Counting The Years on Your Face

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Today is my wife's birthday. That's right 09/09/09. Hopefully if you're reading this, the world hasn't blown up and the machines haven't become self-aware.

Happy Birthday, Lady! By the time she reads this she should be riddled with guilt, stuffed to the cheeks with cupcakes as the motto in her department at work is: Any day is a good day to have cupcakes. Any reason is a good reason to have cupcakes.

She's one year older and wiser --- an intelligent, focused, driven go getter with the world as her oyster. God Bless, you, my wife, may you experience much prosperity in your new year.

Speaking of older...

Over the weekend my son (the refuse-to-take-pictures member of the Makes Me Wanna Holler household) was chatting with his sister about how mommy and daddy are "old people."

I looked up from what I was reading in my room and decided to go for a walk down the hall...

Five or six steps later, I was at the threshold of the den of dorkdom, a realm where dirty socks and underwear live on the floor; xBox 360 Live is perpetually on (until school starts) with children (his football teammates) somewhere in their dork dens shouting out to my son through his television to dive, duck, shoot, etc.; and the smell of cheap cologne and caramelized onions sits stagnant in the air.

My son and I made eye contact...

He smiled.

I didn't.

"I'm older than you," I told him, calmly. "But I am not old."

"The next time you call me old, I'm going to count off my years on your face. And then you'll see how old I am."

My son busted out laughing. I took one step into his room and he screamed, "Mom, Dad's over hear threatnin' me, invading my space, my personal bubble!"

"Please, I own you and this space."

Satisfied that I made myself clear, I left his room. After I was out of striking distance, he called me old again.

Photo Source: Flckr

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