What We Do on Our Birthday
A dispatch from my Late 30s
I woke up sleepy-eyed at 6:15 a.m. To my surprise, I was up 15 minutes before my wife’s usual alarm. Today is my birthday.
There’s only one thing I’m sure I want to do. I’m going for a run.
I slink out of bed and slip on my running gear. The outfit comes together better than expected. It’s a good sign for the day.
I sense my cat outside the bedroom door. I lodge my leg out first as I creak the door open to block his entry. soleil lets out a chirp—his way of acknowledging my existence and lodging a formal request for food, even though he knows he’s not allowed to have any for at least another half hour.
I shuffle across the floor in what I hope is the quietest possible mode of traversal toward the front door. My one-year-old son is still sleeping, according to the Nanit baby monitor. His silhouette looks like a stuffed grape leaf.
I check what I brought with me. The six-step check: phone, wallet, keys, belt, watch, headphones. Ah. Forgot my headphones.
I make good time. I find myself enjoying the sunrise from the stairs at the top of Sunset Park. There’s a nook formed by stair railings and the construction fences around the rec center/pool entrance. I’m pretty sure they said construction would be done by now, but this is New York City.
Running is peaceful. Running is a grind. Running is a happy medium.
Running stirs my thoughts. And yet, it doesn’t let me get too lost in thought. My body still has to keep up.
Thoughts of the day begin to condense. I imagine a dewdrop hanging above a pool—or a memory swirling in Dumbledore’s Pensieve.
This morning, I wonder how long Yoko and I have been together. We met in 2011... Fourteen years. We’re not far off from half my life. Fourteen—one of my lucky numbers.
A couple of years ago, I decided—or maybe it just became clear that the better I got at communicating how my partner could support me, the better equipped she’d be in helping untangle my anxiety or blues when they inevitably reared their heads.
My go-to instruction was simple: “When in doubt, tell me to work out.”
This run has me thinking about how I’ve spent my time this week in honor of my birthday.
Thing 1
When I was growing up in Colorado, my mother and I had a thing for Togo’s sandwiches. The #9 hot pastrami was the best sandwich I had tasted in my life. Why didn’t others cut pastrami that thin? Soft bread, a mound of thin cuts, yellow mustard, pepperoncini, lettuce, tomato.
Togo’s used to make it simple to order a yard-long sub. I remember that after my mom finished work at the doctor’s office, she would sometimes bring home this three-foot sandwich, cut it into smaller portions for dinner, and individually wrap the rest in Saran wrap to feed our sandwich needs for the rest of the week.
On Sunday, I stepped out of the shower with a moment of clarity and declared, “I would like to make pastrami sandwiches this week for my birthday.”
But why wait for my actual birthday? We’re adults. We’re in charge.
So after daycare pickup the next morning, we popped by the local grocer, gathered ingredients, and that evening, I proceeded to eat a homemade hot pastrami.
The taste of nostalgia was present. I think it’s the combination of the thin, hot pastrami with yellow mustard and the familiar sting of yellow peppers. I felt victorious. I had taken hold of a Monday and transported myself to a childhood experience.
Thing 2
I’ve been trying to build a personal RPG of sorts.
My knowledge of coding extends to mid-2000s HTML and CSS, but from the rumblings of colleagues, it sounds like AI has advanced our capabilities enough that high school hobbyists could potentially build an app by just talking to a robot. I wanted to test this.
So far, I’ve burned a couple dozen hours on nights and weekends using Replit Agent, an AI app builder, trying to build this RPG with no knowledge of back-end code. A week ago, I thought my results were impressive. Tonight, I am debugging my ability to simply start the game.
It’s past 11 p.m. My son has been asleep for almost four hours. What am I doing?
Funny enough, this rabbit hole—the way through a bug in the code—feels familiar. I recognize the loop of trial and error, the sinking feeling of “Am I ever going to figure this out?” And oddly it brings me joy. I haven’t felt this type of flow in years. Yes, it’s maddening. But time flies by faster. Unlike running, messing with code lets me sink deep. There’s no rhythm to keep me moving forward, rather loops to get stuck in.
Is this why the engineers say they need time blocks for deep work?
I feel heartened. With perspective, I know this is a form of learning. The bugs I burned hours on before involved getting a button to change color or text to center-align. Today, I’m working on an XP level curve. This is amazing. New tools have enabled me to take on tougher problems.
I have to go to sleep.
Thing 3
It’s early Wednesday morning. I dreamt in Matrix code, Replit prompts cascading down my mind.
It’d be great to sleep in, but on this Wednesday, Yoko is going to yoga. It’s my morning to take care of the kiddo solo and get him from crib to school.
My son had his first birthday mere weeks ago. My takeaways:
He’s probably not sure what exactly is going on.
He’s afraid of balloons.
He was more into the strawberries on his cake than the cake itself.
What a guy.
During the diaper change, we ask Alexa to play Alaska by Maggie Rogers. The kid bounces to the beat when the tune comes on. It’s literally a dream come true. My son has rhythm. Everything else will follow.
Since it’s just me as caregiver this morning, I’m owning the idea that I have full creative control over the kiddo’s breakfast. I experiment with oatmeal, peanut butter, and a squeezy pouch of fruit and vegetable puree mixed in. The visual result is subpar. But nutritionally? Solid.
The next hour ticks by. My son downs his food. He throws toy shapes and chases them, as if he knows how to play fetch with himself. We select a smattering of red and blue clothes today in honor of daycare’s Dr. Seuss Week. One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.
Since the kid joined our family, I pay more attention to first experiences. His first time eating ice cream. His first trip to Grandma’s. His first shot. His first bite of tofu.
There’s a core belief in my head that runs beneath our relationship: I help him grow. He’s like a level one Pokémon. Gaining XP. Facing new battles. My job is to train him, feed him, and keep him in the game until he levels up enough to take on new challenges with confidence.
It sounds silly to say out loud. I know it’s not entirely true. But sometimes the brain thinks what it wants to think, and the heart pulls you in a certain direction.
My therapist has nudged me to try on a different perspective. I’ve come up with another belief that I attempt to bask in from time to time:
“A child’s development is mystical. A series of mysteries, most meant never to be solved. There are problems best left unfixed. I can act responsibly, but I am far from fully responsible. I humbly let the universe take the wheel.”
I am reminded of my son's first time on the swings. Actually, he had his first time with my mother while in San Diego. I wasn't there, but I saw a cute video.
The swing experience I remember was on a cold day in Central Park. The kid was in a stark white polar bear onesie that doubled as a Halloween costume. We plopped him in a swing that my wife probably used herself 30-some years ago. He laughed.
I'm going to take him to the swings this morning. Dad's in charge. We are making a special pit stop before daycare. Since I'm heading to the office after drop-off, I need to carry everything with me. Well, you know what they say, “when in doubt, work out.”
I pop on my coat, my backpack, my duffel bag with food, diapers, and extra clothes. I zip my son into his new REI jacket and squeeze on a Spider-Man beanie that gets lots of good attention.
I carry him. I walk with him in my arms and something like 20 more pounds of luggage. We make the quarter-mile journey to the swings in Sunset Park. The weight is noticeable, but never too much to carry.
No kids are around. Only an older guy jump roping with his pitbull laying nearby. I place my son in his swing and I push.
He laughs and laughs and laughs. It seems good to be young. I think he's enjoying being a baby.
And I'm enjoying this day—my birthday—as well.
tthanks for taggin g me
Life is good