48 is super great {insert sarcastic tone here}

Taking more risks now that I am four dozen years old needs to mean putting myself out there more.

birthday48.

That’s how old I turned this week. On the 24th to be exact. I remembered how turning 24 on the 24th is called a Golden Birthday, so I thought maybe it would make me feel a little better about this birthday to think of a name for turning twice as old as your birthday. You know, like a Double Golden Birthday.

Trouble is, I wasn’t feeling doubly golden.

In fact, it was more like a Tarnished Tungsten or Fake-Gold-That-Turns-Your-Skin-Green-Seconds-After-Touching-It Birthday. I don’t think they’ll take off. They just don’t have the same ring to them, I guess.

Most of what bothers me about turning 48 is that it’s dangerously close to 50. But it’s not that I think people who are 50 are old. In fact, I think of people who are 50 as those who have got it all together. They’ve got life figured out. They’re emptying the nest and are padding their nest egg. They’re doing what they’ve always wanted to do–and doing it well. They’ve had 25 years or so to perfect being an adult in the “real world,” and they are showing people how it’s done.

Me?

I’m lying in bed, mourning the fact that I have just watched the last episode of Season 5 of Chicago P.D. and now if I want to watch Season 6 I have to pay $2.99 per episode on Amazon Prime.

I do not have it all together.

I am not getting shit done.

My bedroom currently has 173 mateless socks on the floor, and every morning I painstakingly comb through the pile, just praying I can find two that are either the same color, height or size. How I wish there were a Patron Saint of Lost Socks. He and I would be tight.

Also on my floor are at least five deer sheds with antlers which have been chewed to razor-sharp points. I move these into the basket in the living room, but miraculously they always find their way back to the floor of my room. And I nearly always manage to discover them with my feet in the middle of the night.

And who can forget the empty soup can that’s lying on my floor, discarded by the big dog who snuck it off the kitchen counter and then brought it to my bedroom to lick it clean before leaving it as a gift for me. How freaking thoughtful.

This morning, I nearly had to call in sick because I could only find one of every single pair of my shoes. I most certainly am not even close to living my best life.

At the beginning of 2020, I decided that my motto for the year would be “Take more risks.” I’m hoping in doing so it will make me break out of my shell and make some changes that will help me reach big goals I have for myself. So far, I’ve taken a few risks. One was agreeing to be the Precinct Chair for Elizabeth Warren at the Iowa Caucus–on the day of the caucus! I had no flipping clue what I was doing, and I probably didn’t do it well considering she wasn’t viable in my precinct, but I said yes and tried my best.Warren caucus Iowa

 

Also that night, I took a risk and left my house at 9 p.m. on a school night to drive an hour to the Pete Buttigieg rally to meet a couple who work at the French Embassy in Washington, D.C. The kicker? I had literally JUST MET THEM ON TWITTER. Well, technically, I had just met her on Twitter. I didn’t start following the husband until after we met. I admit, they could’ve been serial killers, and I could’ve been the dumbest woman alive. But the good thing is not only were they NOT serial killers, they were interesting, charming, and fun. And they also have three boys. I’m hoping they’ll accept my invitation to come to Iowa this summer with their family. Because who wouldn’t want to vacation in Iowa?

Pete Buttigieg rally des moines

One risk that may be a not-so-good risk I’ve noticed I’ve been taking lately is to not really care what people think and just say what’s on my mind. In fact, the f-word and I have been hanging out — a lot. I think we may soon become Facebook-official. I’m kind of afraid that this I’m-a-grown-ass-woman-who’s-almost-50-and-I-will-say-what-I-want-to-say attitude I have adopted may have to be tamed down a bit. I definitely need to make sure I am balancing the risks with the rewards. But sometimes the reward of just saying whatever you please without regard to what others think feels pretty darn fulfilling. I’ll keep you posted on that one.

This isn’t the best post I’ve written, but it’s a written post. And it’s technically the second one I’ve written tonight because the first one didn’t save due to some f-ing error. (See. The f-word just gets me.)

Taking more risks now that I am four dozen years old needs to mean putting myself out there more. So I plan to write and hit the publish button more and not worry so much about making things perfect.

And here we go.

If This Is the “Royal Treatment”…

I get this a lot: “Oh, you have three boys. So you’re the princess of the house!”

(Obviously these are people who do not know me or my offspring.)

I’m sure that some moms of boys are treated like royalty. I’m sure they’re pampered and put on a pedestal. And maybe someday my boys will see me for the queen that I am. But now? Definitely not.

Take this morning, for example. You’d think today of all days—my birthday, for crying out loud, the one day I get to claim for my own—they’d treat me a wee bit differently.

And to give them a little credit (well at least two of the three), they tried. For about one minute.

After coming into my bed this morning and realizing it was my birthday, Boy #3 looked at me and exclaimed, “You’re bigger!”

Hmm…a total compliment if you’re 5, but when you’re 38? Ugh. But he gets a free pass because of his sweet naiveté.

And Boy #2 gave me a very genuine hug and told me happy birthday when he got up. And then proceeded to fight with Boy #3.

What other birthday treats did I get this morning? Let’s see …

  • A very surly attitude from Boy #1, as well as the opportunity to deliver several admonitions for saying “shut up” and “freakin’,” both of which were recently banned by order of the Mother Dictator.
  • A “trick” from the Dog, where he jumps on the table and knocks everything to the floor. And then the boys did their “trick” where they pretend not to see it so that Mom will pick everything up.
  • A rise in blood pressure as I discover a half-eaten syrupy pancake sitting directly on top of Boy #3’s Nintendo DSi.

And on the drive to school? Peaceful? Tranquil? Think again. First, Boy #2 wouldn’t let me borrow his gloves so I could scrape the windows without acquiring frostbite on my fingers. (Never mind that I do live in Iowa and should probably have my own gloves in my pocket.)

Then Boys #2 and #3 pounded on a plastic tub that HAD held coloring books and the sort—until the bottom cracked and pieces broke off. And then they cheered. What IS it with boys and destroying things?

Finally, as I pulled into Boy #2’s school, Boy #3 played a round of our new favorite game, “Tattletale, Tattletale.” What was it this time, you ask? This: “Mom, Boy #2 says he can hear his penis!”

And what do you say to that?

It’s business as usual at the Boogers & Burps house. I’m a year older, apparently noticeably “bigger” than yesterday, and I think my tiara must be lost somewhere at the bottom of a basket of dirty clothes.

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