long days

My dad used to sing that to me on every birthday. When I was little, I didn't know it was a Beatles song, and just thought it was one of his more egregiously nonsensical made-up songs. Every year, without fail, I would hear it either over the phone or in person. Except last year, when for some reason he forgot to call me on my birthday. And this year, he's gone. He died last September. Every holiday since then, it's impossible to keep myself from thinking, "This is the first Thanksgiving/Christmas/Easter/Arbor Day/Whatever without him here." Funny but out of all those holidays, the day I missed his presence the most was Lucy's third birthday and my niece's first birthday. My birthday is the last one of these "firsts", and in some ways its a relief.

I'm writing this while pumping -- the miracle of the spandex double pumping bra -- to leave enough milk for Tessa while I spend several hours at the spa, courtesy of my sweet husband. Other than being slightly concerned that my breasts are going to explode on the massage table, I'm so looking forward to a few hours to myself to relax. I may curl up on one of the changing room benches and take a nap if the spirit moves me.

I'm 32 today. I thought for most of the week that I was turning 33 this year, but it turns out I was wrong. 32, 33, there's not a lot to get worked up about there either way. I was up about 10 times last night with Tessa, who has a cold, so I kind of have the hungover look and feel of a just turned 21 year old. If that isn't putting a positive spin on sleep deprivation, I don't know what is.

Lucy made me a Miffy card and picked out flowers ("Roses just like Belle has") and joined me in a rousing rendition of "Lucy Bear and Tessie Bear Have Red Hair" (sample lyric: They have blue eyes/They have red hair/They are sisters/You see.) And after pancakes and chicken apple sausage, I will have my pores professionally squeezed. I couldn't have asked for a better birthday.