Another Year, Another Donut

Yesterday was my birthday, and my mom came over in the morning with some donuts and watched the boys while I went to get my haircut. Brian brought home my favorite cake, chocolate with white frosting, and we did the birthday thing after dinner. I got a few cards and a Cadbury dark chocolate bar. He said I can buy that digital camera I’ve been wanting (!).

My personal birthday celebration is much more drawn out. Last week I celebrated “good-bye early 30s” week. I didn’t exercise one iota, let the household chores slip, and ate anything I wanted: carbs, fats, engineered ultra-concentrated sugars, with nary a vegetable or fruit the whole week. Now that’s a party.

My actual birthday week has brought more of the same along with much imbibing, gratuitous Internet surfing and some longish periods of ignoring my kids to pursue my own selfish interests. To cap the week, Brian’s taking a four-day weekend, a rare and blessed event during which we’ll go to the Topsfield Fair and maybe drive out to visit his grandfather and parents.

So, I’m feeling indulged and grateful today, and a little nostalgic. On my last milestone birthday, when I turned 30, I was newly pregnant with my first son Ben. I was far too nauseous to eat Chinese food but managed to tolerate a huge piece of chocolate cake, with ice cream.

Now, five years have zipped by, and Ben’s so big and bright and charming and silly and affectionate and handsome. (He’s also introspective, sensitive and neat, like his mom.) He’s morphing from toddler/preschooler into full-fledged boy, and I’m morphing from young to old. But, they say that 40 is the new 30, which makes me in my mid-twenties by today’s standards. And, even though being home with my kids challenges me in ways my perfectionist, fairy-tale-addled brain never imagined, I wouldn’t trade it. How can I complain about growing older when I get to do it alongside this amazing little guy?