I had a birthday recently. I am 39 years old now. My age, or more specifically, my AGING, doesn't bother me.

(Oh, I'll admit I had a rough patch a couple years ago when I realized that every single month the Playboy Playmate was born after I had already graduated from high school. But I've made my peace with that and now I only read the interview, the short story, and the "20 Questions". Why not spare yourself the pain, eh?)

In the time B.C. (before children), the celebration of a birthday was, for me, an all-day affair. A narcissistic 24 hour festival I referred to in my head as "National Nikki Day".

There was sleeping in! Lunch with white wine and dessert! A pedicure and sometimes even a massage! And presents! Presents! Fun stuff! Lingerie! (I didn't have stretch marks then). Oils and bath potions! (I had time to bathe then).

And sometimes even a couple new hardcovers! (plenty of time to read then too). Culminating in a night out to dinner with even more wine and dessert. Of course, at the end of the evening I couldn't fall back on my old excuse, "Get off of me, it's not my birthday!" but, hell, even that was fun back then too!! We didn't even have to lock the bedroom door! Ah.....those were the days.

Now, my birthday is still an all-day affair. It just doesn't include much that I consider fun. I wake before the sun peeks over the eastern hills if I want to shower. (I've decided that I definitely do not like showering with the relative infrequency of a Turkish prison inmate.)

And then it's back on the hamster wheel of diapers to change, babies to feed, bottles to wash, cereal to pour, laundry to do, lunch to make, more diapers, more babies to feed, and on and on and on....

I do still get to have dinner out though. And that's nice because we always go somewhere that doesn't have a clown as a mascot. It is my special day after all! But I have to severely limit my wine intake. (Dealing with three kids while hungover is a mistake one tends to make only once.) And while I don't mind telling you that the night does end in bed, there is more snoring than moaning. No deadbolts necessary.

And the presents suck too. This year someone (who will remain nameless) gave me a cutely packaged "Grow Your Own Orchid" deal. I said, "Thank you." (I was raised with manners, after all.) But my internal dialog was more along the lines of "Oh, swell. Something else that needs me to tend to all its' needs in order to stay alive. Bea-u-ti-ful. Just what I need." But then, who wants new books they don't have time to read anyway, right?

So, while my birthdays (and their respective celebrations) have certainly changed, I am content. I am okay being a 39 year old. After all, I was the one who gave three other people in this world their very own birthdays. And that is the best present this girl could ask for!