32

Remember when I bought you extravagent gifts, all wrapped up in pretty paper and curly ribbon?

When we would take the day off and take a long drive to anywhere?

When I would dress up and present you with freshly pressed clothes and whisk you away to a great dinner and a show?

When we’d stay out in the wee hours, me with my glasses of wine and you with your (one) bottle of beer?

When there were fewer wrinkles on your face than in our bedsheets, and less gray at your temples than in the sky?

Remember?

Today, we had carry-out Chinese.

You didn’t take the day off but you came home earlier than I expected.

The cake wasn’t frosted.

The presents weren’t wrapped.

The card wasn’t signed.

I was dressed in my comfies and the Beans were in their diapers.

I passed you Maggie, who had recently pooped. Audrey promptly informed you that we had bought you “Moo-veeeees!!!”

We sang “Happy Birthday” one and a half times because I forgot to take a picture.

And now, you are laying on the floor, a willing trampoline for the Beans who don’t act nearly like there are ten minutes until bedtime.

And yet, you look happier than you ever were.

And so am I.

Happy Birthday J.

Love,

the Original Bean.