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Today is my birthday. 36 years old. I feel I should have something profound, or important or noteworthy to say. But I don’t. I’m like “Yeah, whatever.” I bought myself a present a couple of weeks ago, so the excitement of that has worn off. I’m going out to dinner with my family tonight, and having friends over on Saturday for a BBQ. That will be nice.

To be honest, I wrote a far more depressing post (in hindsight) about my birthday. I’m not sad about my age or anything like that, I was just a little “ho-hum” about it. I genuinely have trouble remembering how old I am most of the time – must be because I’m immature, right? πŸ˜‰

But I woke up this morning to excited cuddles from my kids and I realised my birthday isn’t about me. It is about “us”. I may not be a big party person or have a huge desire to shout from the roof that it’s my birthday – but my kids were really excited. And that made me happy. Matilda was disappointed that I got out of bed because she wanted to give me breakfast in bed. Delilah was as excited by giving me presents as she was opening her own on Christmas morning. And Gilbert demanded tickles, which means he was happy to be spending time with me, too.

So far it’s been a pretty good birthday and it isn’t even 8am.