Just a couple of weeks shy of my thirty-fifth birthday, trying to write thirty-five pages a month seemed an aggressive goal. I thought I would instead take Hanna mini-putting while Ellie had a play date at a friend’s house, 3.5 km’s away.

I was lugging an additional thirty-five pounds, twenty in the bjorn carrier on the front of me and fifteen with my water and 35mm camera filled back-pack. The two were close to cancelling each other out, but instead I found myself leaning slightly forward, trying to swing a 35 inch mini-stick nearly missing the 350 dimples on the ball every time.

It was thirty-five degrees Celsius outside but with the humidity felt like 350, with the back pack and Chloe in the carrier, felt like 3500.

I did thirty-five deep knee bends nearly tearing thirty-five ligaments, muscles and tissues in my knees. Two squats per hole, one at the beginning, one to retrieve and just one on the 18th hole where the ball thankfully disappeared into some giant underground maze to get showered up before its next game.

I wore a 35 SPF sunscreen which didn’t seem to prevent the thirty-five drips of sweat from pouring from my 35 forehead wrinkles in between holes.

I think I displaced all thirty-three vertebrae in my spinal column and an additional two I had to strap on to support the back pack and infant carrier.

Hanna asked me no less than thirty-five times if we could have a popsicle as a treat at the end of the round. I refused thirty-four times and on the thirty-fifth, caved as was to be expected.

Number of times I cursed because I couldn’t see the ball over the back of the baby’s head—35

Number of people that saw me try to clasp my bra back together in the van, approximately, 35. Seriously, I’m going to have to do something about this bra. If there was a size 35 option rather than 34 or 36, it would be a non-issue.