In a few hours, it will be my birthday. I suppose technically it's my birth day now, but as a bit of a birthday purist I don't really feel it until the actual time of my birthday which was 9:47am on May 19th, in a year gone by called 1982. Let the math lead you where it may.
When I was little I saw my parents "being 30" and thought "that will be the age when I eat vegetables without prompting, can drive, and will be given my very own house by the grown up fairies." As I grew, I saw 30 in all of a teenager's simple-minded cliches.. old, boring, the end of childish fun and spontaneity. When I fell in love, 30 became an end goal. A "have this done by then" check-point of domestic success. When I married at 26, I felt 30 give its nod of approval. When I separated at 28, I looked to 30 in shame. I spent most of 29 looking forward to once again being at 0. 3-0.
Today is not just my birthday, it's also my baby shower. My wonderful, constant mother and grandma-to-be is throwing a shower for the nugget and I, and I tell you, if you can time it just so, there is no better way to spend your birthday eve than in anticipation of a gathering of family and friends celebrating the near arrival of your first little bundle of sweetness and joy.
I don't know how I feel about 30 today. I suppose I'm ambivalent towards thinking anything about it at all. I look in the mirror and see an older face and a healthy body and I'm proud of having gotten here with my mind, predominantly, intact. I'm turning 30 and my baby is rolling and stretching and I can feel her tiny feet and hands reaching towards my belly button (and towards freedom, perhaps? nope, not possible, can't think about that impending reality right now) and my new perspective is that this year... and the next and the next.. are going to be anything but boring. After three decades of wondering what "30" would mean for me, it really couldn't be less about me at all, and that is wholly and thoroughly refreshing.