Sunday
4/12/04
No, My Boys are the Cutest.
As I sat here this morning, staring bleary eyed at my inbox and trying to wake up, I was sorely tempted to start blogging about our Easter. All about our adorable boys, how well behaved they were in church, the outstanding egg hunt put on by my mom, and the culinary bliss of a roast leg of lamb dinner shared with an old family friend. We drank some pretty good Merlot and talked books, music, the Rangers, and ranted about politics; all topped off with even better coffee.
And then I thought, naw, I’ll bet everybody who does Easter is doing just that right now; blogging about how cute their kids are and reflecting on what Easter means to them. So, I’ll spare the world one of my lengthy, pompous essays on the themes of rebirth, redemption, and forgiveness and just leave it that my boys are indeed the cutest egg-hunters ever. So there.
|
No, My Boys are the Cutest.
As I sat here this morning, staring bleary eyed at my inbox and trying to wake up, I was sorely tempted to start blogging about our Easter. All about our adorable boys, how well behaved they were in church, the outstanding egg hunt put on by my mom, and the culinary bliss of a roast leg of lamb dinner shared with an old family friend. We drank some pretty good Merlot and talked books, music, the Rangers, and ranted about politics; all topped off with even better coffee.
And then I thought, naw, I’ll bet everybody who does Easter is doing just that right now; blogging about how cute their kids are and reflecting on what Easter means to them. So, I’ll spare the world one of my lengthy, pompous essays on the themes of rebirth, redemption, and forgiveness and just leave it that my boys are indeed the cutest egg-hunters ever. So there.
