When I think about my birthday, the number sticks in my throat like a giant spoonful of peanut butter. I can't ingest it, digest it, swallow it. Forty just gums up my mouth.
But why? It's one of two things: either it's such a monumental, life-changing number that I can't process it -- or it's not such a big deal at all. My suspicion is it's a little bit of both.
By nature, I'm a nostalgic person. I love to dwell. I love to mull over the past. I adore looking through old photo albums. But I'm running a marathon called being a full-time working mom to twins. My legs are like jelly. My neck hurts. My mind is a jumble. I can barely remember my own address. I don't have time to look back.
This year, the big birthday is actually 1 not 40. August and Finley will turn 1 next month. Now that number leaves me flabbergasted. I'm breathless. Winded. What the...? How did that happen? But there it is just over the horizon. One.
August and Fin (pictured above with balloons even though it wasn't their birthday) are not even really babies anymore. They're standing, cruising around the house, almost walking, shouting, saying "mama, mama, mama" (even though it's not directed at me.) It's stunning. They are stunning. I am stunned. And I am 40.
The truth is, I've thought of myself as 40 for the last couple of years. Hell, once you have trouble getting pregnant, get poked and probed by doctors, become pregnant with twins, go on bed rest for two months, give birth to premature twins at age 39, then don't sleep for 9 months and spend all the money you ever had on a night nurse, turning 40 feels like brushing your teeth, like pouring your morning coffee, like something you just do and move on.
So, bring it on 40. I'm ready for ya.
