Another person joins the ranks of those eligible to be President of the United States of America. My dear husband turned 35 years old today.

When I was a kid and learned Presidents have to be at least 35 years old, I thought it was a good thing because old people are smart about not eating too many Twinkies and they don’t mind wearing suits all the time.

Since then, I’ve learned Presidents aren’t always smart about everything. Turning 35 doesn’t make wise crinkles appear around the eyes or lend one an air of awe-inspiring and dignified authority. Some people seem to be ahead of the game, however.

Happy birthday to my husband, whose approval rating remains high at all times. Which President has ever been able to claim that?

Because I have so much to say, but no desire to say it, I offer a post I wrote a year ago today. It was devoted to our once-a-year ritual of eating Lucky Charms. I haven’t purchased the 2006 box yet. Remind me to put it on the grocery list.

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This morning we cracked open our March 2005/St. Patrick’s celebratory box of pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers, blue diamonds, purple horseshoes, rainbows, and the yucky brown bits that always reminded me of Meow Mix as a child. Those yucky brown bits are just as shunned and yucky today as they were when I was a child. To this day I see the little “x” shape and think “cat food”.

The cereal is called Lucky Charms. It is obvious what parts of the cereal are lucky and rather charming. They are the marshmallows. I wonder, though, if General Mills produced a box of just the brown bits what it would be called? Unfortunate Feline? Tragic Sog-Magnets? Shunned Shapes? Wretched and Lonely Tidbits Destined to be Dumped in the Sink Immediately After Breakfast? No, that last one would be too long to fit on the box.

As the four big kids compared and counted marshmallows in their cereal bowls, I put a handful of Lucky Charms on Joel’s highchair tray. He studied the pile of Meow Mix and candy and immediately a synapse fired in his brain. This triggered a switch to turn on in every cell in his body, genetically pre-determined of course. Following in the footy-pajama clad steps of all 20th and 21st century children that came before him his tiny little fingers plucked a pink heart from the pile and he put it in his mouth.

The taste of powdery marshmallow caused a chemical reaction in his blood and a release of certain enzymes. Rushing to his brain the chemical flooded his temporal lobes and long-term marshmallow memory was born. A prejudice for the colorful, opaque gritty bits in the pile on his tray (justified or not) was formed and he acted upon his urges. Soon, all that was left on the tray was a pile of Wretched and Lonely Tidbits Destined to be Dumped in the Sink Immediately After Breakfast.