Holy HuffPo!

I am just giddy-thrilled that a post featured here was picked up by Huffington Post last night! I've wanted to see my words in the Divorce section for ages, wanted to see my byline on the site's pages for much longer. 

This isn't a big deal for many people. But for me, it's big and I'm feeling like I can maybe highlight that item in my gratitude journal scrapbook inspiration board post-it note pile of "things to get done already, gaw."

Click here to read it there. 

I am also so honored to be included in these posts by the ever-lovely Mommyfriend over on Babble:

• Bloggers share their proudest moments. And I'm guessing I am the only one all chest-puffy about silver hair

• How to avoid blog burn=out. Hint: my tip involves fancy ladies.

I've been writing like crazy, so look for more of my posts to be sprinkled around soon!

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No more talking about being 40. OK, maybe just a few words

I woke up to a small voice in the other room.

"Mommy, may I get up? Happy birthday!" 

He rushed in as soon as I said yes, the gift bag in his hand rustling. He snuck under the covers and got close.

"I'm sorry I wouldn't admit I made a mistake," he was referring to a meltdown he'd had the night before. It was emotional and exhausting and I told him there wouldn't be birthday celebrations unless he was able to apologize. I'd been worried for hours after he finally fell asleep I'd have to stand my ground. Stubborn feels even worse on birthdays. For both of us. I sighed deeply.

"Now will you open your presents?!"

"YES!" I squealed it. I couldn't help it. He is a wonderful, thoughtful gift-giver -- opinionated and careful about his choices and keeping them a well-guarded surprise.

I lingered over the card but he was anxious for me to open each gift wrapped in white tissue paper. A floral scarf ('you've been wearing scarves a lot lately and daddy and I noticed"), pink and purple earrings ("dangly, like you like them"), pink and purple wooden bangles ("you can wear them like a bracelet sandwich!") and purple sunglasses ("fancy like you!"). 

I squealed more. He often chooses pink and purple gifts for me. 

"Will you wear them today?" he asked. He seemed tentative.

"OF COURSE!" And I showed them all off during my photo shoot on our way to a breakfast date.

He adjusted the tiara on my head, leaned in close and whispered, "I can see your halo."

I would have teared up but then he laughed. He was making a pop song joke more than a compliment. But I took it as both.

After breakfast, we went to parent-teacher conferences and looked through book after book of class photos and his stories and the pages of his research notebook. There was a birthday song from my brother and happy wishes from my nephew ("Love. You. Aunt. Jessie. Hap. Birday. Aunt. Jessie."). I beamed even brighter.

My next wish was to paint pottery. I didn't take a single photo because we were each so intent on the details of our piece. He painted a gnome figurine ("to stand next to the laughing Buddha I painted last time") and I made a mug with our mugs drawn on == his, mine, and the Not Boyfriend's. 

And then it was time for dinner. No arguments about dressing in church clothes, no fussing about what might be on the menu that he'd want to eat. Just confidence that it would be great because "all day has been so fun, so dinner will have to be fun, too!"

I chose Le Bouchon, a recommendation of the Not Boyfriend's and a perfect, cozy little spot to sit in the sunlight with my parents over an early dinner of Wagyu steaks with a rich cognac peppercorn sauce and a cocktail with St. Germain (my new favorite) and creme brulee (my old favorite) and chocolate mousse for dessert.

There were lovely and generous gifts and it all ended too soon when it was time for Lil E to go to his dad's house for the night. He kissed me goodbye and I dialed up the Not Boyfriend on Skype.

He's nearer in miles while he's in a specialization training for the National Guard for four months, but his schedule and phone reception and the rigorousness of this temporary life makes it feel like he's in a different country altogether. I ached to see his smile at the end of my big day and when I did, it made it all settle in.

He'd sent an astounding gift in a delightful card days before. What was inside each will stay between us but the outside...well, I think he should stick around for this decade. Perhaps longer. Yes, definitely longer.

