So, in 1980 I had my first and only living child. He was perfect. The most beautiful baby ever born, as I recall. Active, squally, but beautiful. And I can't say his growing up years were completely trouble free. But, pretty good, all things considered.
And he likes cats.
This was his first walking picture. Very happy to be mobile.
And if you doubted the cuteness, this is the evidence. Cute as a bug.
And I do recall telling him when he was about 3 and talking about growing up and marrying mommy, like every little boy does at one point or other, that he wouldn't be marrying me and he shouldn't marry at all until he was 36. I don't know why I said 36. I wasn't 36 at that time myself.
But, this is the thing. I also told him that he should not jump out of swings. That he should memorize his phone number. That he should pick up his room. That he should save money for a rainy day. And did he listen to any of that?
But, it is only 3 years until he is 36! Because today on the feast day of the Nativity of John the Baptist, he is 33.