I’m a mom.  I’m a blogger.  I’m a photographer for crying out loud, but have I captured my memories of your childhood?

I know I can’t hold on.  I can’t prevent you from growing up–from becoming an amazing man.

But you’re my beautiful little boy too.  You will always be my beautiful baby.  Even if you won’t cut your hair “until baseball season starts.”

As proud as I am of the incredible person you are becoming, I miss the little baby who disappears with every passing minute.

You are my reserved one.  Never my obvious cuddler, never one to be effusive.

Those giant blue eyes that you hide behind that hair–they take my breath away every time you let me see them.  I’m so grateful you give me a glimpse of them from time to time.  I’m sorry I grab my camera every time that you do, but I don’t want to miss these moments.

Because seven years of them have already gone by.

Happy Birthday my baby.  I am so proud to be your mom and I will love you forever.

I’m only 24 hours into it, but I must admit 40 is pretty darn great.

I spent the last few months anticipating this “big” birthday and used so much energy worrying about what I hadn’t accomplished or what I should have done differently.  What I hadn’t been considering were all of the amazing experiences I’ve had in these last 40 years.

I have been to distant lands.  I have met incredible people.  I have been loved.  For crying out loud, I grew two humans and brought them into this world–and they’re actually growing and thriving along with one more (maybe not always clean, but growing and thriving)!

The secret blessing in facing this milestone has been the perspective that grew out of my reflection.  It’s like it never occurred to me before now that for each negative I was focusing on, there was an opposite positive waiting patiently for my attention.

I have a sneaking suspicion there is an  angel who gave me this understanding for my birthday.  She has been on my mind quite a bit lately because of a story I recently shared.  And is if by coincidence, I received an emotionally overwhelming present from my mother today that included a token she believes that angel would want me to have.

If these are the lessons that come with age, I don’t believe I’ll ever feel old.

Turning 40 this year has me taking stock of this life I’ve led so far.  I’ll admit that sixty and even thirty days ago I was on the verge of near panic about my failures as a human being, my lack of productivity and success to date–then I started writing about it and well realized I’ve been acting like an ass.

I see you nodding.  No need to agree with me so wholeheartedly.

It wasn’t writing alone that smacked me upside the head.  Call it providence, call it coincidence, call it divine intervention.  Over the past few months I’ve also been turned on to a number of blogs that focus on creativity.  I imagine I started poking around them initially to get more ideas for my photography, but I was quickly pulled in by the images and moments these people are capturing in their art.

Getting older and watching my babies bloom has me more aware of the swift wings of time (really?  swift wings of time?!–I need to get over myself).  I’ve been trying to figure out how to appreciate the everyday happenings of my life right now–to truly experience them–and how to capture them for later when I’m old and alone and gray(er) and on the verge of being eaten by my cats.   And these bloggers have inspired me.

Really this is a long-winded way of saying…

LOOK WHAT I MADE!!

Nice Amie.  Lovely.  What the hell are they?

Duh!  Background papers.  We’re gonna use ’em for stuff.  We?  Stuff?

I’ve joined The Artistic Mother’s Art Group.

I’ve never thought of myself as artistic (and gessoed, painted, stamped and pasteled papers aside I’m not sure I am), but I gotta tell you being surrounded by paint and paper and pastels and ink and glue and having dirty artsy hands…it kinda rocks.  The kicker too is that my kids are getting into with me.  We’re sitting around the table “doin’ art” as my small fry says.

If I stop getting pedicures and suddenly change my name to Raindrop though, you gotta promise to host an intervention.

Just when I thought I wouldn’t survive another gray sky, a series of gorgeous spring days have settled in on my little corner of the world.

I sat outside soaking up the sun this morning and noticed a pitcher I had left outside all winter.  This was the wrong winter to leave it outside I thought.  The weather was rough.  As I looked at it more closely, I noticed the patterns of wear and the flakes of paint.  It was more interesting.

And in the pitcher, I saw me.

A friend had arrived on my birthday last year carrying it in filled with hydrangeas.  It was painted to look vintage, but now it truly was.   I loved it so much more.

Forty is feeling less and less intimidating every day.

“Hey dad, guess what?  I’m Irish because my eyes are blue.”

Well, he heard part of what I said.

