Today is my thirtieth birthday. Typing that sentence out was the first time it really, truly hit me that my twenties are over. I’ve always been an old soul so part of me has felt thirty for a lifetime. Since I was a kid, I’ve always been drawn to people generations older than me and could be found asking my grandma to fax me recipes in college and sleeping at my mom’s friends house to learn how to be a homemaker one day at 18. I’ve always been the mom of my friend group and married a man 9 years older than me at 21 years old so part of me has been looking forward to this for a decade. Another part of me can’t believe it.
My angel baby first born turns 5 tomorrow and, as usual, I can’t believe it.
Today our sweet Nana girl turns three.
When you read this, I will be freshly 29 years old. One day into my first steps of the last years of my twenties and let me say, I have many thoughts about it. Like, for starters, why does the word “twenty” sound so young and thirty song so much older? I’m not talking at all about the age. Push that out of your mind. Just the word itself coming out of your mouth—twenty. It sounds fresh. Crisp. Lemongrass and poppies and maybe some gingersnaps. It sounds like the color yellow.
My sweet angel girl turns 2 today and I could just burst with love for her. She is, in a word, bright. Full of light! Full of life. So full of words and excitement and ideas and joy. We still call her our sour patch kid (“first they’re sour! then they’re sweet!) but the name isn’t really fitting anymore. She is our sweetheart.
Yesterday was my 28th birthday.