“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.