So tired. It’s only nine o’clock, but the week has been long.

In between meetings and obligations, I’m not sure how I did it all. 

Saturday night now, 

and I want to sleep after the day, week, month I’ve had.

I remember when nine was when you started getting ready to go out on Saturday, as no one showed anywhere before ten.

Even then, I thought it was a waste to wait so late to have fun. 

But I’ve completely surpassed that blasphemy, arriving at a place where after nine means getting ready for bedtime, 

not partytime.

What makes one old? 

Age is, I believe, completely irrelevant.

I can be old one minute and so young the next. 

Children are the perfect vehicle for this transformation. 

They bring me to a sillier, simpler, younger time, but leave me feeling ancient after attempting to keep up with them.

Two out of three puked today, which doubled my age, although the cuddles from a child not quite feeling at their peak brings you back around to the age you should be.

I finished revising a book today, which left me feeling the quiet and bookish pride of a tweed wearing librarian. Age? Irrelevant when pride enters the equation.

As I contemplate my day, I listen to the soft sounds of coughing and realize the most amazing thing.

I may feel old and tired as I ready myself for sleep,

But full of love and pride, I’m forever young inside.