So I hit a milestone birthday today – 30. I think I’m on target for a thirty-year-old: married, three kids, stable job, nice house. I grocery shop regularly, match socks, and drink Chardonnay (also regularly), just like a real mom, but so far I hate thirty. Here is why:
Every other year, on my birthday, I think about all of the big things that will happen to me that year: my wedding, a baby, college, a new job, a new house… If something big like that happens this year, it is probably the result of a mid-life crisis. All of my big excitement is over and now all I have to look forward to is the secondhand excitement of my kids. When they start actually doing things like getting married and making grandkids, that will be exciting, but right now we’re at potty-training and multiplication tables. Not very thrilling.
So I’m sitting here, thinking about how depressing thirty is, when I have an idea: Wait a minute! This is easily fixed. I just need to have another baby!
The Husband: No.
No discussion or explanation. Just “no.”
Responsible Me: Umm, yeah, he’s right. I’m pretty sure that the cost of delivery, another five years of childcare, formula, diapers, stronger anxiety meds…would be enough to cause you to end up homeless and/or divorced. Then you get a new baby, a new (dilapidated rental) house, and maybe a new husband (if you make a quick turnaround) this year. Cue that midlife crisis you mentioned above.
Several people have told me that the thirties are the best, but I find that hard to believe:
- I’m too old to pull off a messy bun without actually looking like I just forgot that I have hair altogether. It’s not the hair so much as it’s the combination of the forgotten hair with the eyebrows that I forgot needed waxed, the nails that I forgot needed trimmed…I have three freaking kids, okay? I consider myself lucky if they all make it out of the house fully clothed and free of hazardous debris like feces. My personal grooming takes a backseat. It’s fine, I can’t pull my hair up anyway because the sides are a nice shade of Dorothy Zbornak gray.
- I have to practice bad habits, like tanning and drinking energy drinks, in secret. Thirty-year-olds worry about skin health and they drink black coffee, or some type of vitamin concoction, or perhaps some type of direct sales fad system like Thrive or It Works. Maybe that is why thirty-year-olds are so tired. Stick with what works, people. Come back to the Monsters. Anything that comes in a metallic black can and contains a million times the caffeine of a can of pop is going to be the right choice to give you energy.
- My main objective in life is my futile effort to keep the house clean. Not pursuing higher education or a career aspiration. Not finding my soul mate or dream house. My long-term goal right now is simply to be able to pee without first having to check the seat for dribbles. I’m most proud of myself when guests ask if they need to remove their shoes in my house. The answer is no, but the fact that I somehow got the house to a state where it appears that they should ask makes me happy. This has only actually happened once.
- The Husband is getting old too. He’s tired and hairy and the sexiest thing you’ll hear during an encounter between us is “Put your glasses on.”
Thirty has all of the worst parts of being old without any of the benefits, like Medicare and a mortgage-free home.
So, for all of these reasons and many more, you don’t impress me so far, Thirty, but it’s only been one day. You have 9 years and 3 months to change my mind. If I still feel old, sad, and bored by then – baby it is.