I’ve been taking a summer hiatus from blogging, but I had to return today because it’s my birthday! I’ve now spent a full 37 years on this planet. I say this every year, but it remains true: I can’t believe I’m that old. Wasn’t I just 17?
Today is my son’s second birthday. Aside from a few notes in his baby book and my journal, I’ve never really written about his birth. I’m now 15 weeks pregnant with his little sister. As I prepare to do it all again, I’m reflecting on the day two years ago when I first met the tiny, wrinkly baby who has become my sweet, spirited, fearless, open, curious, affectionate child.
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Today is my 35th birthday. (How did that happen? Wasn’t I just 15?) I’m now the age my mother was when I was born. I don’t know why that seems significant to me, but it does.
My life looks very different now than it did at 30. I have a different job and live in a different place (a home I own rather than rent). I’m married and have a son. My father is no longer here. I’m debt-free except for my mortgage and have made great progress saving for long-term goals. I’m no longer painting and selling my art; instead, I have this blog.
I’ve reached an age that my adolescent self thought of as pretty old: 34. I remember as a pre-teen thinking that celebrities in their 30s were washed up. Why is she still making music (or movies, or whatever)? Doesn’t she know she’s not cool anymore? Ah, youth.