I turned forty-one last week, and to be honest, it was a total crock. I woke up that morning and nothing had changed. Actually, I woke up at 4:55 that morning because that’s when my six-year-old lumbered into the room, ready to begin his day. My husband Jason was already downstairs in the boys’ room with our youngest, who–like his dad–prefers to sleep in. But our oldest, like me, has a body clock that runs on a cocktail of circadian rhythm and anxiety, and he was certain that the day should begin early.

I confess that, in my early-morning exhaustion, I wasn’t very nice to him. I explained, through gritted teeth and eventually a raised voice, that he must go back to sleep. That no he could not look at the iPad this early. He cried, I sighed, and we eventually fell asleep beside each other in our respective bad moods. Happy birthday to me. My first gift was, apparently, regret.

Read the rest over at Mockingbird!