Today is Matt’s birthday. And mine.
Yes, it’s true, my husband and I share a birthday, although not a birth year.
(All day long, the Cracker song, “Happy, happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me…and to you…” has been going through my head.)
We typically have more festive hoopla on our birthday, but today was a busy, chaotic day. I was lucky enough to shop for a short while with a good friend this afternoon, and we ended the day with a family dinner out and a trip to Scooter’s frozen custard shop near our old house, a family favorite. More good friends came along to celebrate with us. Excellent.
But the real party will start rolling on Wednesday at noon, because that is when Matt and I fly to New York City for a vacation. Yes! Vacation. Together.
We once had two nights in a row away from both kids, back in December, and it was a dream. But never four nights. In a faraway amazing city. Where we have great longtime friends. And where I’m going to meet two of my favorite people in the whole entire blogosphere for the first time on Saturday. I can hardly stand it.
Matt and I have never taken a vacation together. Never. In almost 12 years of marriage. Unless you count a 3-day camping trip in Santa Cruz approximately 9 years ago. Which was wonderfully relaxing but not the same as 4 nights in New York City. You see, we married early – at 23 and 25, when we were young and poor and racking up the grad school debt. We had Baxter just a few years later, making vacation travel even less plausible – especially given our trips to visit family across the country.
Thankfully, I was fortunate enough to see a bit of the world during the 3 years when my parents lived in London, and Matt has spent time a lot of time abroad as well. But we missed that window of travel opportunity I see so many couples enjoy when they have children later in life – when you’re working at a decent job and have no kids. We skipped that stage entirely – the decent jobs came after the first child.
And so, although we still have no line in the budget for travel, we decided not to give a hoot anymore, and just go. I have to admit that every time we talk about the trip we pepper the conversation with bits and pieces of the Parker Posey Libby Mae Brown gum-snapping monologue about New York in our favorite movie, Waiting for Guffman. Things like, “Turns out, New York is an island” and “…maybe meet some guys, some Italian guys, watch TV and stuff…”.
So distracted by this sort of juvenile entertainment are we that we haven’t gotten too far in making actual plans; we assume that the spontaneity of the trip will be at least half its charm.