Kevin had a birthday on Saturday. One of those BIG birthdays that, rumour has it, comes paired with crisis and denial. Thirty-nine again? Not my husband. Here he is the night before, still thirty-nine, and then the next morning, forty. (Since I've been doing this before/after documentation for the kids, why not for him? Except please don't comment to say that he looks older in the morning).
On his birthday, he slept in, ate waffles, watched the Celtics play live on the internet, received a surprise delivery of a birthday gift worthy of the changing of the decades (a new guitar!), was serenaded at a specially prepared birthday concert starring his children, went out for a family sushi lunch, spent the afternoon playing guitar and watching a movie with the kids, and went out for dinner with me.
But the cake had to wait one more day because I hadn't read the recipe thoroughly enough to discover that it required chilling in the fridge for a minimum of six hours post-baking. (It was a somewhat laborious-to-make New York Cheesecake; my first ever attempt). So we blew out candles (four plus zero) last night instead.
The wish still counts, I'm sure of it.