It is Mr. T’s birthday tomorrow, and I haven’t wrapped his present. The present and the wrapping paper are in the bedroom, where he is currently asleep, dreaming boring dreams. (Backstory: he sleeptalks sometimes. I woke up about 6 months ago to find him fast asleep yet propped up on one arm, leaning right over my face. To my bleary, “Snrk? Wha?” he brightly enquired, “So, do you think we’re saving enough water?”)
His 30th was a heap of fun, including nudie runs and drawing on drunken people with permanent markers. (The nudie run was sadly neither me nor Mr. T. We have more class self-preservation skills than that.) Home by a very dignified 3am – - maybe this means we’re growing up? God, I hope not.
