Motherhood and more: A milestone birthday*

So I’m turning 30 in a couple of weeks.  I’m not completely sure how I feel about it.

On one hand I’m totally fine and feel that these years probably will be the best years of my life, or they will be whenever my daughter starts sleeping through the night. I’m an adult, as is evident by the husband, kids, house, car and responsible spending habits. And I feel so much more settled, more sure of who I am. If nothing else I wash the dishes the same day they are dirtied. Now that might not seem like much to most of you, but to my college roommate it’s a humongous step.

So becoming someone who is in her 30s, as opposed to in her 20s really doesn’t seem all that bad most of the time. And usually I don’t waste my energy on wishing myself to be younger.

But sometimes thinking about being 30 just makes me feel like I’m becoming old and closer and closer to middle age and thus death.  It doesn’t help that my husband calls me a cougar since I’m all of six months older than him. Apparently to him that’s the equivalent of at least six years. I say bring it on. I’m thinking about joining one of those websites that cater to the cougar on the prowl.  (I’m just joking, Mom. Sort of. No really, just kidding. But it’s nice to know there are options just in case.)

Growing up I never was one of those people who thought about where they wanted to be at 30. I had dreams of being a famous photographer, but I don’t think I actually ever considered it a viable option, even when I was a photojournalism major for that one semester in college. Writer was the only other option I ever felt sure of. But other than that I knew I wanted to be married, have children, feel content. And so I think I’ve reached those goals. I don’t feel like my life is slipping away. Sure I’m not able to do as much as my brother-in-law and future sister-in-law who have no kids and thus have mountains of free time to practice the art of sleeping past 6:30 a.m. or not sharing a remote with a 3-year-old tyrant who insists on watching that episode of "Fireman Sam" for the 1,012th time. But this is where I want to be. Wife. Mother. Sometimes columnist. Blogger of nonsense.

And since I am turning 30, I figured I’d celebrate my descent into the bowels of graying hair and stiff joints with a party. A real kicker. I’m not sure if it’s because I want moral support, something to show me that I’m not old yet, even though I will probably need three days to recover from staying up past 11 p.m. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to have some fun again, the kind I had before the two kids came along and took up all my energy.  

Either way it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ll be celebrating with those I love the most. I will be reveling in the fact that my new decade will be the best yet.

So turning 30 may be both bitter and sweet. But it’s also going to be one heck of a party.

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise's Wednesday's Woman on June 22, 2011.