On this beautiful Easter morn, while putting on my makeup, I leaned in close to my bathroom mirror and really took a look at my face. Ughh..then I backed up a little bit. Ha ha, just kidding...kind of...
It's weird to see a 29 year old face staring back at me. Got to work a little harder to blend in the 'ol makeup around the eyes. Starting to get little laugh crinkles. That bright, unblemished 18 year old skin is gone. Now it's 29 year old skin, with a dry patch here...and what the heck is that, there??
I finished my makeup, put on my adorable headband made by the lovely Chrissy over at Boerman Ramblings, got the kids out of the bathroom drawers, and went to make breakfast. A big Easter feast of omelette's, potatoes, and toast. My 29 year old hands making my family breakfast. Breaking eggs, slicing potatoes...these hands of mine getting it done.
I tried to explain to my dear 10 year old over breakfast why mommy had to take medicine every morning and every night. She asked what it was for. I contemplated for a moment, do I tell her it's for anxiety or do I make something up? So I tell her the truth, as simply as I can, so she can understand. Then we finish out breakfast.
I feel old today, but not in a bad way.
Maybe it's not old, maybe it's comfortable. I am comfortable being 29, being a mom, being a wife. My role in this world. Why I'm here and all that heavy stuff.
I capture my happiness around the Easter table with my husband, brother and his wife, sister and her husband, and my cousin. I gather my comfort from our loud laughter and funny stories. Spending the day with my beloved family...
After we get home, I have my hands in soapy water, doing up the dishes. The babies are running around, exhausted and cranky. Bobby vacuuming the toy room, Emily putting away the Easter gifts. It's the sounds of my life.
I remember something my ex-best friend said to me a long time ago. When I was younger I would always tell her that I was going to get married, have babies, the white picket fence, the whole shebang. I would have it all. She, who was older than me, would tell me that wasn't how life worked, that it probably wouldn't happen like that.
She was wrong. It did happen. When she said it didn't work like that, she meant it didn't work like that for her. Because I am me, and not her...and her choices were her own.
So here I sit, on my squishy couch, typing out all the reasons why i'm ok with being me. All my little dumplings are cozy in their beds, visions of new play-doh and chocolate bunnies in their heads.
I am 29. I hate doing laundry. I hate bugs so much that when Emily said she saw a slug outside earlier I had to go run and see, just so I could gross myself out. Some days I really wish I had the kind of friend I could call on the phone and chat with. I am nothing special outside of my home, but inside I have my doctorate in applying band-aids, am a fairly poor sewer upper of ripped toys, a therapist, a chef, a fantastic story reader, play doh sculptor extraordinaire, champion fort builder, I am drawer of ferocious dinosaurs, No health food advocate could ever make me feel disgrace for giving my kids a warm from the oven homemade cookie. Because I am...me, and not them, and I can't help it if they make crappy cookies no one wants to eat.
I have a scar on my forehead, c-section scars, and scars from a breast reduction. I wear the ones on my belly with the most pride. Those brought my children to me. No anti-c-sectionist website or comment will ever quell the pride I have from those scars, and anyone who tries, can liken themselves to a bully and go away. Because I am me, and not them, because it was the birth of my children, not theirs.
I am living with anxiety and depression. I take medicine to help control it. I take medicine so I can get out of bed and make my kids mickey mouse pancakes and dance with them in the living room. I take medicine so I can walk around not feeling dread in the pit of my stomach every moment of every day. No anti-medicine-person is ever going to make me feel contrition for wanting to feel like myself again. Because I am me, and not them, and they aren't taking my medicine, I am. Pretty simple, eh?
So, I am celebrating this beautiful day, and am celebrating feeling at home in my skin, at home with my choices, and at home...in my home...they are my home...
I'm 29, and i'm happy...because I am me.