39. Good gracious.
There’s something so self-indulgent about a birthday blog post, isn’t there?
Thanks for indulging my self-indulgence.
Today, I am 39. Thirty nine. That’s…a number right there. (Special note to friends and family over the age of 39: Thanks in advance for not smacking me upside the head. Because I’m gonna talk about it a little bit longer.)
Because 39.
(Not 39.)
It feels heavy. Like, your parents are 39, right? (Except they’re totally not; they’re most likely 50 and 60 and 70 and older. The only people whose parents are legit 39 are most likely not reading this blog, unless I’ve tapped into a very new market.)
39 is having multiple people mention that you don’t seem 39, and in your mind you’re all- THANK YOU, right? Because that shiz sounds old.
39 is on the precipice of something that is a tad too scary to contemplate on this day, your 39th birthday, not your 40th (or beyond, because- WHAT?) because this is a day to be slightly weirded out by this number and only this number.
I asked P.J…
…If I had been quite so tweaked by the number 29. He gently reminded me that, no, on my 29th birthday I was entering into my third trimester with our first child, and we were in the process of rebuilding/fumigating our family’s first home. So like, perhaps I was a tad distracted. (“So maybe tearing down part of the house and/or finding a new baby is the answer!” <– Not a well-received statement.)
But once the adrenaline and trepidation and hyper self-awareness began to fade, I remembered something quite cool.
Things are actually quite good.
My body is mostly working the way it’s supposed to. Same for my brain, most days. I’m gaining momentum on a business that I love– a business that I feel good at- and I recently remembered that I still enjoy writing for fun. (Not for clicks, likes, shares, or sponsorship…but because emptying out your heart and brain and one-liners onto a page feels purposeful in a way that transcribing interviews hadn’t for a really long time.)
And even though aging means the tiny people in my world are also aging, it means I’m doing my job- and helping them do theirs. The other day I pulled away from the preschool where I had spent most weekdays since 2012, sometimes with multiple kids in back-to-back classes, and had a moment of “Oh, so there’s no more babies, is that what we’re saying?”
I cried on my last volunteer day. Not during circle time, not when Jasper ran down the hall with his backpack on the last afternoon, oh no. I cried when I rinsed out the paintbrushes in the sink. Why? WHY. Was it because the mundane tasks of early childhood seemed to never ever ever be done- but here we were, with a tangible “last?” Was it because I knew once my kids were all out of preschool that my relevant artistic abilities would have totally peaked? (…Maybe a little of both?)
Those tangible lasts…
…While painful, have been propelling me to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Like, as a 39 year-old. Nap times and endless block building sessions are gone, sure, but I now have the ability to see clients during the day. (The day. Like a person.) Planning for a future with all three kids at the same school for the same amount of time is a pretty exciting milestone, too, especially when that allows me to pencil in- nay, Sharpie in- writing dates for myself. You know, so I can finally finish that mystery I started four years ago. (How old was Jessica Fletcher? I’m pretty sure she was 39, too.)
After a scary start to 2019 where I was angry at my brain, angry at my joints, angry at my doctors, and angry at prescription drugs, I finally feel…good. Normal good.
I want to take my “normal good” feelings and do, well, more good in the world now.
Because the world isn’t always good. And if you can’t take your good and make someone else’s something good…then, really, what’s the point? We’re all going to leave this world in a stupidly short amount of time- some in a decidedly more stupid frame of time than others- so doesn’t it make sense to do good, feel good, and be good?
I think so.
Being in a place where I’m good with never again having a non-c-section stomach (thrice over!), where my eldest child pens a story in which the beloved Mama character has “kind smile eye wrinkles”, and when going to bed early (after Jeopardy, obvs) is way more treat than punishment…feels good, too.
And isn’t feeling good such a flipping gift?
Hey 39- I think I like you already.
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