happy birthday, maman!

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Dear Maman, 

You are truly a phenomenal women as Maya Angelou said. 
May your upcoming year  be filled with exercising, closet cleansing,
creative cooking, ample time with our favorite munchkins,
and staying with your best foot forward with style and vigor! 
I love you so much! 

Inside every older person is a younger person – wondering what in the world happened. (Anon)

 "With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come." (Shakespeare)

“The years between fifty and seventy are the hardest. You are always being asked to do things, and yet you are not decrepit enough to turn them down.T. S. Eliot

“The older the fiddler, the sweeter the tune.”  -English Proverb
“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age"  -- French proverb

“If only I may grow: firmer, simpler-quieter, warmer.”
- Dag Hammarskjold

“At twenty years of age, the will reigns; at thirty, the wit; and at forty, the judgement.”
- Benjamin Franklin

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. (W. Shakespeare)

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