Toddlers have just one volume- loud- and are generally incapable of shooshing. But preschoolers can whisper, and Nug has recently discovered the world of secrets. I thought I would use this to my advantage the other night when I needed to busy her. Snuggling Cookie to sleep in the rocking chair, my calm was pierced by the three year old who thought it an opportune time to hang off the armrest and tap a Riverdance on the floor below us. I leaned my head back in exhaustion when it hit me: I am two months away from my 36th birthday. Thirty-six! A panic began to rise. Thirty-six is closer to forty than thirty... I am not young anymore! When did that happen? The last time I looked, I was just turning thirty.
I stifled the urge to shriek. I had to let this new and horrifying information out. I'm old! Does my wife even know? So I leaned over to Nug and cautiously leaked the remains of my shattered ego. "Go tell Mama," I whispered, "I'm almost (gulp)... thirty-six." Absurdly hoping for discretion from my three-year-old messenger, she bounded the ten feet over to the bathroom. I saw her eyes grow big as she prepared to unload my secret. She leaned her chest forward as if the words were heavy and lifted her arms to the ceiling. And with a grand and embarrassing excitement, I hear spoken for the first time ever, "Mama! Mama! Mommy is THIRTY SIX!"
Groan.
Through years and blog posts I have contemplated my struggles in motherhood, at times feeling underwater by the flow of "if onlys" running through my mind. If only I could sleep through the night, I'd have more patience. If only I could lose this weight, I'd be myself again. If only I was younger, I'd be a more energetic/organic/better mom. Age was the easiest target; being a new mom in my thirties meant I had known a life before kids- brunches, career, and vacation that included potty behind a closed door (and without announcing my intention first, imagine!). In my Mommy Nirvana, young moms were destined for the job, never facing the identify crisis of advanced maternal age.
But now, as I sit on the downhill slope of my thirties- sooo many steps away from the twenty-something who wore clothes that didn't say 'Kirkland'- I can see the struggle for what it is. It was not in being an older mom per say, but in my constant desire to find familiar (=childless) ground beneath my feet. Because if I wasn't a nurse and a runner who wore earrings and sent homemade thank yous, who was I?! The overweight and frazzled reflection in the mirror surely wasn't me, with its worry lines and clothing stains.
And yet, I have been here all along, of course. This is me: nearing my thirty-sixth year, wife and two kids, wearing bigger underwear and a bigger heart. I had been watching my thirties disappear with every diaper change, but now I am showing up as myself. I am the woman in the mirror. The one with the belly peeking under her clothes, for it tells the story of my six month old daughter. The one with frequent sighs, sometimes hidden but most often not, mediating the outburst welling inside. The one with the creases between my eyes, telling the story of days of vigilance and nights of feedings. The body marked by pregnancy, breastfeeding, and three and a half years of full-time child care.
The one who is finally standing on firm, present ground. If only I had done it sooner.
With time, your roots grow deep and your branches long. You lean a little less backward in fear and a little less forward in doubt, resting solidly right where you are. When the wind blows, you bend. When it stops, you straighten. Your boughs provide shelter and shade. Your strength supports the sky. Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes and the grass grows by itself. -Karen Maezen Miller, excerpted from Momma Zen
(Thirty-six will be the best year yet!)
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| Perfection |
Congratulations on being 36 and enjoying it! You look good on firm, solid ground.
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