Squirty Thirty

30 years old today. Three-OHHH. I woke up to the sounds of Eloise babbling in sing-song alone in her room and her father scurrying around the house getting ready for work. The Frenchman brought Eloise into our bed along with my birthday presents. He was going to be late for work so we quickly opened my presents, which was good because having not fed Eloise since 3 in the morning I could feel that I was soon going to leak with her sitting next to me signing for milk. She continued to sign for milk, looking confused as to why I was not whipping my boob out on demand, but then was quickly distracted by the presents in front of her.

A few years a go I would have imagined a big boozy blow-out for my 30th. Good food, strong reds and dry rosé, a few well thought out cocktails, the din of people chattering and ice knocking together in sweaty glasses as I floated around in a new dress with my cheeks rosy. Music and dancing, the crowds thinning out until it was just me and a few with stamina, putting the world to rights with a couple of fingers of whiskey.

Instead I sat in bed, my breasts leaking through my t-shirt, my pyjama clad daughter sitting next to me chewing on a jewelery box as I leaned over to kiss The Frenchman thank you. Thank you for the bracelet. Thank you for telling me I am the best thing to happen in the past 30 years. Thank you for creating this family with me.

And I couldn't be happier.

Although I wouldn't say no to a stiff drink...