I best not commit any crimes.

I think it's a sure sign you've watched too many CSI/Law & Order/Dateline shows when you're losing some ungodly number of hairs every day thanks to crazy post-pregnancy hormones, and the one thing you think every time you pull stray hairs off your body (or your child's or husband's body) is that you'd best not commit any crimes, because your DNA will surely be ALL OVER THE DAMN PLACE and they will catch your ass in a flash.

And that is, like, the longest sentence ever. But I don't care.

And also, it reminds me of this excellent song that I *still* cannot get out of my head:

Besides losing the hell out of my hair, mommyhood is good. On my 32nd birthday, Bryan had to work and Jon and I were home alone. My little Jon D. decided that 5:20am was a good time for Mama to start celebrating her birthday (and Bryan was already gone to work). I rather disagreed with him on that one, but we all know that Jon rules the roost, so I had to go along with this early morning party. I was a little miffed about this, but I brought him into our bed and propped him up on my lap to give him a good what's-what about when it's okay to wake up, and that kid gave me the biggest, goofiest grin you ever did see. And that, my friends, was the most awesome birthday present EVAH. I mean, wow.

I remembered that a year ago on my birthday I was in a foul, foul mood for most of the day. Around lunchtime I realized why: when I turned 30, I had been certain that I'd either have a baby or at least be pregnant by my 31st birthday, and the day had arrived and I was still without child. I had a good cry that day, and a lot of reassurance by my husband that we WOULD be parents one day, and I was alright. (Okay, Brandon Boyd helped me be alright, too.) I am so grateful that this birthday wasn't the same story. So, so grateful...