Right on schedule, Annie is in the “mine!” phase. My ball! My pen! My newspaper! MY car keys! MINE MINE MINE I hear it all day long. I can say something like, “Hey Mike, will you hand me my purse?” And Annie will yell, “NO! My purse!” or “Mike, the bill from the surgical hospital came, do you know where the checkbook is?” And Annie will holler, “MINE CHECKBOOK!

Which, hey, you wanna pay my bills? Go for it.

Even Mike, with all of his endless patience, is over the mine talk. This might have something to do with Annie deciding that Diet Coke is property she can claim, so every time he brings a can to his lips she shrieks, “Dat’s mine! My Die Coke!” (yes, she calls it Die Coke, not a typo), and since he drinks 187 cans a day that means she’s yelling at him almost constantly.

You never know what this kid is going to deem hers. Two days ago she cried for an hour because I threw out the trash. “My traaaaaaaaash!” It would have been an Oscar-worthy performance if it hadn’t been frighteningly real.

My birthday is tomorrow, so Mike and I have been talking about it for a few weeks. Yesterday Mike said something along the lines of, “I made reservations for your birthday dinner!” And before I could even ask where, Annie said, “Ohhhhh! My birthday!”

Mike replied, “No, Mama’s birthday.”

Annie, getting slightly louder and more frantic, “No, Dada, MY birthday. MINE.”

Mike, “Annabel. It’s MOMMY’S birthday. Not yours. Yours is in January! It’s Mommy’s birthday and we’re going to sing to her.”


They went back and forth a few more times but the whole thing basically ended with Annie standing in front of me with giant tears rolling down her face, saying, “Pwease, Mama! Mine birthday? Mine birrrrrrthdaaaaaay!”

Sorry kiddo, but I already have to share my birthday with Uncle Kyle, Khloé Kardashian, and that attention hog Helen Keller. I’m not sharing with you, too!

Okay, okay, I will let her blow out my birthday candles. But I am NOT sharing the presents.