Reflections on Thirty-Seven

I turned thirty-eight on Friday.

Sigh. 

All in all, it was a rather uneventful birthday weekend but I can't say it wasn't expected.  Friday was far from a good day at work, and I haven't left the house since I got home that night.

Birthdays just aren't the joyful, celebratory events they used to be.  Once you hit a certain age, it's literally all down hill from there.  And I think I hit it.

I have to confess, I started this post four times over the course of the weekend and the delete button was my best friend.  If you think this sounds somber, you should have read the first three takes. 

I'm not down because I'm getting older per se.  I'm not stressed over middle age, gray hairs, wrinkles, or the fact that my life is probably half over at this point.  I think I'm sad because I learned a few things at thirty-seven and I hate to admit them.

First off, I think I've finally realized that you can't change someone else, and changing yourself is a million times harder than it sounds.  Being an adult doesn't necessarily mean you're a grown up and no life event, no matter how spectacular, is a sure-fire catalyst to suddenly become one.  People are who they are and the choice lies on you to either accept them or walk away.  Of course, both options require changing yourself on some level and I've already mentioned how easy that is.  In the meantime, life hangs in limbo yet time keeps ticking.

I've also realized that this is probably the best it gets.  I feel like I've gone through life...waiting.  Waiting for everyone to be happy.  Waiting for the financial struggles to disappear.  Waiting to find that perfect relationship, perfect job, perfect house, perfect family.  I'm now old enough to know that life will never be perfect.  And while it depresses me, I'm relieved at the same time.  The pressure is off to reach some unattainable goal.  An ex once told me I'd never truly be happy because I didn't want a life, I wanted a fairy tale.  Admitting he was right is like stabbing myself in the eyeball with a steak knife.  But, ouch, I suppose he was.

And to my dismay, I've learned that mothers are people, too.  Despite my attempt to be the perfect mom to Punky, I've realized it's just not feasible.  It seemed easily attainable when she quietly stayed in one place and was perfectly content snuggling on the rocking chair.  Then she turned into, well, a normal kid I suppose.  Most days I have the patience of a saint.  I teach her, and guide her, and enjoy every waking moment with her.  We play, we talk, we laugh, and I can't get enough of her.  I love her more than life itself.

Other days, I completely understand why some animals eat their young.  I sigh.  I complain.  I yell.  I feel terrible for complaining.  Even more so for yelling.  A friend of mine described it best when she said it's like a crap shoot every night when she goes home to her eighteen month old.  Some days are perfect; some days are hell.  Most fall somewhere in between.  Being a parent is far more difficult than I ever imagined...and I'm still only at the beginning.

All in all, thirty-seven was a good year.  It flew by in the blink of an eye.  There was good, there was bad, and there was some in between.  I think thirty-eight will bring more of the same.  After all, such is life...