Age Is More Than A Number

Call me Mother of the Year.

Tim McGraw had it right. "Lord have mercy on my next thirty years."

I'm breaking the Ultimate Mommy Rule and admitting my age. Not 30 yet, but will be next week. And surprisingly okay with it. It helps immensely that hubby Boomer and Peanut the Wonder Toddler are up to no good. Wish they were a little more obvious about where they're hiding my gifts, but I guess I can't have everything. They make me feel cherished however I look and however old I am or feel.

A favorite Mommy accomplice called today to remind me of the big day and after I finished laughing (please! like I could forget?) started ruminating about the "Over the Hill" nonsense for 30. Probably helps that she's been there, done that. I find that I disagree with being over the hill. Talk to me again at 80. I might buy into it then.

30 just feels good. Don't get me wrong, 20s were pretty terrific. But I'm glad to have Peanut and Boomer, glad to be bouncing around the Testosterone Zone, and really really glad the college drama woe-is-me where-is-my-life-going days are long gone. 30 marks the realization that I'm not in charge. And that's okay. I'm not drifting. I'm letting my life unfold and I'm an active participant. 20 can't do that.

And now, I'm off to ponder the newness of my age, toast the experiences I've had and welcome the new ones. And figure out where the #@&* Boomer and Peanut hid those presents. If I find them in the toy box, someone's going to be in trouble. Actually, that's pretty clever. Not like Peanut puts anything in there now.

Call me Mother of the Year.