I’ve spent the last 39 years being told I MUST be Irish what with the freckles, fair skin, blue eyes and formerly dark brown hair, but I could never be sure.

A friend recently shared a story about having a 40th birthday party thrown for him a few years in advance because he had told his partner that he was older than he was when they first started dating–years earlier.

The gravestone on my husband’s grandfather’s grave is engraved with a birth year in conflict with his birth certificate (My father-in-law decided that if that was the date he wanted people to think he was born it was what would go on the gravestone.  I love that.)

Short of purchasing one of those DNA tests or meeting my biological parents, I will never know if I am really Irish.

This year I’ve made the decision that from this point forward I’m going to own it.  I started with my youngest as evidenced above (okay so he thinks anyone with blue eyes is Irish now, but we’ll iron that out later).  I’m just telling them they’re Irish on my side.

Hey, if people can claim new names (I’m looking at you Bono) or new birth dates, I most certainly may claim an ethnic origin.

I mean it’s not like I’m telling people I’m Hawaiian or anything.

So in honor of my first St. Patrick’s Day as a true Irishwoman, I hope the road rises to meet you and the wind doesn’t mess up your hair (I probably need to work on my Irish sayings if this is going to stick).

I didn’t have any issues with 30.  The jokes came.  I laughed at all the “you’re old” cards that were sent my way.  I had a new job, a new husband, a new place to live and a new son.

Thirty was a breeze.

I thought 40 would be the same way, but I flipped the calendar to March yesterday and HOLY CRAP.  It’s like a truck barreling at me.  I’m taking a hard look at my life.  There is much I should be grateful for.

BUT

I thought I’d be in a different place.  I thought I’d have other accomplishments under my belt.  I thought I would have learned more lessons, been more mature, become less sensitive, more self-assured.

Basically, I thought I’d have my shit together by 40.

I know I’m not supposed to compare myself to other people, but it’s hard not to sometimes.  Honestly though, it’s the comparison I make against who I thought I would be that hurts the most.

Maybe it’s being adopted.  Maybe it was growing up in a family that looked different than most at the time.  Maybe it was the strong feminist influence from my beloved aunt.  Could be a dad that picked up and walked away one day.  Whatever it was (and seriously I’ve had enough counseling to have figured this out by now) I feel like I was supposed to excel at something big–something worthwhile.

I feel like I need to prove that I am worthwhile.

Wow.  Those eleven words were really difficult to write.

Well there it is.  I’m going to be mulling that one over for a bit.

Luckily, I still have 28 more days to sort this out.

Today I received the following email from a good friend.

Ok- so I will preface this by saying I despise most kid’s b’day parties…I got burned out on attending the parties thrown by the private school parents–fully catered, clowns, tumble bus, Spiderman delivering the cake, $25 gifts expected by the birthday brat and every mommy trying to one up the previous mommy. My kids HATED me, cause I wouldn’t do it. Absolutely refused-I believe in saving it for a special b’day like – 10 or 16, 18 or 21…something big seems a bit more easy to swallow then..every year. NOW- the pendulum has swung the other way and the past two invities have come with a fee! One is a skating party $2 admission – plus $5 skate rental and the other is bowling- entry fee, plus shoe rental.. Seems odd, would seem that if one can’t pay for ones guests one should try having a party at home…seems the need to keep indulging ones kids with un-affordable parties is somehow socially acceptable? I guess I don’t have to worry about Spiderman and the tumble bus showing up if the host parent is asking guests to pay to attend….and not that it matters, but I could afford to pay for the party and/or for my child to atend the parties with fees, but the principal of the concept is bothering me…so I would love to hear your opinion…maybe I should just have a glass of wine and get over it?

I tend to prefer more low-key parties for the kiddos. I read somewhere that a good rule of thumb is to invite as many guests as the age of the child. My gut tells me that’s sound advice.

Sure, it is fun to see your child’s eyes light up when the moonbounce gets delivered or they ring the bell at the top of the climbing wall, but how do you celebrate the big milestones when a Kindergartener’s party costs $400?

I don’t know if I have a strong opinion about charging kids to come to a party. I suspect Emily Post would say that as the host you are responsible for ensuring your guests have a good time.

What do you say to my friend? She needs to RSVP soon.