Forty

I have tried to write this at least a dozen different ways, but nothing sounds right.

What I have to say is this: Today I am 40.

As my dad says, “it’s better than the alternative,” and I guess he is pretty right. I would rather be 40 than dead.

I don’t feel 40…or at least, I don’t feel like what I thought 40 would feel like. Which is dumb, because how did I know what 40 would feel like?

My mom is who I compare myself to the most (she would tell you I shouldn’t do that, but it is what it is)

She had a 15, 12, and 7 year old when she was 40.

I have an 8, 6, and 3 year old.

She was going back to college to get her BA while working full time, momming full time, and wife-ing full time.

I am going back to college to get my PhD while working full time, momming full time, and wife-ing full time.

She kept the house so clean you could eat off every surface, but she would yell at you if you ate anywhere but the kitchen. And she would find your crumbs.

My house is barely picked up. We have a cleaning lady every other week, and I am sure she thinks we are part bovine. I think my mom probably cringes coming over, but she will never admit it because she loves me too much (but I have found my stove top scrubbed after she has been there watching the kids).

I don’t ever remember my mom caring about her age. She always shrugged if off if we tried to tease her about getting older.

I’m trying to be like that too.

I don’t really care.

Not really.

But a little I do.

A little bit of me gets panicky at getting older…being that much closer to not being.

But I have an anxiety disorder and my mom does not.

My mom has always made me feel less anxious.

Even now that I am forty.

I am going to have a very good decade.

Forty is going to be great.

I will just keep telling myself that.

Forty.

 

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