My birthday is this week.
I don’t usually get too excited about it.
And being a year older doesn’t bother me, yet.
Pregnancy has a way of making me feel older than I am, though. ‘Slow and tired’ does not spell ‘youthfulness’ in my book. But I wasn’t feeling too bad about the prospect of being 31.
Until the other day.
The boys were playing in the living room with a bunch of new toys (read: junk) they “won” at a math carnival. S had a man-sitting-on-a-motorcycle toy.
“Hey C, look at my man! He’s old! He’s…he’s…” he pauses as he obviously tried to think up a really old age….