Ages, smages

Do you ever forget how old you are? When older women do this I used to think “wow, have they been lying about their age so long they can’t remember the truth?” but here I am, never lying about my age, trying to remember if I’m 32 or 33.

I’m 32. That’s the great thing about being born in a decade year. Minimal math necessary. My brother and mom and younger son were also born on decade years. Too bad I have to remember how old I am to remember how old they are, right?

I got a haircut Sunday. It’s very short. As in, all my earrings are longer than my hair, short. I like it though. I was worried that it wouldn’t look good once I was the one doing the styling, but I washed it last night, and styled it this morning and voila! It looks presentable! I couldn’t remember my hair being this short ever, but then my father posted this photo to facebook:





Apparently, I’m five in that photo. I was string-bean tall, so I have a hard time remembering ages (see, then too!) But that fuzzy ear to the right of me seems to be my beloved dog Pi which dates this to before I was six. And always, the books. At least I can point out that I’ve always had several books around me at all times, right? I will advise that I did not go with the 80s bowl cut this time.





And I bought this water slide/slash pool on Target clearance about a month ago and left it in my trunk for when we were having a crisis about what to do around the house. Friday we pulled it out and blew it up, and the kids have been playing with it DAILY. Henry comes home and goes directly to the back door. “Pool!” (It’s amazing how fast that child has picked up speaking. Can’t shut him up now!) Last night was the first night that we didn’t, and that’s just because it rained all day and was still drizzly and gross when they got home. It’s been so much fun! And I can sit on the porch and have a pumpkin beer in peace, too, which is key.




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