To begin, I figure we are a little overdue for a pregnancy picture. I hope they let me on the airplane, looking like this:) It’s pretty round these days.
It was a great day for Aaron to turn thirty-two. We had oatmeal pancakes and bacon in the morning. Then, I gave Aaron an early birthday present—a new mix of music for his running regimen that I stole from NPR “Best Workout Music Ever” list. It’s very “Aaron 1998” with some Tupac, Beastie Boys, Metallica, and Jamiroquai. I think the most brilliant suggestion from NPR for cardiovascular health was Ike and Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary.” So, Aaron went for a run to prepare for the slab of cow he would be eating later.
We went to the park for the first time this year and Clara had a ball trying to keep up with the big kids. We finished by blowing some bubbles, so here’s the clips from that part of the day:
Aaron got a nice combination of presents he specifically asked for (saxophone neckstrap and reed case) and some surprises (a nice shirt and tie and some books). He’s always an easy one to cook for on his birthday. It starts with the nicest cut of ribeye I can find (I actually went to a meat market for this puppy) . . .
and ends with fruit pizza, his favorite dessert since elementary school.
Today, Aaron is acting on an article he read in Harper’s and trying out a one day fast. Supposedly, fasting prevents cancer and diabetes. I’d be all in, too, if I wasn’t carrying around a twenty-pound oven made of flesh and blood.
Well, there’s no better day to say for all the world to hear (invites go out Monday) that I’m one lucky wife and mom. You can pretty much take any minute out of Aaron’s life and find some perfection. For instance, as I write this, Aaron comes over to sing a jingle he’ll teach kindergarteners on Monday—“A sailor went to sea, sea, sea to see what he could see, see, see”—and now he’s off to rake up all the dog poop that reappeared after months of consecutive snow. He’s the happiest, most agreeable person I know. Happy birthday to my bubble-blowing, bovine-eating, dog-poop-raking husband.