I had a birthday. 37 years old. I’m uneasy about odd numbers, but remind myself that they always add up to even.

My birthday started with a sleepless night fostered by a very bad cat howling at our door until I finally I got out of bed at 1am, put food in his bowl, and cleaned his box. That’s right, I scooped litter at 1am. It was the first act of my birthday, and I decided that instead of feeling sorry for myself, it was meant as an inside joke, i.e. you will spend your 37th year feeding things that can’t feed themselves and cleaning up poop. 

I still felt a little sorry for myself when I woke up, sleep-deprived after a night of insomnia, but then Tasha took me to breakfast at Hominy Grill where I had their special frittata, house-made duck sausage and poblano pepper and cheese. Followed by a walk on the beach, then a margarita and some nachos. Followed by a nap. Then another nap. Ending with a cocktail at a grown-up bar and Thai food for dinner. In between, I snuggled Hugh and made him giggle, then handed him off when he fussed. It was like being a 50’s dad for the day! Lovely.

The insomnia thing, Tasha tells me, is my new mommy brain kicking into gear. There’s a switch that got flipped somewhere between all those painful contractions that turned something ON that will never again go OFF. I’ve never slept well with in a light room; I like the blinds in hotels that create a dark, windowless cave. Now it’s like there is a dim glow always on in my brain, and Tasha tells me it won’t ever go away. Not even when they are 17. So I’ve got to learn to mute that switch and fall asleep in a new way.

Chubby legs