I don’t remember my 30th birthday.
In fact, I dare say I remember my mother’s 30th birthday better than I remember my own. (Or at least, I remember the joke that she was “29 and holding.” I was 10.)
I had a two month old, it was nearly Christmas, and I was sleep deprived. According to my husband, we went out to eat at one of my favorite restaurants (Red Robin). If it’s the day I’m thinking of, I remember that things went fairly well up until we got our food, and then Baby Girl started fussing. The waiter was understanding, though, and we scarfed our food (my husband holding Baby Girl the entire time) and got the hell out before we disrupted the other customers anymore.
But that might have been another night. I’m only assuming that was my birthday.
I think that was also the year that it was unseasonably warm, and so we took Baby Girl to see the big light display in the park. Or that might have been last year. Not sure. We’re going again this year though, since we have a couple more unseasonably warm days forecasted.