Thirty One.

I don’t like odd numbers.

Something ticks in my brain with an unusual discomfort, an itch I can’t scratch. The OCD sneaks its hands on the reins and pulls every so often, reminding me that there are 364 days left of this feeling, 364 days until we’re back at something divisible.

It was my birthday last week. I’ve never been fond of it. Since the Dreaded 17th Year, I’m not one who’s particularly prone to celebrate it. I wake up in the morning, I kiss my husband, I put on the prettiest earrings I own at the time, I fake smile in the mirror. My nose twitches. My skin is usually picked over and scarred again at this point of the year – I’ve gotten the hang of finding better make-up that doesn’t look too caked when I try to hide the spots. However, the weather is dry and hormones are unforgiving.

This year, I’m 8 months pregnant and severely sleep deprived. The earrings went on but the smile did not. I take my morning medication medley, feel the push under my ribs and try not to trip over cats on the way to the kitchen. I make coffee like any other day when I commute. I work the day away trying not to think about getting older but reminiscing at the days when Facebook didn’t exist and your phone was actually ringing off the hook from family members calling you. All of the emojis in the world cannot replace their voice, let alone their physical presence.

I ate as much pizza and cookies as I – or the fetus rather – could fit, which still wasn’t enough. I keep imagining what it would be like to sleep for an entire night undisturbed. I know it’s just the beginning. I relish in the times that I can get more than 3 or 4 hours at a time.

Apparently, 31 is starting off on complaint mode.

There are good things, of course. I’m a published author and encouraging words from readers have helped keep me motivated when other situations, more so physical, have not done nearly as much. Renewed friendships and validations for actions in the past have brought me emotional closure when I needed it most. I’ve caught up with a lot of reading, while still drowning in the stack of books on my nightstand. I welcome the anticipatory stares of the hardcovers that have waited so patiently for me to get back to flipping pages. My mother visited me for the first time since I moved to Oklahoma City and, unbeknownst to me, was a huge conspirator in the planning of a surprise baby shower. It was one of the busiest, but best weekends of my life. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so much love in one room. It gave me a renewed vigor to see these last 6 weeks through.

Perhaps that renewed vigor will last through postpartum. I have ideas and plans, characters gestating in my head, excited to be brought into the world. In the meantime, I am working on Dee’s comeback, the second side of her mix tape starting to to bleed through the speakers. It will all come together. Perhaps maternity will be a motivator. Perhaps I will learn to work through the insomnia and exhaustion. Perhaps I will just cry it all out until the words find their way through my fingers. Either way, I’m reassuring myself that it won’t stop. The stories can’t stop – they are my children as well.

Perhaps the combined experiences will make this year less odd despite the number; you never know – it could be the best year yet.

 

Advertisements