If I may be permitted to post about my birthday one last time (for this year, anyhow)…
34 was a hard age. In fact, it was my toughest year ever. It actually had very little to do with the number or the midthirtiness of it all, and more to do with the fact that 34 was the year which kinda shook the ground beneath my feet.
The day I turned 34, I was the mother of a 4 year-old, 2 year-old, and 6 month-old. That season marked the first time I wondered- regardless of how much I adored being their Mama- if I was any good at having three kids. And then the travel started. 8 drives (some 14 hours, some 17 hours each way), 7 east coast roundtrip flights, and a combined 12 weeks away from home between the end of July and the beginning of May. The reason for the majority of these trips was to spend as much time as humanly possible with my Dad during his chemo and healthy weeks and hospice and- devastatingly- his memorial.
Like I said, tough.
And because this is always the way it works, 34 was also the year that I was assigned the biggest and best articles of my career so far. Which was thrilling. And terrifying and gratifyingly escapist and exhausting. I wondered if I was any good at being a writer. (My mentor/editors assured me that I was doing just fine- except for that one glaring error. And maybe that one, too. Also that I could take as much time off as I needed- which I cheerfully ignored. Paychecks and momentum are so much nicer than mental clarity.)
34 was the year where I leaned really, really heavily on my friends and my family. For childcare, for carpools, for meals, for hugs, for late-night phone calls, and for Post-It notes tucked into wallets and mirror corners. Finally, 34 was the year I starting talking to a therapist. (As P.J. has gently insinuated, THANK YOU JESUS FOR THAT.)
And 35?
35 started with legitimately thoughtful gifts, from my favorite coffee (by the crate) to the next in the video game mystery series that I’ve been coveting/craving since my pregnancy with Jasper. (P.J. informed me that it promised 150 hours of game play. P.J. also informed me “Bye, Keely!”) 35 featured one of the best massages of my life. And the first night of 35 ended with a private karaoke surprise birthday party (my husband is incredible; have I ever mentioned this?!) with my favorite-ever strawberry cake and a goodly cross-section of my favorite-ever Chicagoans- but not before I was regaled with multiple grown men singing “Part of your world” like Ariel herself was choosing her replacement. 35 has also been teatime at the Drake Hotel with my favorite tiny partygoers, at least two naps, and an utterly victorious session of Mario Kart.
It’s pretty fair to say this has been one of my best birthdays since my 9th birthday. (And suddenly that header up there makes a bit more sense, yeah?)
And since preschool is out for the year, we’re firmly and decidedly in the midst of Actual Summer Vacation. Which means a mandatory midday nap right about now.
Someone should probably tell my kids.
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