Life at 31, part 1

So, I had a birthday last Monday, the 8th. It was an insignificant occasion as far as milestones go. Last year—my 30th—was supposed to be a big deal. But I breezed through that day. It, to me, felt like just another year.

Maybe the real milestone is 31—living one full year in the 30s. And maybe that is why I just don't feel so darn good about this birthday.

Another point to consider is that I seem to be so much more introspective this year. I'm really taking stock of me, and I'm not so sure I like what I see. Yes, I said that. The usual "I see a silver lining everywhere I look" girl is not so pleased with "me" at 31.

I feel... like I let myself down. We all have those moments, I know, but I see how things have gotten away from me in all aspects of my life.

My job... is still stressful, and I struggle every weekday with trying to feel like I'm an efficient employee as I juggle working from home two days a week and squeezing in calls to my family (who I love and am always so grateful to hear from) while I frantically try to cram in as many tasks as I can muster in my 11-hour Mondays, Wednesdays & Thursdays.

Being a mommy... is hard. My child is an absolute joy, but sometimes I am an absolute mess. I've done the unthinkable a lot lately—I've been comparing myself to other mommies—and I find that I don't always measure up. I wonder at women who get stay at home with their kids, and they feed their children healthy, crusts-removed turkey sandwiches, and those moms work out (and they look ridiculously great), and they have a beautiful, clean home, and they drive a Prius, and they go on dates with their husbands. And I am definitely not them. I realize, too, that I forget to "mother" Noah sometimes. It occurred to me the other day that I could not remember that last time I pulled out paints or crayons and let Noah make colorful squiggles. A few weeks ago at Noah's 2-year-old checkup, our doctor said, "Can he stack seven blocks?" I must have looked panicked, because I knew we hadn't pulled down the blocks in months, so I just lied and said, "Absolutely." The truth is, Noah would much rather knock them over than stack them. I don't know why I had to lie about it.

Being a wife is even harder than being a mom. Husbands should come with a manual. At the very least, married women should not be allowed to read romance novels or watch movies with untenable love-story plots. And if you're reading this and you think your life IS a romance novel, then don't tell me. I prefer to believe that those kinds of stories only exist in fiction.

Hardest for me is the view of me from where you are. You people who look at me every day must think what I do: "Boy she's not aging gracefully." For the first time in my life, when I look in the mirror, I see that I am getting older. The gray hairs are multiplying, the dreaded arm flaps have firmly taken root, cellulite is spreading like a rash, I am—literally—consumed by two honest-to-goodness rashes (yes, poison ivy is back and its little sister is making my life miserable), my nose has—I swear—gotten bigger in the last few years, and my complexion hovers from pale & sunken to rosacea-cursed (new this year). I feel frumpy and dumpy, and no amount of hair cuts and pedicures will cure what ails me. For every reason imaginable, I no longer feel comfortable in my own skin.

It's too early to have a mid-life crisis, right? Surely something will give? I suspect neither is true, and that this crummy milestone is just a part of life. And maybe taking stock isn't so bad, because it can—if I want it to—be a way to finally take action. Here's hoping that I get moving...