I am getting ready to turn 40. OK, to be honest, I have about half a year left of being 39, but I like to plan ahead and I feel this milestone may require a little getting used to. However, to be quite honest, I am quite ready to turn that leaf.
Recently, my nearest, dearest cousin Barb turned 30 and I think it was at least as emotional for me as it was for her. She is just delving into the first chapter of a book whose last pages I am tearfully reading, pouring over each word, nostalgically reflecting on the journey of 1000 pages, sad to say goodbye to some character that I have grown to love. That book is like War and Peace - a long, difficult slog through years that were treacherous and sorrowful, full of wisdom that was earned at great cost to my health and well-being.
The 30's are the worry years. Worry about career, worry about mysterious rashes and various approaches to discipline. Constantly concerned about the well-being of my children, my abilities as a mother, the state of my career. Worry that I will lose a kid at Wal-Mart, worry that I have forgotten to add a volunteer commitment to my calendar and I will fail to show up when I am badly needed and everyone will know the truth - that I actually don't have it all together, that it's really just a miracle that I have managed to keep all four of my children alive and out of harm's way all of these years.
The 30's are the years of saying "yes". Yes to bingo fundraisers, to field trip volunteer requests, to play-dates and bottle drives and bake sales. Yes to "just one more story" and "This time your turn find me, Mommy." Yes to elimination diets and allergy testing, IPPs and every imagination extra-curricular activity my kids have ever asked to try.
The 30's are (for me, at least) what Oprah would call the "shlumpadinka" years, years in which I lost and gained 25 pounds not once but four times (OK, that's not true - I gained 25 pounds 4 times and lost it only 3 times). Years of wearing my hair in a scarf because there wasn't time to style it, years of living in worn-out yoga pants and nursing tops that I would be ashamed to donate to the Salvation Army. Years of colouring my own hair because all of my extra cash goes toward Fancy Nancy books, Lego and soccer fees. Years of avoiding mirrors because I simply don't have time to correct whatever I might not like were I to take the time to look.
The 30's are the guilty years, because guilt is the currency of mothers of young children. I'll trade you one Swim Club bingo to assuage myself of a pinch of guilt. I'll overlook this one tantrum because I feel guilty that I worked for three hours this morning when I should only have worked for two. I'll stay up past my own bed time to make healthy granola squares because I feel guilty for the two boxes of Bear Paw cookies which disappeared from the pantry within a day of my last shopping trip.
However, if the 30's were my most gruelling, most unglamorous, most guilt-ridden years, they were also my most tender, most joyful years. Years in which my heart at last felt filled to capacity, in which I finally felt comfortable in my own (albeit sagging) skin.
In my 30's I gained wisdom that was hard-fought. Some of the most meaningful lessons of motherhood were learned through tears, through sleep-deprivation, through fits of nausea and unimaginable pain. But others were gleaned through joyful moments of realization and enlightenment, like the first time my older son told me that he loved me and I thought my heart would burst with joy. Or the time, laying in bed with my daughter, I asked her if she would always be my friend and she looked solemnly into my eyes and said, "I will, Mommy, I will."
One day soon, there will be no small child to cling to the back of my legs as I try to get ready for work, to beg me for one more game of hide-and-seek or one more story. One day soon, my baby's sticky hand will not fit into the palm of my hand. One day soon I will be at the roller skating rink with my youngest little duck and I will ask him if wants to hold my hand and he will give me a dirty look and reply, "What do YOU think?"
And I suppose that that day will be bittersweet.
Bitter because there is nothing that elevates my soul like holding a sleeping a small child, caressing each little finger, each little toe, and thinking to myself, "I made these."
But also sweet. Because it is time to get back to the salon, to read books in the afternoon, to utter whole sentences. It's time to lose the head scarfs and the ratty yoga pants.
Time to turn 40 and leave the 30's to a new crop of resilient, strong, loving women who will travel through the decade, learning their own lessons and channelling their own inner shlumpadinka.
Recently, my nearest, dearest cousin Barb turned 30 and I think it was at least as emotional for me as it was for her. She is just delving into the first chapter of a book whose last pages I am tearfully reading, pouring over each word, nostalgically reflecting on the journey of 1000 pages, sad to say goodbye to some character that I have grown to love. That book is like War and Peace - a long, difficult slog through years that were treacherous and sorrowful, full of wisdom that was earned at great cost to my health and well-being.
The 30's are the worry years. Worry about career, worry about mysterious rashes and various approaches to discipline. Constantly concerned about the well-being of my children, my abilities as a mother, the state of my career. Worry that I will lose a kid at Wal-Mart, worry that I have forgotten to add a volunteer commitment to my calendar and I will fail to show up when I am badly needed and everyone will know the truth - that I actually don't have it all together, that it's really just a miracle that I have managed to keep all four of my children alive and out of harm's way all of these years.
The 30's are the years of saying "yes". Yes to bingo fundraisers, to field trip volunteer requests, to play-dates and bottle drives and bake sales. Yes to "just one more story" and "This time your turn find me, Mommy." Yes to elimination diets and allergy testing, IPPs and every imagination extra-curricular activity my kids have ever asked to try.
The 30's are (for me, at least) what Oprah would call the "shlumpadinka" years, years in which I lost and gained 25 pounds not once but four times (OK, that's not true - I gained 25 pounds 4 times and lost it only 3 times). Years of wearing my hair in a scarf because there wasn't time to style it, years of living in worn-out yoga pants and nursing tops that I would be ashamed to donate to the Salvation Army. Years of colouring my own hair because all of my extra cash goes toward Fancy Nancy books, Lego and soccer fees. Years of avoiding mirrors because I simply don't have time to correct whatever I might not like were I to take the time to look.
The 30's are the guilty years, because guilt is the currency of mothers of young children. I'll trade you one Swim Club bingo to assuage myself of a pinch of guilt. I'll overlook this one tantrum because I feel guilty that I worked for three hours this morning when I should only have worked for two. I'll stay up past my own bed time to make healthy granola squares because I feel guilty for the two boxes of Bear Paw cookies which disappeared from the pantry within a day of my last shopping trip.
However, if the 30's were my most gruelling, most unglamorous, most guilt-ridden years, they were also my most tender, most joyful years. Years in which my heart at last felt filled to capacity, in which I finally felt comfortable in my own (albeit sagging) skin.
In my 30's I gained wisdom that was hard-fought. Some of the most meaningful lessons of motherhood were learned through tears, through sleep-deprivation, through fits of nausea and unimaginable pain. But others were gleaned through joyful moments of realization and enlightenment, like the first time my older son told me that he loved me and I thought my heart would burst with joy. Or the time, laying in bed with my daughter, I asked her if she would always be my friend and she looked solemnly into my eyes and said, "I will, Mommy, I will."
One day soon, there will be no small child to cling to the back of my legs as I try to get ready for work, to beg me for one more game of hide-and-seek or one more story. One day soon, my baby's sticky hand will not fit into the palm of my hand. One day soon I will be at the roller skating rink with my youngest little duck and I will ask him if wants to hold my hand and he will give me a dirty look and reply, "What do YOU think?"
And I suppose that that day will be bittersweet.
Bitter because there is nothing that elevates my soul like holding a sleeping a small child, caressing each little finger, each little toe, and thinking to myself, "I made these."
But also sweet. Because it is time to get back to the salon, to read books in the afternoon, to utter whole sentences. It's time to lose the head scarfs and the ratty yoga pants.
Time to turn 40 and leave the 30's to a new crop of resilient, strong, loving women who will travel through the decade, learning their own lessons and channelling their own inner shlumpadinka.
