37

You know you’re old when you really really really want a screen door for your birthday.

I’m celebrating today with a 9:30 a.m. trip to the OB for a little fetal monitoring, and then a frantic session of writing at the cafe in the hopes of finally meeting my deadlines.

Later this afternoon I’ll pick up the cake I ordered for myself, of which I will eat just a teeny tiny bit, in mild defiance of my gestational diabetes.

I can count on one hand the number of birthdays I’ve spent without my mom. It feels strange to be here just with my MIL, and without my husband, who has sung to me over glowing candles for the past 11 years.

But I do have my Poo, my sweet, sweet Poo. This morning she came to visit me in bed at 7 a.m., climbing under the covers and sighing.

“Mommy,” she said.

That one word: a mantra, a prayer, and entreaty all wrapped up into one.

This isn’t where I thought I’d be when I looked down the long tunnel from my 20s to my 30s.

But I’m finding that no matter where I travel, I am always home.

Here’s to whatever 37 brings.