Love can make you feel incredible.

It can warm you like a cozy sweater.

Sometimes it can break your heart.

But love–real love–is unconditional.

Like the love between a boy and his dog.

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.

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.

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.

You’re the one “graduating” from sixth grade today, and yet I’m the one who is up early with a touch of the butterflies.

I have been your parent for eight years, but right now–right at this very moment–I know that I am and always will be your mom.

I love you buddy–with or without your curls of fury–and I couldn’t be more proud of you.

So there we were with all of our outlets properly protected.

We were living in a two-bedroom townhouse and our itty bitty guest room was taken up mostly by a queen-sized bed. That first week I would stand in the doorway after our new roommate had fallen asleep and my heart would clench at the sight of that tiny little guy in that huge bed.

I had so many mixed emotions. He was so little and so beautiful and he looked so damn adorable sleeping so soundly surrounded by that big mattress, and yet my heart would break that he was having to sleep in a bed that wasn’t his.

And boy was I pissed at my sister.

How the hell could she put this amazing little boy in this position–ripped from his routine, living far away from home and with people who weren’t his parents?!

He came to live with us in the middle of the NCAA basketball tournament. How do I remember? Because we took him to the bar with us to watch the games.

What?? That was our life then.

It was a local joint. We didn’t drag him along to a club. It even had a restaurant attached. We set the kid up at the bar with a plate of chicken tenders and french fries and some orange juice to wash it down as we sipped our Miller Lites with the rest of the gang.

Chicken nuggets and orange juice were the staple of his diet at that point. Along with hotdogs and ham, he ate very little else. He was allergic to milk so that ruled out a number of foods. As a baby, he had been a picky eater never wanting to eat baby food from a jar. We had to mix it in with his formula to get vegetables in him. That combined with my sister’s eating habits, he hadn’t developed a very broad palette.

It was probably a good thing too. Just getting used to the responsibilty of having to have dinner ready for someone was tough.

The thing about kids is that they can’t take care of things by themselves, so we were forced to start building a routine. I mean somone had to cook for him, someone had to give him a bath, someone had to read him a story, someone had to help him get his pajamas on and someone had to tuck him in. Or at least he had us convinced of this.

A week after he arrived I turned 30. The hubs had planned a big party–probably to rub in the fact that I was turning 30 before him (thirty-three whole days before him). The night before my party (my actual birthday) I got a call from my parents. I assumed they were calling to wish me many happy returns.

But it was just my dad on the phone. He was calling because he had news.

Mom wasn’t there with him because she had dropped everything and flown up to be with my aunt–her only sister and my second mother. It had fallen to him to tell me that my aunt had been diagnosed with liver cancer.

I took the news with some tears, assured my dad that I wasn’t upset that he had to tell my on my birthday, hung up the phone and the three of us went out to meet some friends for dinner.

These friends–K & P–would figure prominently in our ability to manage our plunge into parenthood. I told them calmly about my aunt’s illness. They listened, probably not understanding how devastated I was because on the outside I appeared fine. They talked and played with our little guy at the table and patiently endured the cheesy restaurant where we met because I thought it would be kid friendly.

I went home that night and sobbed.

Sure our three year-old nephew had just moved in. Okay, I had just started a new job doing something completely different. So what I was turning 30. But the news of my aunt’s cancer?

It was just enough to push me over the edge.

I can say now that the following months would mostly be a blur, and the parts I do remember? Let’s just say I wish I didn’t.

If you missed the first installment, you can find it here.

“Your sister’s in jail and you need to come get him.”

I was at work–in my new office. I took a deep breath and thought for a moment.

I have to tell the hubs. He’s NOT going to believe this. How could she be so stupid?I just started this job two weeks ago. How do I explain that I need
to take a day off already? How much do I share with my boss? How do I
explain that I’m going to be a parent?

My new firm was small. They appeared to be a family, but who ever really knows in those circumstances. I decided that laying it out there was my best approach. I knew there were going to be tons of adjustments and they needed to understand what was going on.

But were they going to be okay with this? I mean seriously
I just started this job.

Thankfully, my boss was amazing. Turns out he had a brother who was a bit of a “challenge” himself and he completely understood my situation.

