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My birthday is two weeks away.

Normally, birthdays aren’t a big deal for me — just another year older and hopefully an acknowledgement from my family, some cake, and ordering in some Indian food. My expectations are needfully low – high ones result in big disappointments, and I struggle to keep on top of my mood and anxiety as it is without creating the opportunity for failure.

This year is harder, though. This year I turn 40.

I have been reflecting on what this means for me, but I keep circling back to thinking about my brother. He would be turning 37 exactly two weeks after my birthday.

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In the small dark hours, our house is quiet — the noise of the day, of your brothers, of our life has fallen away into slumber.

You lie here, tucked between us in our bed, the bed where you were born. You own your space like an intrepid explorer staking claim — one hand outstretched in sleep to find your father, the other entwining fat fingers in my hair. Your breaths are deep and regular and slow.

You sleep like an intrepid explorer staking claim.

Soon you will begin to rouse from sleep, becoming restless — teething is hard and has brought a return to night nursing. You will turn up onto your side and wriggle over to me, fitting together with me like Yin and Yang as I wrap myself around you. You will latch without waking.


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(Repost of pie dough recipe from my post about Gravensteins.)

I normally try to avoid making pie. I am a pastry murderer. Recently, though, I started using my mother’s pie crust recipe — I should have been using it years ago. It really is no fail. If you are like me, and your pastry could be used as crack-fill in your century-plus home, you might want to give this a whirl!

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