Because I am a big old braggedy-braggerhead, I had to put this up - my kid, she's a pretty one. Even when she's throwing my $7 fake flower that I use for photo sessions directly onto the muddy ground.
I think she behaved herself this morning because, oh my, it's my birthday. I'm a creaky old 28, which I celebrated with a trip to the gym and a humongous doughnut, thereby negating the gym entirely. (But these doughnuts, if you could just SEE them! For my last three years of high school, I had one every morning before first period, because the bakery was next door to the school. My friend Darren remembered this, and sent me a box two-day mail, and the nostalgia - or possibly the frosting - was enough to send me into spasms of glee. End of sugar-coated story.)
I don't feel older, honestly. We went back to Duke Gardens this morning with Jasmine and her girls, and although we were as worn out as they were at the end of the morning (possibly more so - who knew it was so hard to constantly chant, "Look UP, Lillian! Smile and you can have a COOKIE!") I still wanted to run around barefoot in the grass. It's a good world, when you can have a birthday that should feel threatening - 30 bein' right down the pike and all - and still be able to focus on the dew between your toes.
Anyway. Happy birthday to me, Washington Irving, Boss Tweed, Jane Goodall, Marlon Brando, and Eddie Murphy. That there is one distinguished bunch.