I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it was about as good a 13th birthday as there could be.
We started with an 8.30am Mom 'n' Charlie walk.
Jim took Charlie on a post-walk errand-running ride during which Charlie directed him to the entrance to the Garden State Parkway south and asked to go to the beach. Jim assured him we would go tomorrow (i.e. today) and Charlie was good with that.
Once home, he saw me driving up with three balloons (and, out of sight, the birthday cake) floating around the back of the black car. Charlie ran up to his bedroom and took a long late-morning nap.
Jim did some yard work---
---and I ran off to shop for the party.
Soon as Charlie woke, he called for his bike helmet, and he and Jim went off on what became an epic bike ride as Jim got a flat front tire some distance from home. But the tire held out till he and Charlie were back in our front yard. (There must have been some magic........)
That would have been enough for one day but, of course, the party had yet to take place.
It went quite as planned: Within a half-hour of our guests arriving, Charlie asked to go on a walk, and off he went with Jim.
Once back, I put 14 candles on the cake---
Make a wish!
I am pretty sure that a good time was had by all. Charlie only sampled some of the frosting but we do have half the cake left. (I got a rather large one---had to make up for never having gotten him one before, you know.)
Returning from a night walkabout with Jim, Charlie started crying on the last block. He ran up the stairs in heavy-duty agitated fashion, took off his shoes, ran up the stairs, did several stomp-jumps in his room. He got into bed and, after some moaning sounds, said:
"I want Sprite."
I ran up the stairs with a cup, which Charlie drank and then--handing back the cup---told me "Mom stairs." I could see his mouth twisting into a faint smile.
It'd been a very full day, after a very full week, and understandable that Charlie might have a final nervous bout. Indeed, fully understandable.
Shakespeare's Julius Caesar contains the line 'Beware the Ides of March,' the baleful 15th of the month which was the day, in 44 B.C., that Caesar was killed by Brutus. But based on our recent experience, I'd say there's no need to be so spooked by the Ides of May, certainly not this year, or ever after.