is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
Three. Six.
Friday, April 18, 2008 
Today, as my friends on Facebook know due to the strange genius and assumed intimacies of auto-alerts and as my so-not-accepting applications real friends know because they are my real friends who have stuck around and stood beside me through many years or even just these last transforming months, it is my birthday.
I'm like a six-year old when it comes to my birthday. I want balloons and cakes and of course, tiaras. I want a party, even if it is a drink or two at a bar with my grrrls, and I want to spend the day lounging and singing and doing whatever I want to do just because it's my birthday.
I clearly remember feeling this way when I turned six, leaping from my bed in an excited re-enactment of the cartoon girl on Sesame Street I'd wistfully seen a thousand times, singing, "I'm six! I'm six! I'm six years old today!" I was so happy it was finally my turn to sing that song. Silly and sweet as it was, every year I think of that, feel that birthday bliss, and every year I find myself singing it in a quiet whisper to myself or through smiles with my mom who also remembers, no matter what number my age actually registers.
This year, I am thirty years beyond that bed-leaping morning. I am officially on the other side of mid-thirties and am not, as I have not for several years now, happy about the number I see before me. But here I am.
We've been talking about this number around the house a lot lately, not just because I am giddy at the celebration part of the day but because my boy is too. Last night, he said I was lucky because I'd get to spend my day playing with balloons and he couldn't wait to wake up early to start celebrating with me. I sighed at the sweetness and simplicity of it all. Homemade cake and candles and embracing that number like it's...well, six.
He asked me how old I was, or rather, what my number is and I threw the question back at him like all mommies say they will not but eventually do to avoid the age answer.
"88?" he asked seriously, looking into my eyes from only inches away.
I shook my head, zipped his jacket and said, "No...less than that."
"80?" he asked with anticipation.
I shook my head again.
"Hmph! What?!" he needed to know.
"36!" I pulled up as much enthusiasm as I could.
"Oh mommy!" he almost shouted and I held my breath for just a millisecond involuntarily. "Why must you be so young?!"
I exhaled. It was a great question. Yes, why must I? And so clever and fun and with such adorable shoes? The questions are endless, really.
This conversation, and especially my answer, are an upgrade. I used to
teasingly say I was a teen mother when people asked my age or nod with
feigned seriousness when Lil E did the asking, saying "21" with great
conviction. Since our situation has changed,
I've even taken a wee bit of delight in throwing on to the end of that
answer, "...and daddy's 47 and very old, much older than mommy." You
know, just for fun.
And just for fun, we've made pretend sad faces at my mother, who is not
part of the Three club in the house. It consists exclusively of a trio
(perfectly) of my dad, who turns 63 soon, me at 36 and Lil E at 3. We
three make ourselves feel very important for this little
once-in-a-lifetime connection.
I certainly don't want to be uncomfortable with the numbers of candles
on my cake. And truly, I don't believe in all that lying about age
stuff. I had a professor once who said it was critical to the equity
and empowerment of women that we all become truth-tellers about our
age, that we all become examples of what amazing things women do and
are at all ages. When she said that to me, I remember tearing up, my
heart swelling, my breath quickening. I believed her, I agreed with
her.
And I do still, even long after the idealism of my Women Studies degree
has patina-ed and the ages I dared to speak aloud so rebelliously have
turned from twenties to thirties and so on.
And yet, here I am. Stuck on that number.
I will say this, being here at this age, I am doing things and being things and living ways I never could have anticipated last year or at the big dive into thirty or when I was in grad school and especially at six years old.
I have many blessings, am free of many things and have much ahead of me -- this, I know.
It doesn't mean I'm going to shout out my age to the neighbors, but it
does mean that the world outside my new front door, the friends waiting
in the next room or on my favorite sites, the landing pad below my bed
is much wider, much more full of grace and celebration than I knew when
I was younger.
Reader Comments (7)
Stay young at heart!
Mat