Turning 35 ended up being pretty painless. I woke up to breakfast in bed courtesy of the kids. Dylan was incredibly proud of the fact that he made my toast himself. Then I played badminton with my husband, did the grocery shopping, had my hair cut, went for sauna with my friend Ali, had dinner with the Gilbert family, and spent a quiet evening with my hubby. Barely even time to lament the passing of my youth.
Thirty five years old. Ouch! Half way to seventy. Round up to forty. Edith told me that I am really getting "quite old." Special.
When we moved to England, I was only 26. Just a spring chicken, really. Now I'm ancient, like the crypt keeper. But I have a wonderful husband, two beautiful children, and a great life. So I'm getting old? So what? Being 35 hasn't changed anything. Well, except for the fact that I have now decided to ditch the grey hair. I am going to dye it tomorrow.
In other news, we have had to cut Dylan off the junk food. We went to Nottingham to visit some friends, and they had nibbles out on the table. Dylan ate so much food that he made himself sick. And in typical Dylan fashion, he did it in his bed. The kid is incapable of getting up and being sick in the toilet. Which of course means a midnight shower and bedding change. It was the second time in less than six weeks. So now he is only allowed to eat the food which we give him, until he can learn to stop eating when he is full. I feel like such a mean parent, but it seems necessary. I seem to recall that Velecia's boys used to do the same?
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