I haven't written for awhile--not because I didn't have anything to write, but rather because I had TOO MUCH running around in my head and it'll take me a bit to sort it all out.
Last Saturday was my birthday. I am now thirty-five years old. Yep. 35. T-H-I-R-T-Y-F-I-V-E. I had to keep saying it to make it more real to myself. You see, when I was a child, thirty-five was the age in my head that was OLD! Really, really old. Really, really, very, really old. I don't feel really, really old. In fact, thanks to good skin care, I don't look really, really old. And yet, here I am, THIRTY-FIVE! (whisper it with me once: thirtyfive). Thirty-five is kinda close to forty. I'm not sure I'm ready to be kinda close to forty.
I was reading a Family Circle article the other day about women in their 90's. One of them said, "Don't forget, there's still a little girl inside of me!" That's how I feel. All of the hopes and wishes and dreams of my childhood, the insecurities of my teen-age years, and the confidence of my early adulthood all rolled into one. But someone else's body--other than my face, I don't really recognize this one. But that's going to have to be another blog entry.
I guess that it's official: I am now a Grown-Up. Yep. I have responsibilities, a mortgage, bills, the longest relationship I've ever had with anyone outside of my parents and siblings, (I'm talking about my husband), and children. And I couldn't, wouldn't trade them for anything. Especially the children. If I have to be thirtyfive I'd rather do it with them than anyone else. Being THIRTY-FIVE is worth all of the good things my husband and children have brought to me. Absolutely worth it.
And that's the other side.