The Best Laid Plans

This year, y'all, my birthday is one of a kind. Turning 43 isn't such a big deal, but being alive on 10.10.10 and it being my birthday? Pretty darn stellar.

I think he likes being a goof ball

My birthday weekend began with a bang. Friend Heather and her husband took me and the Hunny out for steak dinner at a local favorite, Jamil's (they rock the cat box like nobody's business!). There were presents galore! We came back to the house for coffee and chat and torturing the children (what birthday is complete if one hasn't tortured children?).

And all night there was a hitch in the top back of my throat. Not a tickle, necessarily. More like something at the roof of my mouth being rude and obstructive.

Where will I hang this?

I have big plans for the weekend. They involve a museum and then doing pretty much nothing.

Sunday? My birthday? I took the day off. I have the best job in the world, working with kids. Sunday morning I volunteer with the church preschool, running from room to room, setting out crackers, smiling at teachers and kids, complimenting wee girls on their pretty dresses and sparkly shoes. I love it. Sunday night I spend three hours with 9, 10 and 11 year olds. I tell them shaggy dog stories, building them up, weaving a spell binder, only to drop them off a cliff at the end. I wish you could see their horrified faces when a story ends - it's priceless. But they love it and always come back for more.

Heather's so glam

Last Sunday I told the kids I wouldn't be there this week. No one got teary or anything, but one of the girls suggested I come to work so they could celebrate with me. How very sweet! Then she says, "And you can bring the cookies ..." I see how it is.

So why am I writing a blog post at 4 am on Saturday, a few hours before I'm supposed to leave for the Philbrook? That nagging ugly hitch in the back of my throat woke me. And it won't let me go back to sleep. Kinda like this image of my Hunny:

Here's hoping your weekend is the bomb dot com. And mine too. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I hear my pillow calling ...

Until I write again ...

Flea