonderful. Happy birthday.” A false start was scribbled out, and she had let the natural beauty of blue pine speak for itself on the rest of the plaque. The girls were highly pleased with their creation. I don’t think I will display this tribute to myself, though I do need to take a picture of it for the scrapbook I will make someday.

Our drive to school was punctuated by the mewing of our little female cat, Ebony, who was going in to be spayed. What is it about riding in cars that gets cats so worked up? I had thought Fred and Sam’s panting on the way to Montana was a result of their getting too hot. But the temperature was freezing outside, and here Ebony was panting just as much.

After I was home and J. got up (he’s been working the late shift), I told him my dilemma: I was supposed to pick up the cat late afternoon, but I didn’t want to drive all the way home after picking up the girls from school and then jump in the car again after a couple of hours and drive back into town. “Then after you get the girls, just go hang out in town,” he said. “It’s your birthday.” It didn’t take much persuading to convince me to take the afternoon off.

Another gift: it was a minimum day because of parent/teacher conferences, and the staff at the girls’ school had thoughtfully scheduled my appointment with D.’s teacher for ten minutes after the kids got out. My meeting with A.’s teacher came right on its heels.

The conferences made up my mind, if I hadn’t done so already, that the girls’ teachers are exemplary. No wonder they both love school. And the girls are working hard for them. The teachers both gave glowing reports of their attitudes and performance. Somewhere in the midst of the accolades, one daughter’s desk was affectionately referred to as “a pit.”

I wonder if it was some kind of Positive Report day. Maybe the principal found some obscure study that said when you tell parents their kids are doing amazing, it boosts the kids’ performance. Maybe he thought mid-year was great timing for Positive Report day. After all, standardized test time is right around the corner. I treasured the happy conferences even more than the vast plaque I had opened that morning. Yay for Positive Report day!

My afternoon off went by quickly. The first store I went to was Ross, because the gift card my parents had gotten me was burning a hole in my purse. Though it’s not easy being in Ross with two tired and hungry girls. After looking at toys, running into a mom from the school who invited the girls over to play one day, and not finding the right shoes, I bought a four-dollar exercise video and went to the bookstore.

Even at their favorite place to shop, the girls insisted with words and body language that lunch had been ages ago, and could we please get something to eat. So we each got a pretzel in the Borders café, a great treat for us. Then I chose a book on the history of birth with A. reminding me the whole time I was looking that it was time to pick up the cat.

I knew D. would be delighted that there were separate doors at the vet, one labeled “dog entrance” and one labeled “cat entrance,” although I didn’t expect so many questions about it. Knowing what we know about dogs and cats, why wouldn’t they have separate entrances?

The vet told me that when they had opened the cat up, they’d discovered that one ovary was what he called “cystic.” It was swollen, several times bigger than the other one. So they fixed the problem by doing a full hysterectomy. He seemed tense whenever I asked questions about her care, as if I should already be able to picture the cat’s anatomy and thus understand why he made the recommendations he did.

I remember only a couple of other things about that day, so either the evening was pleasantly routine, or I’ve blocked it out. First, when we came in the door at home, our black lab Laz immediately started licking the groggy kitty’s stomach. This gave me qualms about letting her sleep in the basement with her best canine buddies. I decided to put her down there anyway, to smooth the path for a gift of a second full night’s sleep. But the other thing I remember was thinking about her as I drifted off. Would she be okay with the dogs? What scene would greet my eyes in the morning? I worried about her. Because that’s what wonderful people do.