Bloom

Well. This is what 35 looks like, I guess:

 

Many years ago, on March 5, 1770, The Boston Massacre helped spark the American Revolution. Of equal importance to the American Way of Life, I was born in Phoenix, Arizona on March 5, 1975. 

I am 35 years old.

I already said that, didn't I? 

I guess I'm wrapping my head around the idea. 

***

Last night, I heard Owen and Paul talking and scheming in the bathroom. There were furtive whispers and the crackling of paper. Finally, Owen emerged and said, "Mommy, I'm not supposed to talk to you about the surprise flowers."

Paul laughed. "Nice secret-keeping, Buddy."

This morning, Owen pulled this out of the bathtub for me: 

My sweet boys. 

***

I bought this a few months after Joel was born in an attempt to kick my postpartum self into shape:

Jillian Michaels snarls a lot, and she's not there to play. 

I think I did this DVD twice, and was subsequently distracted by cheese popcorn and the most recent episode of "Kendra."

A little over a year later, Owen discovered the DVD and asked if he could do "The Shred." 

We set it up, and gave him some Lego weights. 

Here is he doing squats. 

Here's some push-ups.

He really likes it. He has asked to do it every day. I joined him the other night:

I like that it burns off some energy.

I'm not sure I'm as fond of my preschooler snarling, "Pain is just weakness leaving the body."

***
I believe that plants are always the perfect gift. Always. My friend dropped off these sweet little flowers for me:

 

A question for my green-thumbed readers: Is it okay to plant these in a Mid-Atlantic March? I really want to put them in the ground and watch them bloom. 

 

After all, isn't that what people do? We bloom. We grow. And every year gets better and better. 

I believe that. I hope you do too. 

Thanks Mrs. 4444 for hosting Friday Fragments!