I’m 34. I was scared about the idea that I was nearing 35. But now that I’ve slept well and and have awoken to flowers and birthday cards, things seem brighter. Before falling asleep, I told Phil I was nervous.
"Because 34 is closer to 35, which means no more babies." I realize, of course, that plenty of people have healthy babies well after 35, but I’ve never quite loved the fact that "35" is that marker of a number–the one that determines likelihoods and in my mind is associated with chorionic villus sampling and amniocentesis. I am my father’s daughter, a needless worrier.
"Can we discuss this in the morning, please?"
Of course there’s nothing to discuss. It’s not that I want more babies–I don’t think I do. It’s the idea that if I wanted to have another baby, I’d have to decide that soon. Basically, I’m getting older, and as that happens, it seems our bodies start to limit our choices for us.
The good news?
I’m going to paint my toes a shocking color today.
I will smear my name off a cake with my pinky and wear it on my nose.
My babies will sing me the Happy Birthday song–for once on my actual birthday!
There will be cream cheese frosting, and I will eat more than one slice.
There will be twirling. And candles. And ribbons. And photos. And memories.
I might even wear a dress.
We’ll have a fancy romantic dinner at Hudson on The Bend, where all toasts will be made in my honor.
I will go to the movies!
I will read the babies Fancy Nancy with a fancy voice.
And because I repented for all my naughty sins yesterday, I will start the year off clean, without apologies, without regrets.
But the really good news is that I’m a year closer to wearing purple.