Birthday Do-Over

It was my birthday this weekend, but it passed without much fanfare. Just some nice cards, takeout, and a cupcake with a candle. That’s OK with me, though. I’m not one of those people who makes a big deal about my birthday. After 30, what’s the point?

Truth be told, however, this particular birthday has got me a little down. I turned the big 3-5, otherwise known as “advanced maternal age.” Ouch. That hurts. Not that I’m trying to have another baby or anything. Nosirree, Bob. Got my hands full with 2, thanks.

It’s just that, when I was much MUCH younger, I pictured myself differently at this age. Remember “Who’s the Boss?” Well, I thought I’d be Angela Bauer, but it turns out I’m Tony Micelli.

Of course, I discovered that I don’t WANT to be a high-powered career woman. All it took was a short stint in corporate America to convince me of that. But I didn’t exactly dream of being a housewife, either. When I pictured myself grown up and married with kids, I didn’t envision piles of laundry and having to come up with something for dinner every night.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy with how my life has turned out. Who’d have thought I’d end up with such a great husband and adorable, healthy kids? And I get to have the best of both worlds by being a work-at-home freelance writer and mom. I have a good relationship with my parents, and I even get along with my in-laws. It’s sickening, I tell you!

But still. 35. Damn. I can’t say I’m in my early 30s anymore. I’m out of touch with kids today. I don’t get the hype over Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers. I have to worry about a mortgage and retirement planning and the economy. And soon, mammograms and calcium and thinning hair.

Maybe that’s why I woke up feeling sick this morning. Nothing like a whopping dose of adulthood to turn your stomach!

We had planned to go out to breakfast to celebrate my birthday and Father’s Day, but we settled for cereal instead. We exchanged cards, then I headed upstairs to work on a rapidly approaching writing deadline while C. took the kids outside to play. Then it was naps for everyone.

Miles woke up cranky and I was still feeling off, so we scrapped our dinner plans and ordered takeout. My husband and son had sweetly bought cupcakes, so they sang “Happy Birthday” and I blew out my candles. I won’t tell you what I wished for, but it wasn’t a pony or a trip to Disneyworld. It was a practical, boring, grown-up wish.

But now that the kids are in bed and the day is winding down, I’m kind of wishing for a birthday do-over. Little kids get so excited about birthdays—the presents, the party hats, the cake, the balloons. Maybe next weekend I’ll wake up, put on a sparkly tiara, and we’ll go out for a bike ride or a picnic. For one day I won’t think about careers or mortgages or deadlines. I won’t be Angela Bauer OR Tony Micelli.

Come to think of it, the person who seemed to be having the best time of all on that show was also the oldest -- Mona! Maybe 35’s not so bad after all.