Monday, July 10, 2017

However I am making myself a lemon birthday cake

36, wearing a homemade dress and an almost-fishtail braid.
I turned 36 this morning.

I don't really think I have anything profound to say about it. Birthdays aren't what they used to be, right? I don't look forward to them like my almost-9-year-old son does, whose birthday is three days after mine. For him it's all party prep and the anticipation of having a whole day just for himself, where he gets spoiled.

For me, I'm just happy to have one more year, you know? Happy to be where I am in life, happy to be mama, wife, friend, writer.

I don't know what I expected 36 to be like when I was younger. I make jokes all the time about how old I am, but (in all it's cliched glory) I don't feel old. My almost 87-year-old grandmother-in-law called me from Germany at 6:30 this morning to wish me a happy birthday and she told me that I was so young. For a second I felt 18 again.

Every so often I have thoughts about what it would be like to live through that time again. But it seems silly to think about going back. What I've got now - a husband who makes me laugh and the ability to watch my kids grow and mature and learn and fight and fly and be fearless - well what else do I need?

I honestly didn't know how it would feel to officially be in my late 30s. Should I start being depressed? Should I have a crisis? But other than having quite a bit more gray hair and buying "youth infusing" face products it's kind of the same as when I was 30.

I do sleep a lot less, which may have more to do with having a puppy and two children who wake up at all hours, but nevertheless I spend most of my time with friends discussing how tired I am.

I am a joy and a delight and the life of the party, is what I'm saying.


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