And so it is.

If I am honest, I began today – my 32nd birthday – feeling a little bit sorry for myself; feeling fat, old and broke. But after a wonderfully ordinary day of custom art presents from two very talented monsters; a shortened work day and a cheeky late afternoon nap I remembered something.

I remembered that I don’t actually give a flying &*^%…. (sorry kids, my mum reads this).

You see, I could write you a list of 31 things I learned when I was 31 but we all know I’ll get too bored by the time I got to point 5. And I’m pretty sure everything I’ve learned in the past few years is pretty easy to sum up in a few short sentences.

  • I can do it. I have done it. I will continue to do it. And the people who matter know I can do it as well.
  • Gin is truly delicious, and the more gin I try the more delicious it seems to become.
  • Motherhood is the most complicated adventure I will ever embark on, I may as well enjoy the ride as perfection is not an option.
  • I prefer to be healthy, even if it means eating less cake. However I loathe wasting my time on bad food.
  • I am an extremely ambitious person in ways my younger self never imagined.
  • I like attention.
  • I am not infallible.

Oh look, I made it to 7.

But tonight I packed my kids in the car after tea, even though it was after pj time and took them to my favourite place. I need more of that in my life and less of the other stuff. Because if I can’t now, when will I?


Years and years

Next week I turn 32.

Growing older has never been an issue for me, probably because most of my life I have done things while being younger than my counterparts…

But 32 feels different.

32 feels old. I don’t know if it’s because now I have a grown ups’ job, or because very soon both kids will be in school (and no longer the “very young” moniker I am so comfortable with giving them). I don’t know if it’s because it’s coming up for a decade since I said yes to Phil on one knee or if it’s the number itself that feels different.

But 32 is definitely not 30, and absolutely not part of my twenties.

Which is fine, your twenties are over rated. And 29/30 were my most confident years, despite being difficult ones. But 31 … Well its had other challenges and lessons. And maybe that’s it. I’m more aware, more humble and more ambitious than I’ve ever been.
There are moments when time feels like it is slipping through my fingers. The boys seem bigger every time I look at them; my goals seem unmanageably time consuming to achieve.

And I worry. I worry that the time of being considered young, slightly attractive and fresh is almost passed and the glass ceiling is ready to reveal itself.

But, as some colleagues recently reminded me, I take no prisoners and accept nothing less than what I want. So maybe 32 and I will get on just fine.