It’s something we kid about in this house a lot lately – being old. It usually starts with me taking a jab at my man in order to make myself feel better about my impending 30th birthday. Not that I’m all that bent out of shape about it. But here’s the thing about me kidding around – it usually backfires. Go figure!

The other day in the car, my kids were imploring who the next person in our family to have a birthday was. The answer was daddy, who I had to point out would be 32! Soooooooo old! Cocoa told me I was older. Say WHAT?!? With daddy laughing hysterically in the background, I asked her to explain to me why she thought I was older than daddy. She said it was the lines on my forehead. And my wrinkly hands. And my gray hair.

I find it necessary to pause for a moment and point out that my husband has been going gray since the age of 14. He is now probably 75% gray/old. I, on the other hand, have a handful of little buggers that like to stick out of my natural part. But then they die/dye a messy death in hair color. End of side bar.

So yes, my daughter thinks I’m old. And replaceable apparently…because she then pointed out that it might be time to get a new mom. And then Cocoa and her dad went on and on about what this new mom might look like while I sulked in the front seat. After the reign of laughter ended, Hollywood (bless his little heart) leaned forward and put his hand on my shoulder and told me if I was leaving, he was going with me.

Happy Birthday Babe!
You may mock me for torturing those pesky gray hairs
and essential oiling the crap out of my wrinkles…
But don’t you forget…
You will always be older than me.
An old, silver fox with sexy smile lines.

Dang. This still isn’t sounding good for me. I’m getting old guys! And there isn’t a darn thing I can do about it. Oh well! The count down is on!

[Please check out the talented Cassie Van Boven and her beautiful photography!]