On December 23, I turned 33. 33 feels good. I decided that I was not going to moan about my birthday in front of my two daughters. I was not going to complain about being old. I told them that I feel more beautiful and wise than ever.
Partly, this is a lie. And I wonder - am I doing them good by staying positive, or is complete honesty more helpful as a little girl shapes a self and her priorities? But I'm determined, to the best of my ability anyway, to do what a mentor told me to do. He said this was his best parenting advice: model happiness.
So. I rang in 33 with an ice cream sundae, surrounded by my family. There was a raging fire behind me in an old inn. A hatchet on the wall. A rifle. Or a musket. I don't know. But I felt happy. Truly.