Today, I am 32 weeks pregnant. And I am 30 years old. One year ago, I looked ahead to this day with a heavy sense of dread to think of turning thirty with no new baby in my arms.
There is still no baby in my arms.
But I am so, so close. And that is good enough.
So today, this year, I am happy. I am celebrating. There is a pile of gifts awaiting their reckoning and an ice cream cake I have big plans for. I still feel a twitch of discomfort at the thought of crossing the threshold into this new decade, but that’s only because I know my ovaries are getting older and there are still babies I want to be born. Otherwise, I have no qualms about turning the Big 3-0 because I have never had more joy in my heart, never felt more beautiful, more fulfilled, or more ready for what is to come.
So life is good right now. Even as I say good-bye to my 20s. It was nice to feel young and alive and like there was so much possibility, but I won’t miss the heartache I endured in the last ten years. And I’m not so naive to think that there won’t be more in the years ahead, but maybe I will be more prepared for it, better able to handle it, with more of a reason to go on.
Yes, life is really, really good. Whatever do I even have to wish for when I blow out the candles on my birthday cake tonight? Because you know, I can’t think of anything.
Not one, single thing.
Which is a birthday gift of its own.