My birthday was lovely. Perhaps it was a bit thick outside, but when one doesn't leave the air-conditioned house until early evening, this doesn't really present much of a problem. Troy took the boys to his dad's house for the day, allowing me to sleep in, laze about and accept lady callers bearing gifts. Dinner was at an Italian restaurant where we were served by the reincarnation of Selma from "Night Court". The charming ambience and wonderful food were marred only by the fleeting worry that she was one ill-placed step away from a broken hip. We followed dinner with dessert at my parents' house. My children entertained us with some drawings, but became giddy and obnoxious from being over-tired. This resulted in an unfortunate portrait of my dad that looked distinctly like Walter Mathhau. It was a weird evening.
I am so very grateful for every call, gift, card, message, hug and long, deep, wet kiss. It's really easy to take each birthday for granted, but as I get older and see loss all around me on a regular basis, I'm finally catching on. It's ok for me to celebrate, really celebrate, my birthday. I'm not going to have that many of them, and this is a fairly magnificent little life I have here.
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