Last week I turned 37. A proper adult age. You can’t really hide behind 37, can’t pretend that you’re still a kid. Nobody wants to hear about a 37-year-old still processing their high school experience.
Birthdays, like any anniversary really, can be a mind-fuck. While I wish I was a deeply enlightened person who met each birthday with gratitude and an open heart, the reality is I’m a deeply anxious person and birthdays make me think about mortality. Which in turn kicks up the anxiety about not being grateful enough for the present moment—and the cycle continues.
Last week my sons turned 2. Proper toddlers. Barreling through the house, and stacking blocks, and wrestling on the floor. “Shirts off, mama!” They demand, some primal urge in them telling them their wrestling will be way more fun if they’re shirtless. They’re not babies anymore.
I didn’t meet their birthday with any of the mortality-nail-biting or anxiety so signature to my own. Instead, what I felt was a deep pride in them and what they’ve accomplished this year: learning to walk, learning to sing, finding their voices and using their words. Learning to hug.
A few days after our birthday gauntlet, with Father’s Day smashed in between, I decided that one of my goals for myself moving forward is to treat my own birthdays with the same wonder and awe that I treat theirs. How lucky are we to celebrate another year? It may not be as obvious as learning to walk, but each year we learn so much—and if we’re paying attention those human lessons are where we can find life’s best bets.
How lucky are we to be here?
Links, links, links
I’ve always been fascinated by the Lefferts Historic House which sits on the edge of my neighborhood near Prospect Park. The 18th century farmhouse is a doorway to another time in this borough, and an artist’s installation there right now honors the enslaved people who once lived at the house.
As a parent to very young children I think a lot about when/if to introduce “screen time.” Jia Tolentino’s piece on CoComelon hit on a lot of my wonders and worries.
Speaking of TV…this essay on how reality TV became a template for real life is a worthy read. I think about this often as we preform our lives for social media and set up events and days and meals with content in mind…
Unrelated but the way the egg freezing market is using fear to target young women is prett-y shameless.
Last Sunday Read’s most clicked link: This gorgeous poem by Chen Chen.
The book on my nightstand
Reading this one on my Kindle: The Island at the Center of the World by Russell Shorto. The book is a history of Manhattan under Dutch colonial rule. If that kinda thing is your bag (it’s definitely mine) then I recommend it.
A parting recommendation
Don’t know how or why, but I somehow got on the Rhode PR list, and I’m super happy to be here. I love a cream blush, and the brand just launched their Pocket Blush which is smooth, and pretty, and honestly just a lovely product. Here are two shades on my hand—I have it in Sleepy Girl and Piggy.
See you next Sunday. xo
Amen. Still celebrating my 78th some more with friends at dinner Thursday night. Then again when I arrive at Queechy Lake. How lucky we are,
I don't care much for my own birthday. Growing up, my sister and I, born two years and two days apart, always celebrated on the day between us, so neither really had our own moment in the sun (something to think about for C&L). Then, at 18, I was traumatized by having to register for the draft, 21 meant I was on my own. After that I preferred an ageless ambiguity since the event marked a kind of loss to me, like sands through the hourglass... Now that I'm older, I'm just glad to keep 'em comin'. Maybe the milestones will seem more triumphant closer to the end of the course :)