I'm 32 today, which is older, by a bit, than the age Maeve has approximated for me, as she thinks I'm turning 13. Which is still a pretty big number in her book, but not entirely as high as she can count unaided (17), so I guess I'm not totally and completely old in her eyes, yet.
When one of our friends turned 31, he was telling me his 30s were absolutely his best years yet, and so far I pretty well agree with him. I love having a home and a family, it beats what my single life was like, hands-down. And I like being a real, dyed-in-the-wool adult, with no pretensions about wishing I were a teenager, or hoping to get carded at restaurants. (I don't). I get to wear sensible shoes and sensible bathing suits, having earned the right of the mom-skirted suit, and most people have known me long enough know that they know what to expect when it comes to me, in general.
And I have gotten to know me well enough that I can sometimes nip worried thoughts in the bud, keep myself out of those locked doors and untidy closets in my mind that are not worth going into. Just by example, I managed to take in very little news this weekend, in order to keep from spending my weekend weeping for the murdered children of Newtown. It's awful, it's a nightmare, but my tears will not do anything to help. So I gave them, and me, as much peace as possible.
Today, I'm 32, and it's going to be a great year. My daughter will be out of diapers by the time I write this blog next year, knock on wood, and maybe I'll have had more, better writing opportunities by then, too. I know I'll be a better writer, because I'll have had another year of practice. And I'll be a better mom, because I'll have had another year of practice at that, too.
Thanks for sticking with me, friends, and for caring about my family and reading what is happening with us. It is so good to have friends like you, even if I have never met you.
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