….aaaand I’m done

Not blogging! Babies. Why give up something that you only do once a year? Oh, hang on a minute…

When I say I’m done with babies, I don’t mean that I’ve finally decided not to go and pick them up from my mum’s house and move into the Travelodge by the station (a long-held 3am fantasy). I mean that, at the age of 40 and three quarters, well into my heavy eye cream years, I think I’ve finally given up on the notion of having a third baby.

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40 – meh

Last week, I turned 40. It’s something I’d been trying to put off, but 40 marched up to me anyway, knocked the ice-cream out of my hand, called me bumface and wrote ‘OLD’ on my forehead in black marker pen before mooning and confiscating my Topshop card. Turns out, no matter how fantastic you are at procrastinating, you can’t shove horrid birthdays to the bottom of the to do list.

I even tried running away from my birthday, to Spain, but that didn’t work. It just happened an hour earlier, and on a Monday too, thanks to this year being a leap year. Mega. I used to enjoy my birthday but this one had felt like a long-standing root canal appointment. My brain kept scrambling to find ways to get out of it as it loomed ever closer, the jackbooted march of time growing louder and louder. Nooooooo!

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