It's been a great year. I mean, if you discount the bad stuff. I suppose then that every year could be a great year. Still, a lot was accomplished in the first 365 days of my dirty thirties.

We had a beautiful little baby to complete our family. He's now walking, talking (if you figure three or four words is 'talking') and killing us with cuteness. It's a skill he will undoubtedly become quite adept at as the years go on.

We bought a new home. It's old and needs work, but it has charm. Basically it's the inanimate version of me. That would explain why I fell in love with it.

We survived our first big 'health crisis', so to speak, when Intrepid broke his leg. Don't roll your eyes. Have you ever had a child go under the knife? It's intense, yo. It was enough to throw me over the edge just as I was crawling back out of the bowl of chaos. But he's ok, we're ok (well, I'm about as 'ok' as I get) and it's all good.

So what did I do to commemorate my final hours as a thirty-year-old? Exactly what I wanted to do, and what I plan to do most of the day tomorrow: spend time with my glorious gremlins. Observe:













Let's see if 31 can top that. Happy birthday, me. I'll be sure to adequately stuff myself with cake in celebration of a kick ass year.