E.G. is planning his birthday party. Many hours of work--E.G. crouched at the coffee table, pencil in hand and paper at the ready--have been spent on the growing list of details. This is serious business: only boys this year. The guest list will be decisive and carefully curated. A number of considerations are on the table: location, activities, and culinary proclivities. Our home has yet to host a birthday party for him, so after some consideration, festivities will be in-house. I don’t want to scare Jordan, but we might have a budding party planner on our hands. I'm just saying she should watch her back: a whole lot of almost seven is hot on her heels.
We are engaged in high-level coordination, dear readers. If you can’t hack the birthday intensity, best to retreat to your thrown together, half-hearted soirees filled with whichever gender happens to arrive and whomever was free.
As we ate dinner the other night, party planning mercifully tabled, J asked E.G. to turn to me. “What do you think? Should your mom dye her hair blond?” I swiveled my head back and forth a little so he could declare his objective opinion. “Hmm,” he said, squinting a little and sticking his tongue out of the hole where a front tooth used to be, “No, I think she’s pretty much perfect just the way she is.”
(I guess I’m his Bridget.)
Enough sentimentalities; it’s invitation time.
Hand-made? Store-bought? Theme? Engraved?
Oh, the agonizing choices!
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1 comment:
Dave has high regard for my wobbly bits, so looks like we are both (yet individually) in good company.
Happy Birthday to E.G.!
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