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I don't feel twenty-eight. I lived my entire twenty-sixth year thinking I was twenty-seven and then tried to reverse the process for the following year. It didn't go well. I ended up being twenty-seven for two years, and now I'm having a difficult time breaking the habit. But whatever age you are, celebrations must ensue on your birthday, so here's ours.

Breakfast at Mimi's with the husband and Little Man. It was delicious, Noah only threw down all of his toys about 400 times each, and, I am happy to report, I kept it down... all the way until noon. Wahoo.

We took Noah to Farm Country at Thanksgiving Point. He seemed most interested in the goats. The horses scared him, and the chickens were rather concerning. Goats seem safe. (And yes, from the previous post, this is where I cried at a goat. For no particular reason at all. Poor goat: crazy lady crying at him and a baby boy pulling his ears. [It must be difficult to distinguish between a Dumpster, who's ears you can pull, and every other smelly, overweight creature out there.])



And what does an Abi want for her birthday? ...

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

To end the day we went into the canyon to cook S'mores with the family. And somehow, although I can't stomach soup, crackers, or water; S'mores are no problem. I'm going to be living on Hersheys and marshmallows until November. Here's Baby Noah with his Grandma and Nana playing in the mountains:

All in all a grand birthday with only a little unsightly vomit. Now to figure out how to be twenty-eight years old...