This is going to be one of those “stream of consciousness” posts that is awfully therapeutic to write but extremely chaotic to read. Viewer discretion is advised.
Without fail, I get weird early April every single year. That feeling of being a birthday sandwich with my daughter and father while on the cusp of Easter and rounding out spring break. It’s a lot to take in and a major factor in my annual spiral and not so deep thoughts.
Today is my birthday and with it comes the painful realization that I’m inching further away from the freedom and life I once knew–and also closer to (gulp) the big 5-0. “Life is lifey,” one of my friends sometimes laments in a text chain that we’ve dubbed “get the shovel” because at any given point one of us is on the verge of needing bail money and an alibi.
Today I’m 47.
I might as well tell you I’m a spy for the Russians because that’s how connected I feel to that number.
How did I get here?
Yesterday we celebrated Mila’s birthday. And frankly? She was kind of a jerk for a large part of the day. And I don’t blame her. Spring break is a time of lawlessness — cookies for breakfast and hair that hasn’t been brushed in a couple of days.
Last night I tucked her sleepy, now six-year-old body into bed and she read me some of her Fancy Nancy books. We had a conversation that made up for a day of being shitty humans to each other.
“Momma? Today I hissed at you.”
“Yes. You did. It wasn’t very nice.”
“I’m sorry. You kept telling me to do this and do that and I didn’t like it.”
“I know, bubba. I’m sorry. Let’s do better tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.”
Parenthood is not for the faint of heart. At the end of the day I just wanted her to go to sleep so I could have some time to myself but then we had this sweet conversation and I gave her a million kisses and felt so guilty about not being the bigger person when I am the one with the fully formed frontal cortex. I came to my blog because I needed to write it all down so I never forget that this life is imperfect but beautiful, too.
Happy birthday to Mila. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to my dad. Maybe next year I won’t be so weird about this whole thing (nope. Not a chance, lol. See you then!).
My husband is a man of many talents. Putting the number 6 candle on the cake is not one of them.
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