Today is my hubby's birthday. He is 59. He was born on Groundhog Day. He was also a preemie baby. Born at 3lbs 6oz. In the hospital for a month. If you have seen the photos of our us and our dogs in the Christmas photo, you will know that the man has more than made up for the lack of weight at birth.
He was a thin boy, but he said when they took out his tonsils, he started gaining and was over 200 lbs by his 8th grade graduation. Now those were some powerful tonsils (I'm glad I kept mine).
Once in an elevator at a hospital, we met a lady whose daughter or relative had just given birth to a little girl who weighed 3lbs something. When we told her about hubby, she looked at him in horror. She was imagining her little pint sized girl growing to such a large size. Her look made us laugh.
So tonight when hubby gets home, he will have leftover baked chicken, salad with hot sauce and hot peppers, and some German Chocolate cake. He should be a very happy man. Until tomorrow when he realizes 60 is just a hop, skip, and a jump away. I should know. For 3 months now, we will be the same age. Come May I have to go over the 60 mark.
I would post a recent photo of him I took against his will (he was in shorts, boots, no shirt) as he took out the trash. I couldn't believe he was going outside like that and I threatened to turn on the outside lights. He threatened my life if I post it or draw it. I guess turning 60 is better than being dead.