It has been an obscene amount of time since I last posted here…
Like, a really, REALLY long time.
For that, I apologize. Sort of, anyway…
Life’s been pretty busy these days.
Spectacular and stressful and exhausting and fantastic and insane and terrifying and amazing. And busy.
I turned thirty-five today.
I’m not sad about it. I’m not making excuses about it. I’m not “twenty-nine-again-ing” about it.
I’m owning every one of my thirty-five years. I’ve accomplished so much, loved so well, experienced such dazzling highs and dizzying lows, and generally just lived, that it would be a disservice to myself to not celebrate my life.
Like a BOSS.
My previous birthday saw me working out the last two days before I went in for my induction. It was a frenzy of preparing my coworkers for my departure, and preparing myself mentally to make the shift between Work Tracy and Mom Tracy. Truth be told, I didn’t feel ready for any of it, though I doubt anyone can truly be ready for the dead-stop of childbirth and the subsequent implosion of what was previously “normal”.
The past year has been one of such growth and change, struggle and triumph, wonder and amusement. Of all of the events of my thirty-fourth year, however, one stands out quite clearly.
I am still in awe daily that I get to be the mama to this feisty babe, my bright Christmas star, my Impossible Girl, Clara Noelle.
She makes my day with her smile and laugh, breaks my heart with her cries, and makes me feel a whole depth of emotions that I did not know to exist before she came along.
Thirty-five years, and every moment has been in preparation to be a mother. Every struggle, though they cannot be minimized or erased from history, has been worth this smirk. Every scar has been softened by that gentle swoop of hair and that ear that sticks out just so.
For all that this day is supposed to be a celebration of me, my life, and my accomplishments, the greatest result of all of these is her.