Honestly, what happened next is a blur to this day. I don’t remember packing or going to the airport or even the plane ride home. I just remember getting off the plane and seeing him.

He was so little. He was so adorable. He had no idea what was going on.

The hubs and I had started dating the same year he was born, so he knew us both well. I was his god mother and we spent all the time we could with him whenever we were at my parents. We knew he’d be okay with us, but how were we going to explain that he was getting on a plane and coming to live with us–for how long we had no idea.

With my sister’s MS, my nephew was accustomed to her being hospitalized from time to time. We decided that the best approach for now was to tell him that she was sick and couldn’t take care of him so he was coming to stay with us for a while.

In reality, we had no idea what was going to happen. We didn’t have a lot of details about her arrest, about the process of hearings, about sentencing. Honestly, we didn’t have much experience with this, though enough that my parents had finally reached their breaking point and refused to post bail (and I was completely behind their decision). We just had no idea how long he’d be living with us. Three years? Five years? Her attorney thought it would be in that neighborhood.

The hubs had stayed behind to get things ready for our little guy’s arrival. I didn’t know what to tell him we’d need. My mom was getting his clothes and some favorite books and toys together. But what did we need at our house? I left it to my husband to figure it out.

When I came home Sunday evening I brought with me one huge bag and one little guy. What had the hubs gotten to get our house ready? A super-sized box of outlet covers.

Oh yeah, we were prepared.

Part III

I’ve treated my body and face as the enemy for so long. They always disappointed me. I’m always trying to change them. I’ve never been willing to love them for who they are.

It’s pretty hard to properly nurture someone you don’t love.

Over these past few weeks, I’ve been more dependent on parts of my body I hadn’t given much thought to previously. Not being able to use one part has forced me to develop a relationship with others.

And you know what I discovered? They were here for me all along, and I took them forgranted.

I’m laying with Mr. 5 tonight trying to get him to fall asleep. We’re chatting about our day, and so goes the conversation.

Me: What one thing do you think you’re going to ask Santa for Christmas?
Mr. 5: I don’t know. Maybe a car. You know a big one.
Me: The kind with a remote or one you push with your hands?
Mr. 5: The kind that goes on it’s own. You know.
Me: ??
Mr. 5: Like the kind our friend has, that you can ride in.
Me: Oh does she drive it?
Mr. 5: Not anymore it broke.
Me: We don’t have room for one of those.

Changing the subject…

Me: You know there are some kids who don’t get gifts from their parents on Christmas?
Mr. 5: Why?
Me: Their parents don’t have money to buy them.
Mr. 5: holds up his hands and begins spreading some of his fingers apart
Me: I was thinking we might buy some presents for those kids, you know so they can have presents too on Christmas.
Mr. 5: nodding to his hands Do these look like chameleon hands to you?
Me: Were you even listening to me? I’m trying to talk to you about something.
Mr. 5: Yeah, yeah. Kids don’t get Christmas presents.
Me: Yes. I think we should buy presents for them.
Mr. 5: I heard you, but now it’s time for me to talk. Don’t you think these look like chameleon hands?

Trying another approach…

Me: What do you think we should get Daddy for Christmas?
Mr. 5: I don’t know.
Me: What do you think he’d like?
Mr. 5: Something boring. You guys always get boring presents.
Mr. 5: Can you make chameleon hands?

I tried…

When I was younger I loved midnight. Midnight was when the party started. Midnight meant excitement. Midnight made my blood boil. When I was younger, I embraced midnight with all the energy I had and basked in its electricity and rhythm on a thumping dance floor. When I was younger midnight was mine!

But now I’m older. Now I stare at midnight as I lie in bed, and I dread what it holds. Now that I’m older, staring at midnight reminds of responsibilities–responsibilities that await in the morning. Now that I’m older, the world doesn’t make it easy to enjoy midnight and take care of those responsibilities too. Every once in a while, I might forget and experience the briefest memory of the potential that midnight used to hold, but all too soon I am shaken from that daze as reality comes flying in and smacks me in the face.

Had I know this then, I think I might have permanently set my watch to midnight. But I didn’t, and time has marched on.

This is what I have to say to you today.