There you go. I'm officially 35. It's my birthday, and while I don't often make a big deal (or any deal, really) about my birthday, this one is special to me.
It's the last child-free one I'll have.
And, had I known for sure that I would get pregnant so quickly, I might have partied harder on my 34th. As it was, I chilled out. That's the best birthday for me, these days. I guess today isn't really much of a departure from prior practice, except I'm 25 pounds heaver than I was this time last year and a lot more hormonal.
And as of today, I am now officially considered in respectable medical circles to be "of advanced maternal age". Like I'm some sort of Triceratops who managed to dust off my ovaries long enough to make a miracle happen. I am the Jurassic Park of Preggo's.
It's true. When you're 35 and pregnant all sort of tests and screening options unfold for you that, at the wee age of 34, just aren't going to happen unless you want to pay out of pocket. It's almost as good as the $2.99 senior breakfast at the dive restaurant down the street, except I don't have to be there before 6am to take advantage of it.
Earlier this week I sucked down some syrupy goo that tasted like condensed Sprite with extra sugar and chemicals thrown in. An hour of totally-amped-from-the-sugar-rush waiting and then I watched while my nurse extracted a vial of blood. The birthday present I was hoping for came via a phone call: I do not have gestational diabetes.
Happy Birthday to me-- WITH CAKE!