Ed turned 40 on Saturday. FORTY.
My age – plus eight years.
I just wanted to make sure we are clear about that.
We had the best day on his 40th. Ed’s twin was in town with his wife, who is expecting, and some of their friends. We enjoyed an absolutely lovely afternoon and evening with special people and had twice the fun. At least Ed wasn’t the only one welcoming the big 4-0. I’d say misery loves company, but they were both perfectly happy.
I finally got around to baking my annual (annual = every year except the past two years) Funfetti cake on Wednesday evening. The kids helped every step of the way.
They even decorated the cake all on their own.
Note the candles. Remember, I said I’ve made this cake every year except the past two years. But I had bought the cake mix and candles for 38 and 39. (If you need the literal translation, the past few years have been way too busy and my big plans lacked follow through.)
So I used the “3″ and the “8″ and added in a few individual candles. Listen, I can’t add single digit numbers with my fingers, but I’m fairly confident this equals 40.
My little Moll is the sweetest about other people’s birthdays. She began telling Ed “Happy Birthday, Daddy!” two days before his birthday and she’s still at it now, almost a week later. She sincerely wants everyone to love their birthday. It’s an extremely endearing quality.
But nothing beats her sentiment on Wednesday, when we finally had Ed’s cake, four days after his birthday.
“How old are you, Daddy?”
I was a little too excited about the opportunity to throw out the number yet one more time. I may weigh more than my husband who is the same height as me, but I’m younger.
“Oh, Daddy is 40 now.”
“Wow, Daddy. You sure are OLD.”
I should have taken a picture of the giant smile plastered on my face.
My three loves on Ed’s 40th: