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?)

Just like riding a bike. I hope.

I have a confession.   

It's an especially embarrassing one that I've kept to myself, except for a few close friends and family.

I can’t ride a bike.  

Well, not that well, anyway.  Not good enough to not almost fall off of it every time I try to turn.

It’s something that has bothered and embarrassed me about myself since I was a kid.  My parents say they tried to teach me but I refused to ride again after falling off.  I have no memory of this so I’m just gonna go ahead and not believe it.  It totally doesn’t sound like something I’d do (reality: it totally sounds like something I’d do).

Growing up I’d casually steer conversations away from this subject whenever it came up.  

Friend: Riding bikes is fun!  Don’t you think?

Me: Let’s go read!

I didn’t want anyone to know because I was embarrassed at my inability to do something that just seemed to be a part of childhood that I was missing out on. 

  

I lived in fear of people finding out.  My closest friends knew, of course, since I was always the one preventing them from riding bikes when we were together.  But I’d avoid telling most people.

For the most part it wasn’t too big of a deal.  Except for when it was.  I went to a sleepover one time in middle school with a group of girls, most of whom I wasn’t super-close with.  They decided in the morning that they wanted to ride their bikes to a convenience store a couple of miles away.  I couldn’t get away from it.  I had to tell them.  It went about as well as you’d expect.  There was lots of disbelief.  No one could understand how I just couldn’t ride.  There even was an attempt to teach me.  I guess they thought I’d magically learn in 30 minutes and we could continue on with their plans.

I didn’t.

I felt awful.  I could sense the bitterness as we walked all the way there.  It was my fault we were doing it this way and I wasn’t allowed to forget that fact.

And it was a long walk.  And it was hot, if I remember correctly.

My super-secret secret was now out for the whole world to know because you know that wasn’t something those girls would keep to themselves.  It was just too weird, too outside of what they knew as normal.  And I got teased about it.  Of course.

Other than that traumatic experience, which had to happen at one of the most angsty times of my life, it wasn’t really too much of an issue.

Until I went to Germany for a week on my way to Vienna.  I’d decided to stay with Chris’ grandparents to ease my transition into a foreign country.  Now, biking is a way of life around there.  Everyone bikes just about everywhere.  So when Opi found out I couldn’t ride one he made it his personal mission to teach me. 

I was 21.  I guess it was time.

And so with a few fumbles, false starts and almost running the poor man over when he tried to prevent me from crashing into a neighbor’s car, I got it.  Sort of.  I still didn’t trust myself to travel on anything other than a straight path and probably wouldn’t be traveling on it into town, but I could stay upright, which was a bonus.

I haven’t done much with bikes since, I’m sad to say.  Except for an unfortunate attempt a few years ago where I almost ran over a small child on a bike path.

At least she was wearing a helmet.  

But lately Sebastian has been really, really into riding his tricycle.  He loves it and rides it every day. (Don’t tell him but he’s getting a bigger one for his birthday in a couple of weeks!)  And he wants someone to ride with him.  If Chris is here it’s fine, but throughout the day I’m forever accosted with “ride bikes with me, Mommy!”  And I feel bad that I have to tell him no.  I want to be able to just hop on and go with him.

So when it came time to order myself something for my birthday (what?  You don’t do that?) I thought it was time to get back on that horse.  Or bike.  Whatever.  

I’d ridden my neighbor’s some, and she’s got a cruiser, which I’d never really thought about before.  But it’s amazing!  So much more comfortable than those other 10 speeds, off-trail, whats-its bikes with all the whistles and shiny parts.  I just wanted something that would go.  Comfortably.

So this was my gift:

Isn’t it pretty?  And adorably retro?

I’d love to say that I got on it the first time and was able to ride easily.  But that wasn’t really the case.  It’s hard and I’ve got a plethora of bruises, including some especially dark, large and hideous ones on the back of my calf to go with my stupid ladder bruise on my arm.  Basically I look like someone ran me over with a truck.  Or took a crowbar to me.  Also, left turns don’t seem to make any sense to my limbs. 

But today was easier than yesterday.  And yesterday was easier than Saturday.  

I’ll get there.  Eventually Sebastian and I will take off down the road, riding bikes and turning left with abandon.

And maybe I’ll stop accidentally riding into the pool in our driveway.

If you’re coming to this party please don’t look in my closets

The thing about throwing yourself a 30th birthday party is that you’re in charge of taking care of all the prep work.  

