Chris has reminded me repeatedly that now that I’m in my 30s I wouldn’t understand

Me and my mom, who was an amazing help. 
We don't look anything alike.

So I’ve crossed over into cougar territory, at least according to my husband who is all of 6 months younger than I am.  This, apparently, makes me a cougar and entitled to all the rights that come with such a title.  

For example, I can say “Meow! Mauw!”  

I can throw myself parties where, in the end, almost everyone there is younger than me.  I can make a batch of Sangria with gin, and then another, and another, and finally another, then drink a little too much of said Sangria, but enjoy myself nonetheless.  

I can laugh and wear a pretty dress.  I can hold everyone up from eating at my party because I’m trying to put a baby, who hadn’t napped all day, down for a super-late nap.  I can forget to make lemonade, but remember the best lemon cupcakes ever, and proceed to eat at least 3 of them over the course of the night.

I can make fun of myself repeatedly.

I can thank mine and my husband’s parents for watching the kids overnight so I could drink too much Sangria.  

I can wake up the morning after itching all over from the repeated attack of mosquitoes, but have no memory of the bites.

Just because it's funny.

I can watch my son run wild with no shoes and no shirt, but see him thrilled with the party and the people and the extra kids around.  I can think about how excited he’ll be when it’s time for his 3-year-old birthday party next Saturday.

I can be surprised and delighted at the friends who showed up who I didn’t think would make it.  I can be a little sad about the friends who couldn’t come.

I can walk into the house after the kids have gone, still feeling like I need to be quiet so I don’t wake them up, even though they are miles away.

I can eat too much pasta salad, too much barbecue, too much everything, but still have room for the chocolate peanut butter bars that a friend brought.

I can tease my husband, who gives as good, if not more, than he gets.  I can rely on him to keep things lively and interesting.

I can watch the guests of the party leave one by one, until it’s just a few close ones left sitting within a circle of citronella candles, cracking each other up.  

I can forget to take pictures all night, except for right at the end, and only really horrible ones, most of which probably won't be seen. (Does anybody have any pictures I could steal?)

I ended the night looking a bit different than
I started.  And I didn't finish that beer because it didn't
mix too well with the Sangria.

I can say goodnight to the last guest who leaves, and welcome a couple inside to stay the night.

I can go to sleep at 2, but wake up at 7:30 anyway.  I can lay in bed for hours trying to go back to sleep, though finally forcing my husband to wake up at 10:45 and make me breakfast since it was my actual birthday.

I can drink too much coffee and feel the need for a nap all day, but still be amazed at where my life is.

I can be so sincerely and incredibly grateful for the family and friends and support that I have in my life.  

I can wonder what the next 30 years will bring.

I can want to gobble my children up on a daily basis because they’re just so delicious and silly and wonderful.

I can truly enjoy my cougar status, but, as I told my husband, only if it comes with men who are younger than he is.

I can kind of wish Chris hadn’t taught Sebastian to say that we lived on Cougar Mountain. 

I can thank you for reading, laughing, and enjoying the silly words I put on the page, and hope you come back for more.

And now, I can go clean my house while the kids are napping, because even cougars have to keep a clean den.  (Do cougars live in dens?  Mountains?  Bogs?  Probably not bogs, right?)