Last week was my birthday, which is really the only day of the year you’re allowed to wax poetic about the passing of time without too many eye rolls, so let me take advantage a week late. It’s my favorite topic. Remember, I had a whole blog dedicated to navel gazing the passage of time in my twenties!
I turned thirty-seven, which means I’m officially in my late thirties. I’m much closer to forty than thirty, and approximately a million light years away from my twenties. To really put it into perspective, next year is my 20 year high school reunion, which I will not be attending –– if it’s even happening.
I suppose I’m living the life you’d expect from a thirty-seven year-old person. I have a marriage that will happily hit a five year anniversary this year, two small children, a house that’s currently undergoing a kitchen renovation, a graduate program acceptance, and a moderately successful career working for myself. If I was a list type person, I’d be satisfied. Tick. Tick. Tick. I’ve checked all the boxes of adulthood. I can quietly pass away into the bowels of suburbia now.
But, I’m not a checklist person. I never had big blueprints for the future, but rather letting life happen to me as the years rolled by. I didn’t intentionally set out to create a cookie cutter life and, while it may seem like it on paper, it’s hardly so in practice.
In practice, having all the “things” is actually exhausting and overwhelming. It’s challenging, chaotic, and messy. Having more externally means having less internally –– something I struggle with constantly. It’s just basic math. The more of yourself given away to other people, places, and efforts, the less there is left for you at the end of the day.
Challenging and hard doesn’t necessarily mean BAD. I’m not complaining. These were mostly all calculated choices, aside from my second child who graciously took that heavy decision off of my plate. But, I didn’t plan on starting my parenting journey during a pandemic, and I can’t control that a hustle-heavy freelance life is my indefinite future since none of my job applications are being seen or moved forward.
“You’re really in the thick of it,” most people reflect back to me. And, it’s true. No more than today, where I sit writing this from an Airbnb because our kitchen remodel is finally under way, after almost a year of starting the process. My home is literally busted apart and in pieces right now –– a metaphor for my life.
Again, I don’t mean this to be dramatic or negative. It’s just the reality. Between a toddler, infant, juggling almost a dozen clients, a home renovation, a marriage, friendships, and an impending return to graduate school (More on than later!), I’m existing at what I think is the apex of mess in my life –– covered in dust, dry shampoo, invoices, spit up, dish soap, and rejected food scraps.
In these difficult seasons, it’s so hard to not wish away the hours, days, and weeks, I’ll surely look back at with rosy lenses. Soak in those newborn snuggles? How, when I’m resentful of the sleep deprivation, heartbroken over spending less time with my first kid, and logging onto work without maternity leave? It’s a herculean effort to be present in the most mundane circumstances, but even more so when you’re emotionally fried, touched out, and stretched paper thin from doing nap algorithms in your head all day.
I close my eyes, wanting to wake up, kicked down the road to a different life milestones that seems easier than the one I’m experiencing today. Can’t I just cut to the good part? When the kitchen is done. When she sleeps through the night. When he’s finally potty trained. When schools stop closing because of Covid. When I get my degree. When I can go on a vacation with my husband again –– let alone a dinner.
No, mostly because “the good part” is an urban legend. It doesn’t exist ––on it’s own at least. The next phase will bring its own seasonal storms, and the life I’m currently living is the good part too, even if I cruelly won’t be able to see or feel it for years.
I don’t like chaos or mess. I think I mentioned that in my last newsletter, but if you missed it, let me reiterate –– I AM A TIDY PERSON. I’m really trying to be more tolerant of when things are in their place at all times, plans aren’t executed correctly, or when loved ones surprise you with paper confetti all over the house the morning of your birthday.
Lately, I don’t know who I am anymore. I used to be so put together and, now, I feel completely dormant. I move through the day like a relay race, continually running to pick up batons and turning around on repeat.
Usually for my birthday, I like to book some sort of vacation, even if it’s just a hotel in town. I’ve found that just the act of waking up somewhere not in your own bed automatically makes the day feel special. In years past, I’ve treated myself to a massage, spent the day with my husband drinking by a pool, fielded texts and DM birthday wishes, and went hoarse from trying to talk to friends at a bar. I’d post tipsy stories documenting my fabulous time on Instagram all day, culminating in one well lit birthday photo post with an accompanying cathartic caption. I’d go to bed feeling celebrated, both my loved ones and myself.
This year, I actually did wake up in a bed that wasn’t mine –– only it happened about four to five times because of my baby’s sleep regression at an Airbnb ten minutes from our house because our kitchen doesn’t have walls or windows. My husband made me feel special by letting me wake up to a sweet card, banner, and the messy confetti. I hardly let him or anyone else do much more for me because I was paralyzed by overwhelm.
We had one grandma and friend coming to babysit so my husband and I could barely make it out of the house on time to see a musical downtown. But, the entire day leading up to it was filled with chores, work, and a brain fog that refused lift. I felt anxious leaving the baby for the first time, and got the sour news during intermission that our son’s preschool class was closing for ten days because of a potential Covid exposure. I was anxious, overwhelmed, and so deeply sleepy. The next morning, I went to brunch with close friends. Though I still felt an underlying tense buzz of exhaustion and anxiety, it felt nice to socialize in a way that I had forgotten was necessary. I even found it in me to post a photo on Instagram letting the world know I had a birthday later that day.
It certainly wasn’t like the birthdays in the past, and it isn’t the kind of birthday I’d like to keep having in the future. It was a fuzzy, stressy, sleep deprived interim day with a few high notes that marked the passage of time.
It was a reminder that I’ve left most of my old self in the dust, and I’m still on the way to my new self –– who, I’m sure is much better rested, has kids who need her far less, and is all around able to handle life’s lemons a little better better.
I’m slowly realizing all the stuff in between is just what happens when you start ticking boxes. And those boxes don’t need to look like my mine, or like anyone else’s. It’s not about traditional milestones like parenting or owning a house, per se. No matter what your trajectory looks like, everything starts to feel this way as you get older and life gets bigger and more complicated for myriad reasons. It’s hard and fun and overwhelming and smelly and sticky and heart expanding. It’s, quite frankly, a goddamn slog. But, I’m starting to learn, after thirty-seven year of the very hard way, that this is kind of the point and maybe that’s OK.