Nothing magical needed to happen. Unless you count that light radiating from deep within, just to be with all my loves, just to breathe easy and enjoy so many good things. Even the apology and achy parts felt OK. I have a long, long time to iron all of that out and lots of pink and purple to wear while we do it.

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40

It's not midnight yet, but I feel I've crossed over into the next decade. I've feared this, mocked it, pretended it was further off than it was. But here I am, feeling good and happy and the kind of blessed that you hope comes as the apartment quiets and the minutes tick loudly by. 

I had a professor once who said that it is critical for women to be honest about their age because then the world has visions of what it is to be fabulous at every age. And I believe that. At the time I was struggling with turning 25. My grad-school girlfriends rallied champagne and cooked a homemade pasta dinner that we ate on a card table in someone's living room. Then they took me to get my belly pierced, choosing for me an onyx bead to dangle from the hoop in my navel to fortify and heal me, to help me release the bad feelings I had for my rounded belly. 

"Ahhh, you have the perfect belly for a ring," the piercing guy said as he threaded the foot-long needle through my skin. "These look best with a little curve."

And with the searing pain of being pierced, I felt the healing begin. Sure, I would love to have that scorned belly back, the one I thought was too big, too round, too much that was really smooth and lovely. Perhaps there's still some of that stuff to close up. But I wouldn't go back to 25. Or even 30. 

Maybe I would return to 35. But only for the number, not for what was happening in my life then. 

Because the truth is, long after the belly ring was lost and layers of skin grew over the hole where it once was, I can feel that onyx working at the center of me. 

Today, there is a lot going on -- a lot of unrest, a lot in transition, much to change. But it is so good. I feel happy and healthy and proud of where I have come in these years.  I have this amazing kid. I am in love with a man who astounds me every day. My family and friends have pulled in close. I have gifts that I can use to earn money to pay for this safe and bright and overheated home. 

I left my therapist's office a few weeks ago after talking to her for too many minutes of our 45-minute hour about turning 40. This was my deadline for having another child! For getting my dream job! What about buying a house? She nodded a lot during that session, patted me on my arm as I left, and let the questions hang there in the hallway with me as I waited for the elevator to arrive. 

As the doors opened, I saw my reflection in the mirror inside the elevator car. Dark hair below the shoulders, aviator sunglasses pushing back bangs, hot pink lipstick. High-heeled boots, dress, soft scarf looped around and around my neck. Leather bag, phone, keys to my own car, coffee. The glassy ping-ping of my boyfriend texting me. 

This is me, I thought. And then how much it would have surprised me at 25 or 30 or even 35 to see this woman looking back at herself. I'd like to say it wasn't about how I look now, but it's everything about that. It is about letting that lady show herself, it is about taking a step back from today's worried questions to see where I have come to. And from. It's the deep sigh of baring my skin but this time having enough experience and compassion to tell myself it looks just right.

I was antsy in my own body back then, some years for good reason, other years simply out of practice. I knew there was something deeper, bigger, more there somewhere, I just wasn't sure how to get all the way to it. The lady in the elevator mirror may not have gotten all the way there on either count. But I could tell by looking she was closer.

Closer to being completely herself. So much closer.

Forty doesn't have to be hot pink lipstick and high-heeled boots. But for me, it is exactly where I am. Just like 25 was lace-up granny shoes and a tiny onyx bead on a sterling silver ring. Like 30 was corporate button-downs and 35 was clogs and cardigans and capris. Every button and lace and needle threaded was a little closer to this.

That feels more honest than ever. And who knows? Maybe this decade will be the one when the fire in my belly finally burns out any little bad feeling about the roundness that remains. And if it doesn't, I hope the hot pink lips will be wearing a smile to see that lady anyway.

Flip back the photo album:

• 38
• 37
• Three. Six. 
• And just for fun, the Cuarentanera dress I never bought (is it too late?)

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