I cannot believe it's February. In three days I will be 33, which is not nearly as exciting as the fact that Dr. Oz says my "real age" is 31.8. Hooray for young cells! Too bad I have about as much hair and cellulite as my 84 year old grandmother. At least I'm young on the inside. February is also my younger daughter's birthday, the anniversary of my successful and redemptive home birth. Whenever I think about her birth story, I always remember my sister telling me I hummed throughout the whole thing. I don't have a body memory of doing so, but really, why would she lie about that?
Whenever I think about having more children it seems like a ridiculous idea: I have a great husband and two great kids, a really, really busy personal and professional life and what feels like not a single second to spare. What I long for is not another child but another birth, another moment of personal greatness, a miracle I helped create.
Maybe I'll just run another marathon.