My boys have been obsessed with my birthday forever it seems. Months ago Will came at me with a serious expression, "Mom, you're almost forty." "Almost, but not yet. I'm still 38." "You're almost 40!!" "Okay, thanks, Will." John picked up on his brother's power to make me squirm. "How old are you, Mom?" "38." "48?" "No, John. 38." "48. hehehe"
Last week he asked his new step mom, "Tia, how old are you?" "32." Then he looked at me. "And you, mom? How old are you?" As if we hadn't gone through this dozens of times. "38." "Almost 39." Yes, that's my good counter. And now that I'm almost 40! I decided to take a life inventory, and then quit that idea right quick. But here's what I got going for me and all my grownup-ness.
This is me having s'mores (not over an electric stove burner). I'm encased in marshmallow. I have it all over my face and my fingers are glued to my awesome treat and...
there's John asking me to help him because he has chocolate and marshmallow in his hair, on his shirt, all over his face, arms, and hands. I'm cracking up because I can't help him. I can't pry my fingers loose. I can't talk because my mouth is full, but I can snicker until I tear up, which is what I did. Not very pretty, but so much fun. Kid fun. Oh, and that is a zebra on my shirt. The back is the zebra's ass. I'll save the life inventory for deathbed homework and work on this right here, playing.
Be cool and join Think's meme. That's all I gotta say on that.