I Turned 33

Before we begin: To understand the full sentimentality contained in this post, you’ll need to have DeVotchKa’s The Winner Is and Robert Gromotka’s Little Life playing in the background.

I turned 33 at the time of writing this. Well, that’s a lie — technically I turn 33 in 3 days. But I’m writing this as if I were 33 because my birthday falls on a workday this year.

There’s nothing particularly special about this age.

Though it’s probably the only time I’ve taken notice of a duplicate-digit birthday. I was probably too stressed out by law exams when I was 22. And when I was 11 — well, I happened to spend a fair bit of time on the street where the café I’m writing this from is located.

When I was 11, I had a token “rich friend.” I didn’t really understand what rich meant when I was 11. But my parents told me it was likely that my friend was rich. I felt like we were rich.

But my parents would point out that my friend lived in a 4-bedroom period home in Armadale. I liked our one-bedroom and one-study (my bedroom) apartment because we had views of the MCG.

My friend’s parents had a BMW each — the mum had an SUV; the dad had a convertible. I liked our

1995 Honda Accord VTI because it was navy blue.

Why is any of this relevant? There’s nothing particularly special about this age.

Well, what spurred me on to write this post was a throwaway comment my maternal grandmother made over my birthday brunch. She usually goes on about the countless opportunities the Chinese Communist Party afforded her: free education (and with that, boarding and food).

When she exclaims the monthly salary of 50 yuan ($10) associated with her medical doctor job at a major Beijing hospital, which remained stagnant for decades, she does so with a sense of pride.

But at this brunch, with my boy lying on my chest, his rosy cheeks turned to face her, cooing as she cooed back, she clarified how old I was turning this year: ‘三十三’ (33 in Chinese).

Given her gradual deterioration with dementia (she’d turned 87 that year), her next comment took me by surprise. She remarked how much had changed in 33 years — how little we had for so long.

And with a few glances at my son, no further words were required to juxtapose the extraordinarily different circumstances he would grow up in. Yet soon after, she returned to her usual nationalistic spiel, upon which I duly tuned out.

Another comment during that brunch got me thinking: when mum mentioned that 33 was the age where she had graduated with an accounting degree as a mature-aged student.

Imagine working full time, doing university assessments whilst raising a WWE-obsessed son — predominantly on your own (dad moved overseas for work) — at the same time? I wouldn’t be able to do it — let alone what a luxury it is to be writing about my parenting experience!

There’s nothing particularly special about turning 33. But the day gave particularly special reflections from the women who were most present in my upbringing.

Another reflection is the power that babies have to bring steely men’s emotions out — including me.

My mother’s partner — a physically imposing man’s man who’s worked at least 6 days a week since he was 16 — takes every opportunity to have a cuddle with our son under the guise of offering us help holding him while my wife and I eat.

My maternal grandfather, a man who had prioritised his career and other women over his family, smiles and giggles in ways his own son and daughter haven’t witnessed before — making his worn-out dentures look like a million bucks.

My uncle, a male role model I looked up to growing up when fashionable men of Asian descent were non-existent — who broke the “bamboo ceiling” of dating across races and opened that up as a possibility for me — chuckles in a childlike manner none of us have ever heard, as he awkwardly holds our son. A giveaway sign of someone who’s had minimal interaction with babies (I’ve been there).

We’ve finished our meals — in fact, I finished my grandparents’ and my wife’s meals — and my grandfather signals to my mother that he needs to go to the loo.

We take this opportunity to wrap things up too, as our son’s “wake window” comes to the last 30 minutes and we start to dread the drive back home — hoping he doesn’t crack it in the car (so help me if I have to listen to The Happy Song one more time).

Like a small army, the family helps us gather jackets, toys, beanies, and bottles for a smooth exit. A sense of nostalgia hits, and I remember a photo of me at 11 years old in the gardens opposite the brunch place after her graduation.

I remember being so proud of my mum. And she reminds me her graduation took place in a building that’s been replaced by my grandparents’ apartment building.

There’s nothing particularly special about turning 33.

But it’d be so special if my son could celebrate his 33rd birthday with so many people who have loved him through every birthday — irrespective of it being a duplicate-digit year.

I look up and café staff have packed up chairs and pass me the bill. I take the hint to leave and start to walk home — strolling past my “rich friend’s” (former) house on Seymour Avenue along the way.

Was it just the 4:00 am wake-up that morning, or do birthdays get more sentimental when you become a parent? Let me know in the comments!

-Will

Where was I writing this?

2/8/25 Moby ($7.37 large almond cappuccino — creamy, chocolatey and smooth)