Thank Heaven for Little Boys

I've been keen to take a photo of my husband in the football jersey he bought while we were on vacation in Venezuela last month.  It's the jersey of the favourite football team of his youth, Venezuela's Vinotinto or "The Burgundy" and appropriately he's sporting it for his last soccer game of the season.  

It's not often I can get him to pose without sticking his tongue out,  or his chest, making some sort of face, or mooning me.  

Sometimes I think he's the poster boy for the adage "Growing old doesn't have to mean growing up", except he doesn't seem to be growing old either.

I must admit there's something appealing about a fifty year old man still very much in touch with the little boy inside. Sure, there are times when I'm not in the mood for childish behaviour, but in truth those are the times when childish behaviour is just what I need.

Sometimes I take myself a little too seriously and when I do I'm awfully grateful for this guy with the twinkling blue eyes, the boyish grin and the ability to help me get in touch with my inner child too.