Turning 33 years old is not noteworthy. It doesn't have the awe and wonder of becoming a teenager, the power and confidence of turning 21 or the holy crap where has it gone sober shock of turning 30. This year however was a touch different. The last birthday before parenthood felt like it meant a little something more.
March 4th this year brought exactly what I wanted. A great baseball book gift from Kelly that will be a major player when it omes to choosing bedtime stories. An enjoyable brunch at Sarah's restaurant where eggs become pancakes and pasta turned into pizza. And it all led to cheesecake. With a few beverages that made you feel funny.
After that it was home for a tremendous birthday nap. I used to be a professional napper but those days have left me behind. It was good to know I still had it. Naps are likely to one casualty of parenthood. Unless I can conjure up a skill similar to my dad's and master the 20 minute catnap.
The capper came in the form of butterscotch malts. Which we (I) slurped while conversating about the past, present and future. I felt at ease. I felt content. I felt right.
Not that these things can't happen once July hits. They certainly can. It's just that I don't know for sure they will when I want them to. One of the giant tradeoffs of having a child is that the freedom to up and do whatever is gone. It's been replaced by something greater, but it can be a hard change all the same.
And it really is less about you and more about someone else. My 34 candles next March will not mean quite so much. The real importance will be the 1 candle next July.
