I’ve got one week. One week before
the death of my twenties. Mind you the
death of this decade has been a slow and painful one for my body and sanity,
but I guess it is the price you pay to birth children you get to take care of
the rest of your God given life. The daily denial of the gray eyebrow hairs,
and the psychological warfare game I call “Is It Attached” (which is when you
find a random hair on you face and while slowly bringing tweezers to said hair you
pray to the Heavenly Father that it’s a random eyelash and not the unspeakable)
reminds me daily that I am not twenty anymore.
Looking on the (gasp!) three
decades under my belt I do feel blessed about the life I have led up to now. I laugh
daily, at myself, my children and my personal favorite the expense of others. I
make no apologies for having a dark sense of humor; it might not be funny to
you but to me, I see someone falling in my presence as a gift from the heavens.
I have a wonderful little family to call my own. I have a husband who can’t live
without me. For the record, it’s not so much a fairytale romance, as much as,
self preservation is not his strong suit. Our first year of marriage I found
out that he never himself had opened a can of anything in his life, as a result
my poor can opener, a can of dog food and a little of his pride died that day. And then there are my boys; a five year old with the mouth of a thirteen
year old and my two year old whose will is only outmatched by his appetite.
While
most people happily spend their twenties getting to know themselves and what
they want to be, I was busy getting to know the two people who happened to come
out of my body and I did so happily. Logan is a very bright and sometimes scarily
aware five year old. The vernacular this guy uses never ceases to amaze me.
Whether he is happily telling me that “if this is a dream, I never want to wake
up”, or asking me where the off switch to his little brother is, he constantly
has me shocked and amused. And then there is Connor whose personality is almost
as big as his mouth. He is best described as jolly, but you mess with him you’re
going to see blood and that blood will be your own.
I spend
my days now wiping asses, tallying bowel movements and cleaning a kitchen that
never gets cleaned. My hair is constantly used as a snot rag and I find myself wondering
if that’s as good as conditioner. I have on more than one occasion accidently shaved
half a leg and three fourths of another and though “eh, it’s better than nothing”.
I have not pooped by myself since 2008 and I have not showered without someone
commenting that they see my hiney in, well I don’t know, too damn long. But I also
think I am entertained more in one afternoon than most people are in their whole
week. Sure, I might have to remind someone that eating their boogers isn’t the
best life choice, but I also get someone who while I supervise his toilet time,
he tells me he is “making me shapes” with his feces. All you ladies out there,
no one will love you more than someone who is willing to try and shit out a
triangle for your viewing pleasure.
So in
conclusion, I might not be getting a dirty or flirty thirty party, or probably
a cake to mourn the end of an underappreciated decade. But who cares. I have
a husband that can now use a can opener, a five year old who has a better
vocabulary than you and a two year old who can poop witches, rainbows, pirates
and octagons so ha!
