Hippo birdy

It hasn't been the most eventful of birthdays, I have to admit. Mostly, we've hidden indoors lest the sun shrivel us to a crisp, venturing out only to make the one good use of this weather - hanging some laundry on the line or bringing it back in again.

I say "we" because the children have been with me all day, of course, but they weren't the ones doing the laundry. They were the ones climbing the clothesline, pulling towels off, trying to set up a tightrope, and generally hindering my progress in trying to pack for our week at the beach.

I should probably be thinking deep introspective thoughts about what I've done in the past year, how I'll improve in the one to come, and how awful it is that I'm one year closer to forty. Mostly what occurs to me is to wonder whether, as next year my birthday will fall on a Saturday, I'll be contractually obliged to throw myself a Fortieth party. I'd really rather throw one for B in March, but his birthday falls midweek. Not that one has to have the party on the exact day, but it does lend itself to parties, and only happens once in seven (if that often).

We did get a babysitter last night - who managed to get Mabel to sleep, wonder of wonders - while we went to the movies and then for a very quick drink. And tonight an Indian takeout is winging its way homeward as I speak. (You might think I would rather have a nice salad when it's 102 degrees outside, but I will leverage my air conditioning and eat the food I like.)

Hippo birdy to me, as Sandra Boynton would say.