Happy Birthday

Hi. I’m still here. Still writing. Books take a long time.

The other day was my birthday. Someone asked how old I’m turning. I don’t know. And I’m not being cute about it either, I really don’t. I’ve never been good at math so it’s easy to ignore the number and not subtract the nine and carry the one or whatever.

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It’s funny because I used to collect years like crazy.





They seemed like such big important milestones at the time. And I guess they were. All rights of passage. But now I could care less how old I am. I seem to collect days now instead.

January 1st.
March 27th.
April 12th.
August 3rd.
August 8th.
September 1st.

Some of these dates are good. Some are not. Some are just *heavy.* But I remember them and what they mean long before the calendar turns.

As a parent I feel like I’m constantly in a race to the end of the day. If only I can get through breakfast and then work and then the commute home and then the dog walk and then dinner and bath and dishes and laundry and 3-5 stories at bedtime I can have my 30 golden minutes of quiet time to myself before I pass out and do it again.

Can I go out this Friday?
Next Friday?
A month from now?

I don’t know. No. I just need more time. But there is never enough time. Not to feel whole anyway.
Maybe this year I’ll finally figure out the secret and start to put away years and days altogether and boil it down even further to just moments. There are so many *moments* I want to be here for. Not just physically here for but all of me here for—ready and grounded in the present. Ok with where and who I am. Not a writer and mother and wife and worker but... just me. Just one hat to wear.

Easier said than done, I know.

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