Testing the inchworm's limitations

December 26th is a strange time on the calendar to have a birthday because so much of the first world is feeling a little deflated. Or spent. Or hungover. The Today Show had a spot on this morning about how to cope with the post-holiday slump. All that build-up, and now it's over. This is probably a very First World problem, because only those who have excesses of material gifts can feel depressed that the gift-opening has come to an end.

If December 25th commemorates the birth of baby Jesus, December 26th commemorates the Holy Mother's post-partum depression.

December 26th is my birthday and today I'm 32 years old.

Inch worm, inch worm
Measuring the marigolds
Could it be, stop and see
How beautiful they are

Two and two are four
Four and four are eight
Eight and eight are sixteen
Sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two

Inchworm, inchworm
Measuring the marigolds
You and your arithmetic
You'll probably go far

Because of the inchworm song, I used to think as a child that 32 was the Demarcation of Old. Because the song didn't go past that number. Luckily, though, in my mind I still usually feel more like 16 than 32. I don't feel old; I mostly still feel like a punk kid, even though I have two punk kids of my own.

First Punk Kid loves her toothpaste, and demonstrated her love this morning by picking up the uncapped tube and licking it. I said to her, "um, just what are you doing, there, love?" and she explained that it was just drooling. So I cleaned it.

Oral hygeine habits resoundingly reinforced, we all went out for brunch this morning. We were in a booth and Second Punk Kid was in a high chair at the end of the booth. There was another couple in a booth across the aisle from us and while I think the girlfriend had been admiring 2PK's cuteness, I'm pretty sure the boyfriend had noticed the existence of no PKs at all. Then 2PK bit into one of those little sealed cuplets of creamer and sent it shooting in a creamy geyser all in her hair, down her neck, in her shirt and rivuleting into her belly button, and: across the aisle. The girlfriend started laughing but the boyfriend didn't have time to ask why when M came across to wipe down his booth and jacket. A large man looks baffled when my husband with downcast eyes and mumbled apologies appears from nowhere and wipes the red vinyl that is puckering down from the weight of his derriere: I have two Punk Kids who create moments like this every. single. day. and if laughter is the fountain of youth I can gain a number every December 26th but I'll still never age out of adolescense.

As First World problems go, worrying about one's age has to be high on the list, as does this: I was telling a friend the other day that E got a set of toys for Chanukah for her play kitchen that include a wooden food mixer, cookies, a baking sheet, a spatula and a rolling pin; and E didn't know what a rolling pin was. We've made cookies before together but I guess we've only made drop cookies and as much as I enjoy kitchen pursuits I was telling my friend that I felt like I had missed a step for her not to recognize a rolling pin.

First World problem, indeed, but add it to the list of things I'm not worrying about as a 32-year-old, because we went to the fun grocery store after brunch and picked out quite a selection of sprinkles. I pulled out the huge box of cookie cutters that we got for an engagement gift and never think to use. To celebrate Mama's birthday, it's gonna be a sugar cookie weekend at the noteverstill house. Because surely what my girls need, what our lives need, is more Whirling in my Dervishes.

Please select your beverage of choice and as your birthday gift to me, raise your glass and toast with me:

To 32! Another year of laughter and storytelling. Another year of feeling good, not feeling old. Another year of this is some kinda crazy existence, but I really do love it.

L'chaim!