First, I realize that my life with Lynda equals exactly one-half of my total lifetime. And friends, let me tell you that this is a very good thing. No other choice that I could have made in life has been a better one for me or has generated so many good things and guaranteed good things yet to be. If I never do anything else right forever, I can at least point to that twenty-year-old choice and be secure in the knowledge that it was unequivocally the right one.
We celebrated on Sunday by going out to dinner at a local Mexican restaurant. This allowed me to enjoy some nice mole sauce on my enchiladas and to get a ridiculous margarita (but a. made out of lime, b. not frozen, and c. not fruited up . . . because I'm still a man, you see). As I'm eating the meal, Grace (on one side of me) is trying to get Sarah's approval (on the other side of me) to deliver something.
Now, I know that it is probably a birthday card that I had heard was in the works, but I'm being the good, clueless dad and not acknowledging the events for Grace's sake. Halfway through the enchiladas (and two-thirds of the way through the ridiculous margarita), they present me with this wonderful card which I reproduce and interpret below.
This is the front of the card, which obviously says "Happy B-Day!" For some reason, they chose not to include my excellent winter beard in the image rendition. Perhaps they don't like the way it scratches their faces? |
And on the last page, they apply their signatures. Hannah's is the big "H." (Whenever she sees an H anywhere, she always says . . . That's Me. That's an H for Hannah. |
Now, I ask you . . . how could any meaningless construction of a decade-based birthday possibly overshadow such love and wonder?