Are a hoot, so long as you are not particularly vain. This is how he greeted my dad (birthday December 26) a week or so ago:
“Hi Zadie, you’re 74 now. You’re older than my Bubbie. You used to be one year older, but now you are two years older. You’re older than my Grandma and Papaw, too.”
He’s been telling pretty much everyone in the last few days about my birthday, too.
“My Mommy’s birthday is tomorrow,” is how he’ll start. But that’s not the part he’s really interested in. “She’s going to be 42 years old.” THAT’S the part he finds interesting.
Thus, this morning, my birthday began lying in bed with a curled up Cambria purring beside me. Then I heard Simon call for us (he only rarely gets out of bed on his own; he usually summons us), yell out the time (another number!), do a little run into Matt’s and my bedroom, and excitedly proclaim:
“You’re 42!”
At which point in time Matt whispered a prompt in his ear.
“Oh yeah,” he continued. “Happy Birthday.”
And I’m sure it will be. Matt has the day off, so we’re going to Hillbilly Tea (really!) for lunch, then will pick up Simon and have a fun afternoon together. If we stay in, Simon will want to play round after round of Mancala, and if we go out, he’ll make sure everyone knows my age. Either way, it will be an early night because tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. is the start of spring training. Turning 42 goes down a lot easier when you realize that you got into the best shape of your life at 41. Having my hair restored to it’s natural color—minus the grays—yesterday goes a long ways towards helping, too.
Happy Birthday love. I find, minus the aches and pains, that every year older is only better.