Do you remember all your birthdays? I don’t think I could, even if I tried hard. They are just getting to be too many. I do remember particular birthdays though, my fifth being the first one I have a clear memory of, then my 9th when I got my first badminton racket, my 13th, or my 18th when I got my driver’s license. I also remember my 20th birthday very well, because that was the day my dad had surgery to remove a big, bad brain tumor, and then I remember my 21st birthday, which makes me sad, because that’s when he was buried. I turned 22 in the US, somewhere between the slopes in Aspen. My 24th birthday was the first I spent with Courtney. I spent my 28th birthday on the beaches of Normandy, pregnant with August, and on my 30th birthday - Easter - I was nine months pregnant with William. It was around my 34th birthday that we found out we were moving to Egypt, and Abraham might have been conceived on my 35th birthday.
Last weekend, I spent - again! - my 35th birthday, a beautiful day, walking with my family along the Mediterranean Sea here in Beirut. I didn’t really turn 35 again of course, but I like to pretend I stopped counting. Getting old doesn’t scare me, but I feel the years are slipping through my fingers, and as not to stress, I prefer not to think about it too much. My favorite quote by one of my favorite authors sums it up eloquently: “ is a perfectly good age. I know plenty of women in the high London society who have remained  for years.” (Oscar Wilde, of course.)