I'm not 300 years old. I just feel like I am.

Yesterday was my 300th post. A milestone I suppose. I guess it's significant, although I'm not sure why. But I'll go ahead and give myself a "Whoo-hoo!" because it seems like I should mark the occassion with an annoying chick noise of some kind.

It wasn't my 300th, but I did celebrate a birthday recently. Nothing significant about it at all. In fact, I spent half the day in bed with a migraine, but that's nothing new since big, fat, ugly headaches that make me want to scream are becoming a regular part of my old age.

The only thing good about my birthday was the cards (or should I say, pictures) that I received from my boys.

This picture was from the Monkey (aka Palmer). That of course is a beautiful tree and those two grey figures next to it are me and the Monkey. Not surprisingly, I am the bigger of the two. (And those are my eyes, not my boobs.)



This one is from the Cheese. I love its simplicity. A pretty flower and the words, "To Mom". Nothing mushy or overdone. Just keep it simple stupid. The Cheese apparently takes after his father.

I love how they both write their names on their pictures. I remember doing that as a kid. For a long time, your name is the only word that you can write and so you write it on everything. And I love how the Monkey is still in the stage where you write it as big as you can, in the middle of the page in black, so there's no way anyone can miss it.

You've gotta love a four-year-old's egocentricity.

That was all my kids gave me for my birthday. No teacups or lightbulbs this year. Just their love drawn in crayon on a piece of copy paper that they stole out of my printer.

I couldn't have asked for a better present.