Hobbit birthday traditions and other esoteric knowledge

Ringing in the New Year has always been one of my favorite holidays. It feels closest to the moon-led rituals of our ancestors, despite occurring in the dead of winter. We started our own tradition a few years ago to have fondue and champagne punch, knowing that we can lean on good food at least even when we don't have big plans to celebrate. 

I sent out new years cards filled with the A1 cutest shots of the year, and wrote notes congratulating loved ones. Every year I am struck by the same two realizations: 1) Everyone did exciting things. 2) We have more friends than I thought. So, congrats on doing exciting things! Weddings, trips, houses, babies, pets. Something happened this year in the awakening from the deepest pandemic years. I kept putting cards aside that really should be accompanied by gifts - housewarming, engagement, baby stuff - knowing full well that the chances of me getting to these offerings is pretty low frankly. I have never had a lot of momentum for getting to the post office. 

But, the baby things made me pause. NOT because I want to keep them all, I assure you O Reader. We are drowning in belongings. It's more like the opposite: I want to give away our special baby things to too many special people that all got pregnant at once. Poor planning. I have this dream of having these little capsules to lend out to different folks (and have succeeded with my maternity clothes, to my partner's chagrin), a library of baby paraphernalia. When I thought about it more however, I think it is more than just the physical objects (although there are so so many). 

I feel like I am getting two degrees simultaneously right now in very niche topics: paleoclimate studies using cave deposits and mothering 3 children under 3 years old. Now, the former may hopefully land me a job in some related field where I will use my knowledge and skills. The latter I'm sure has grown my "soft skills" such as listening empathetically and general logistics, but like what about my ability to get babes to sleep? To figure out who is hungry or sleepy or needs to bounce or is having a growth spurt? My ability to remove mucus from noses and speak calmly and assertively to healthcare professionals? I can safety carry two 23 lb babies down attic steps! I can recite over 10 picture books by memory and several more bedtime songs! I can hear a baby cry while asleep with earbuds in! What about all of these skills?! I CAN ASK FOR AND ACCEPT HELP FROM ACQUAINTANCES. That one took awhile. 

So, I am going into this year hoping that all of these happy happenings around me can use my help, and this will bring me some sort of catharsis after such a whopper of a year. 

Relatedly, my birthday is coming up and I am turning 33. "So what?" you will say, O Reader, for no one cares about birthdays after 30 unless, god forbid, we turn 40. 

This is getting long - farewell if your journey ends here - but 33 is the "coming of age" year for hobbits (O yes, I am talking about the sweet, short, country folk from the Lord of the Rings). This is the year that they are truly adults. I find this a very appropriate and humane age to choose and I feel it in my bones. I know that we are not all parents, and that is absolutely fine, but for me there is no way in hell I would call my pre-children self an adult. Something about hitting this milestone with all of my children before me just seems to make sense. I have learned enough about the world, other people, and myself to say that I am an adult. 

I am also writing and clearly procrastinating my prospectus for my phd. So any hobbit-style party is on hold and I am even more stressed than usual. So, in a move never seen before, I have ordered my birthday cake from a bakery. Don't get me wrong, I have had secondary and tertiary cakes that were bought and eaten up. But never the primary, since I was about 16. 

But, I can ask for help now you see.