Dear sons, with forced smiles because your Mom took way too many pictures of you that day,
It's me again. As of this week, I'm a 34-year-old woman. To you, I know it sounds ancient, but as best as I can remember, I was a teenager last night when I went to bed. The other day you asked me how many days I had left to live. You promised you'd miss me if I died and assured me we'd meet in heaven when you guys "get old" too...like 35 or 100.
I figure with your woeful understanding of age and ladydom, we could tackle the Mars and Venus birthday situation together. It's my job to help you navigate the world of women long before you even attempt to chart the solar system.
Maybe someday you'll get married, or at the least, you'll go on a few dates and keep kind female friends. This is pending your ability to conquer the toilet seat situation. I have faith. You've mastered the monkey bars and can swirl spaghetti on your forks now.
Here are a few things you should know about when your wife turns 34...
“In my next life when I come back, I want to be someone in the WTA (Women’s Tennis Association), because they ride on the coattails of men. They don’t make any decisions and they are lucky…If I was a lady player, I would go down on my knees and thank God that Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal were born. They have carried the sport.” Raymond Moore, CEO Indian Wells Tennis Garden
If you've watched the news, you may have already heard about the debacle between Venus Williams and Raymond Moore. Ladies, this heart of mine started thumping just typing that quote. I’ve been a little fired up this week but now I've turned a corner, venturing into sad. I know, I know, comments like this are nothing new. I'm really trying not to get my little woman nightie "all in a bunch” (wink, wink). I’m not interested in arguing about general biology or the advantages of testosterone and muscle mass either.
"Don't leave me alone with them!" I shout a plea at my husband's back as he leaves for work. I can tell he's laughing by the way his shoulders shudder. I would be too if I were in his position. Teacher work day. My kids are home together, unscheduled, and it's nothing but a shadow of what's to come next week - spring break.
The kids were sent to school, on time. Breakfast was a hit, each of us had showered, and the shoes laced to my sons' feet actually matched. After the hustle and bustle of the morning, I was thankful to have a few moments of quiet as I tidied up the kitchen.
Dishes, check. Sweep the floor, check. Stow away leftovers in the fridge, working on it. I snap the lid onto the top of a container holding bacon and eggs and place the item on a shelf.
The only problem is that I was standing in the pantry...
It's been one of "those" - a no good, rotten week for creativity. So like a toddler having a tantrum, I broke up with my true love, Writing, again. We made it an entire 24-hours apart until there I was, habitually sliding into my desk chair with a cup of coffee in hand. The pain of our separation was forgotten and no necessary apologies were needed. We're like that, writing and me.
M.S. in Marriage and Family Therapy. Earns Crossfit participation trophies. Disaster cook. Enthusiastic wife. #Boymom. Clutches her faith, not her pearls.