42

I turn 42 tomorrow.

Can you believe it? Don't I just look too young to be 42? I knew you'd say that. You're such a good friend.

If I'm supposed to have anything to say about turning 42, I didn't get the memo. I mean, I'm all for the hugs and kisses I'll get from my kids (and Baroy). But milestone? Not really. It's just a day, you know? Too close to the turning of the new year for me to really feel like reassessing my life and my goals and what I've accomplished lately, and too insignificant of a number for me to do much more than that.

None of which removes the requirement for you to leave me a comment and wish me a happy day, of course.

Then, on Thursday, N turns five. That's the one I'm really having trouble with. Five is like the demarcation between baby and big boy. And yet, he's still such a baby. On both days this weekend, he came upstairs to our bedroom (my refuge from house o' kids when I have work to do), climbed into bed with me, threw his leg over my hip, played with my hair, and took a nap while I proofed .pdfs. I could literally just devour him. It wouldn't take all that many bites, either.

Last night, Em came into our family room, looking tired and sad. She's been a bit off lately. I tried to get her to talk to me, but there wasn't anything there. Then she asked if she could sit on my lap (oooph! she's a big kid now!) and as she cuddled into my chest, she whispered, "I can't wait until you get to be a stay at home mom."

And then N, feeling jealous, insisted on climbing onto my lap as well, and slid in between Em and me. We sat and hugged like that for a few long, delicious minutes, and I got many kisses.

Maybe that's why tomorrow doesn't feel particularly momentous. What could possibly be so special about tomorrow that it could beat my Sunday cuddle?