35

Today is my birthday. I am 35. This weekend I have eaten too much cake, drunk some wine (between feeds), watched the DVDs I was given (this, since you ask!) and wondered why this birthday felt significant. It's not 18, 21, 40 - you know, those milestone ages.

And then it dawned on me. I have spent the last nine years of my life absorbed in the world of fertility, pregnancy, birthing and parenting. In that area, 35 IS a significant number. I'm not going to discuss whether or not it should be. It just sort of amused me that I've been so entrenched in getting pregnant, staying pregnant, parenting and grieving that, subconsciously, I invested this age with more significance than it warrants. I won't be pregnant again (not intentionally anyway) so it doesn't matter than I would now qualify as a mother-to-be of "advanced maternal age". I'm okay with being done. I've done some grieving for the end of my childbearing years but essentially I feel like I finished on a high - a living child - and I do not, not for one second of one minute, take that fact for granted. I know that I am one of the "lucky unlucky" to borrow a truthful phrase from Sally.

So, I've had a lovely birthday - and today marks the start of the next bit of my life, getting to watch my family grow. And that is a very good thing to celebrate.