(18 X 2) + 1 = 37
This is the birthday that I turn 37.
It is the age at which one has officially been an adult longer than a child.
This is the birthday that, while I was in the shower, somebody removed the cups from my Bravado Body Silk Bra, and relocated them. I found one in the dolls’ cradle, supporting a tiny, plastic head. The other has yet to turn up.
This is the birthday I took many self-indulgent photos of fall foliage with my Hipstamatic and then posted them on my blog.
This is the birthday that Hazel figured out how to Google things on her own. She looked up facts about cats. Then about dogs. Then she showed the Wikipedia article on dogs to the dog. He was unimpressed, but I was.
This is the birthday that Josephine pointed out every coil of dog poop she could find at the dog park to me, brightly exclaiming, “Poooooop! Poop!”
Presuming, I think, that cleaning up poo is a hobby of mine.
It isn’t.
This is the birthday that I have one in diapers instead of two.
This is the birthday I spent taking the kids back and forth to school, walking the dog, then going to a yoga class.
This is the birthday I found myself hollering at a passing car to “Slow down! This is a neighbourhood!”
Last week, a shiny nice new friend of mine told me that her favourite thing to do on her birthday is to have a nice, long dinner out with 3 or 4 of her best girlfriends and no kids. Since she told me that, this is the birthday I’ve been aching for exactly that. This is the birthday I miss the company of all the women who have known me for a long time — the ones who know my middle name, and my hometown, and my mother. I miss my big sister out East and my junior high friend out even easter. I miss my friend in the Koots. And my other big sister up North.
This is the birthday I stepped out my front door to discover construction crews tearing up the sidewalk in front of our house with a giant claw.
Then we read this:
This is the birthday I’m expecting the adult thing will stick. Mostly.
Where the Sidewalk Ends
by Shel Silverstein
is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson
bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the
peppermint wind.Let us leave this place where the smoke blows
black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt
flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And
watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk
ends.Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll
go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the
children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.”
House of Flurfel 
This is the year I visit my friend and take her out to dinner, and we drink wine, laugh and maybe even cry a little to. Well maybe just me, cause I’m a bit of a cry baby.
Happy Birthday to you Marlene
I love and miss you dearly
Carmen
Sounds good to me!