I turned thirty-six last month. I don’t know what to write about anymore. I am still infertile, but I have a baby. I want to say so much about her but don’t know how. It’s hard to be consistent when you are tired. I miss music. I started knitting again. I did my taxes. I got a new bra. I learned how not to shop with a baby. I smell like a tropical island. I am blonde again. I need to earn money. I want to stay home. I want another baby. I want to go to work. I want to write. I don’t know how anymore. I stare at Fiona in amazement, still. I love her in a crushing, sweeping way. I am more sensitive to the news since she has been born. I am less worried than I have ever been. I am so tired. I am so happy. I am so restless. I turned thirty-six and I still have no idea what I want to be, other than Fiona’s mom. I love being Fiona’s mom.