We stay so busy that we usually wait until we’re having people over to do the big jobs like cleaning the carpet and painting walls.  In some ways our house looks like we just moved in.  We still haven’t replaced the pictures that we took off the living room walls when we painted two-and-a-half months ago.  It’s just there always seems to be something more important to do, like feeding children or sleeping.  But of course, now that we’re having this big party everything has to be done.  

I have a history of this behavior.  The whole first year of Sebastian’s life I spent in a daze of trying to find my place as a mother.  And since we moved into our house right before he was born we didn’t get the things done on the house that we wanted to – like painting rooms and whatnot.  A month before Sebastian’s first birthday I decided that I wanted to paint this hideous room at the back of our house that was covered in wood paneling and a dated (as in ’80s) farm scene paneling.  We should have had ample opportunity to finish but that room was a time and paint suck of epic proportions.  Yes, I was still painting on portions of it the day before his party.  

So I’m trying to avoid that type of extreme situation.  I’ve been doing a little at a time, here and there after the kids go to bed or when they’re napping.  I’m not painting, but I am trying to organize and straighten and hang wall decorations. 

Last Friday we decided to take care of some big projects – cleaning the carpet and replanting the flower beds in front of the house.

We got a late start because we had to drop the kids off with their grandparents and then stopped for a quick bite to eat.  After that we had to go to the store to rent the carpet cleaner and buy the plants for the beds.

I’m just going to take a minute to complain about those stupid flower beds.  They’re too big and too shaded and I don’t have the know-how to make them into what I want them to be.  So it took me awhile to pick out what to buy, even though my choices were severely limited by the lighting situation.  It’s basically a hosta garden is what I’m saying.

So by the time we got home we still had to move everything off of the carpet and straighten up a little.  I didn’t get outside to the beds until 9 and I worked on that while Chris worked on the carpets.  Most of my landscaping was done in the dark and I had to move things a couple of times because I kept changing my mind.  I had to quit around 10:30 or 11 because I was getting light-headed.  It was still hot and I’m not used to that type of physical work.  

The next morning we got up early (after staying up late because we couldn’t wind down) and were at it again.  And just so you know the flower bed didn’t look the same in the morning light as it did in the moonlight.  Some plants had to be rearranged.  There was cussing involved.  But no tears at least.

So I’ll probably be up late every night this week trying to wash walls and weed gardens and stuff random bits of junk into closets.

I’m thinking that by the time the party is here I’ll probably be so exhausted that I fall asleep around 9:30. The guests won’t care as long as I have enough alcohol, right? 

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.

Random Monday the Second

1. I'm typing this with a child strapped to my chest.
2. She's not particularly fussy but I thought this might be easier.
3. I was wrong.  She's pinching my face and grabbing for everything within reach.
4. I've started planning my 30th birthday party for July.
5. I'm not that great at planning parties.  I'll probably use Google a lot.
6. Is that too early to start planning?  I've also got a 3-year-old's birthday party to plan.
7. Since I'm getting so old I need to allow myself plenty of time to plan these things.  It takes me a lot longer on account of my broken hip and hands that are perpetually covered in denture cream.
8. Okay, had to put the baby down.  She's now playing with a plastic bag.
9. Motherhood at it's best.
10. At least she's quiet.
11. I think Sebastian's party will be a fireman theme since he is obsessed with Fireman Sam, and refuses to answer to anything but Fireman Sam.
12. It's cute, except I forget and am corrected constantly.
13.  It's just, I love his name.  I don't want to call him Fireman Sam.
14. The theme of my party will be wine.  And beer.  And maybe sangria.
15. Do we need anything else?  Maybe some cheese.
16. Everything is better with cheese.  Especially feta.
17. It was pretty awful when I was pregnant and couldn't eat it.
18. (Though with the second pregnancy I did it it sometimes.)
19. They're right.  You're a lot more laid back with the second child.
20. For example: now I let my baby play with plastic bags.
21. It's just, she has such a good time with them.
22. I'm thinking about making homemade teether biscuits.  Will probably do that this afternoon, provided everyone sleeps the way I want them too.
23. I don't really have much hope of that.
24. What I really want to do during their naptime is take a nap myself since my daughter keeps me up all hours of the night.
25. But then I look around at everything that needs to be done and the nap never really happens.

I don't really let her play with plastic bags.  For that long anyway.