On Sunday (a week ago Sunday because all reportage around here went out of the window what with all that croup) we celebrated my birthday, being the closest free weekend day to my actual birthday, as the only thing worse than getting older is having to spend the day solo looking after three small children. So I got breakfast in bed, presents, a faltering rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ sung to me by my children, Matthew doing most of the donkey work like changing dirty diapers, birthday cake for tea and a special birthday supper cooked for me.
On my actual birthday, I was taken out for lunch, my two best friends dropped by with cards and presents and Matthew brought me flowers on his return from work.
Nobody will ever be able to accuse me of growing older gracefully. Getting older is a pig. But my four lovely boys make it seem not quite so bad.
[Comments off -sorry - because I'm not around to respond, what with all this croup.]
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