Five

So now I am the proud co-owner of a five-year-old. We'll see how that goes. So far, I'm cautiously optimistic, although we're currently in a bathroom regression phase, and he's still subsisting on peanut-butter sandwiches and air (and cake; lots of cake), but his heart's definitely in the right place. (Under his ribs, above his stomach, that sort of thing.)

Five years is half a decade, which doesn't sound like very long until it's your whole life so far. But it also means it's five years since I had a full-time paying job outside the home, five years since I slept all night without so much as getting up to pee, five years since my breasts were my own and not someone else's meal ticket, and five years since I sent my metaphorical heart out on a metaphorical limb, whence it will probably never return, because that's what you do when you have children.