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…and many happy returns

Today, I am 39.

40 is next. Before I know it I’ll be wearing pink stretch polyester pants and a dotty rainbonnet. I hope. That’s the goal.

I am not ashamed to admit I love my birthday. I like when people celebrate with me. I like happy wishes and shared cake. Why should I outgrow delighting in any celebration of life?

It’s the day I met my mom and dad in person.

Maybe I heard someone singing, unmuffled by fluid, for the first time? I had my first taste of milk, from my mom who bucked the 70s formula wave and breastfed me. I was hatted and wrapped after my first bubble bath.

Other loved ones held me, too. My grandparents, who have passed on, cradled me. How much would I give right now to be able to hug each one of them again for a moment?

June 6th wasn’t simply the day I was born. Me being on Earth isn’t what is worth celebrating. It’s the day I met some of the most important people in my life.

I know I am supposed to be modest and downplay the day but I won’t. I am glad to be alive, to be here, to know the date when my mom pushed me out sunny side up and into a very good life.

My first birthday:

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…people like lists (vol. 6)

1. Ryley is in fifth grade, and that means the Big Birds and Bees talk takes place at school. It was yesterday.

When I went through the class in fifth grade, so many, many years ago, I was mortified that the boys would be told what happens to girls once a month. There was absolutely no reason for them to have this information, I felt. What good could come of it? Anyway, Ryley already knows where babies come from, but he doesn’t really know a whole lot about the female cycle. We gave him a heads-up about what he’d hear. I mentioned he’d learn about hormones and other interesting things.

He said, “Yeah, yeah. What I really want to know is why girls always need chocolate.”

2. A study from the Netherlands contends: …mentally unstimulating work, including doing jobs around the house day-in day-out, increased the chances of giving birth at least three weeks early by up to 25 per cent. Yes, housework is bad for pregnant women.

3. I hate brown avocados, so I am reluctant to buy them unless I know they will be completely used at one sitting. That means eating the whole bowl of guacamole, right? One of the common tips floating around is to leave the avocado pit in the guacamole to prevent browning, but it doesn’t always work. I came across this idea and thought it would be worth a shot, but the downside is the added oily residue. Have you tried it? Does it effect the taste?

4. I am totally doing bento lunches for school next year, although I worry my older kids will think it’s not enough food. My older boys might think it’s a little prissy, no? A Mile High Mamas pal wrote a post explaining the beauties of the bento. My kids pack their own lunches every night before they go to bed. Bento-ing it would mean ditching sandwich baggies and forcing them to be a little more creative with their choices. Do you bento? Let’s pretend bento is a verb.

5. Here’s a great, manageable list of children’s books, either retro or retro-inspired. There are some intriguing titles that are recent reprints. Love the illustrations, too! Old timey stuff charms me. One reason I like to shop for books at thrift stores is that I discover really old children’s books that would never be published today—like the Eloise Wilkins’ illustrated We Help Daddy. The Daddy smokes like Eyjafjallajökull while the little boy collects rusty nails in a bucket.

6. Joy the Baker’s Root Beer Float cake. It’s on my grand list o’ cakes to make.

Storming the third trimester (with belly shots)

Mr. Baby and I have 12 weeks, at most, left to ourselves.

We commune in the beige recliner every evening. I do my part by eating dinner. He kicks out a code in response, about 20 minutes later. His movements are strong enough to see.

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Archie likes to lift my shirt to smackity-pat my belly. He doesn’t understand who is in there or how his life is going to change in, at most, 12 weeks. I tell him to say hi to baby brother.

I bought a green and white striped onesie for the baby. It’s the only thing I have for him that wasn’t owned and used by another child. In the next 12 weeks, at most, I will try to find a few more things he can call his own.

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It’s time to storm the third trimester, to rally the energy and optimism necessary to get through these final weeks. It’s uphill, isn’t it? That’s how I picture the 12 weeks. At most.

It’s a serious trudge through the hottest and brightest days of the year. I keep myself busy by simply opening my eyes in the morning. The days launch on the first beat and don’t stop until I lie down on my side and wait for him to kick out his own version of goodnight.