Happy Birthday to me!

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 9^th when I got my first badminton racket, my 13^th, or my 18^th when I got my driver’s license. I also remember my 20^th birthday very well, because that was the day my dad had surgery to remove a big, bad brain tumor, and then I remember my 21^st 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 24^th birthday was the first I spent with Courtney. I spent my 28^th birthday on the beaches of Normandy, pregnant with August, and on my 30^th birthday - Easter - I was nine months pregnant with William. It was around my 34^th birthday that we found out we were moving to Egypt, and Abraham might have been conceived on my 35^th birthday.

Last weekend, I spent - again! - my 35^th 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: “[35] is a perfectly good age. I know plenty of women in the high London society who have remained [35] for years.” (Oscar Wilde, of course.)