Luck

My lucky number is 33. 
Catch’s lucky number is 22. 

Catch’s number is related to softball, but mine—well, I’m
not even really sure of its origin.

Personally, I have a thing about even numbers.  I just don’t like them.  But I am getting used to smatterings of 22 in
our lives. 

I’ve been feeling a bit odd about potentially conceiving our
child at the age of 32.  It’s an even
number—and my favorite number is just a year away.  Am I superstitious enough to postpone TTC for
the sake of my lucky number?  No.  But I won’t lie and say I don’t wonder about
it.

The other night, we were lying in bed alternating between
reading and trying to catch each other off guard with sneak tickle attacks.  We do that sort of thing.  Catch had just proclaimed that her cat-like
reflexes could outmaneuver me any day, so I reached over, pinched a ticklish
spot with my fingers and pulled my hand away so fast that as she reached out to
shoo my hand away, she ended up smacking herself instead of me.  Cat-like reflexes my ass.

We sat there laughing—hard and loud and gasping like a good
laugh should be—when it occurred to me.

32.  It’s the
combination of both of our lucky numbers. 
I don’t know how I never thought of it before.

Today is my 32nd birthday.  

I feel twice as lucky. 

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