I’m turning 30. On Monday. I’m ok about it mostly and then every now and then I freak out. It just feels so old. And not old in a grey hair and wrinkles way (although I have plenty of those, thank you small people who shalt not sleep), old in a responsible way. Like I should be a grown up. Like I should have responsibilities. Like I should abide by them. Jeez, I’m not ready for that!
I’m not sure what will change, or what should change honestly I just feel like I should take life more seriously.
But as you probably know, life is already pretty serious. I mean, I have two children. Two huge responsibilities.
Last year I didn’t celebrate my 29th birthday because I was a complete wreck thinking my fiance was about to die from skin cancer. He wasn’t, he was just about to add some pretty sexy scars to his rugged good looks. Also, I was 4 weeks away from giving birth which didn’t help my hormonal melodrama or my desire to party.
The year before that I didn’t celebrate my 28th birthday because I was part way through the miscarriage of our second child. On the other side of the world. As far from comfort as I thought it possible to be.
And the year before that I didn’t celebrate my 27th birthday because we had just been burgled and I was scared and tired and 6 months pregnant.
So. Turns out we’ve had a pretty rough few years. And that doesn’t count the deaf babies, broken bones, and ceilings falling in on us while we slept. But we’ve gotten through them. I’ve gotten through them. I’ve had to grow up a hell of a lot to do it as well.
So turning 30 isn’t as big a deal as it sounds. Because, turns out I’m a grown up already. And being a grown up is hard and boring.
So this year my birthday is going to be about being irresponsible. It’s going to be about partying like I’m a teenager. Or at least in my 20s.
Thirty shmirty, somebody pass the sparkly pants and pour me a gin.