(Because I share a birthday with Joseph Pulitzer, that muckraking genius.)

Today is my birthday.

And what am I doing for it?

Well, right now I’m sitting in my backyard in my green sky chair.

In pajamas.

Drinking an iced tea and listening to the sound of church bells four blocks away signal the 12 o’clock hour.

My next door neighbors are swimming in their pool. I can hear kids cannon-balling and screeching over who gets what pool floatie.

Henry is doing his own restricted version of water aerobics.

As I type this, my stomach is undulating. His little arms and little legs are stretching like he’s doing baby yoga. Like he’s trying to break the surface. Like a scene from Aliens.

I’ve always adored Russian nesting dolls.

Matryoshka.

Now I feel like I am one.

Last year at this time I had completed my first triathlon. The simultaneous euphoria and exhaustion I experienced during that race was like a drug I could get used to.

Now I’m 25 pounds heavier and seven weeks away from having my first baby.

Bring on the simultaneous euphoria and exhaustion!

People keep asking me how I feel and lately the answer has been, thus far, great.

I feel great.

Most of the time anyway.

Yesterday I felt like shit, but yesterday I was especially hot, exhausted and sleep-deprived.

Today I feel grand.

Joe and Sir Pugalot are taking me on a picnic in the park.

We’re going to eat giant sandwiches on Cuban bread with Muenster cheese and shredded lettuce.

We’re going to spread a blanket out in the grass, read books and lounge in the sun.

It’s 84 degrees out with no chance of rain.

When I woke up this morning, the pug was on my head, Joe was at my side and Henry was kicking my ribs.

By 9 a.m. I got everything I wanted for my birthday.

Happy birthday to me.

—

PS. Pulitzer illustration from Life magazine, Nov. 1897, Vol. 30: 459.