Wednesday is my birthday. My 45th birthday.
I used to have a complicated relationship with my birthday, as there was an inverse relationship between my age and the probability of success in building our family (even in adoption). Every year older without a child was a harbinger of doom. It didn't help that the Sunday after my birthday is always Mother's Day.
But now? My birthday is just... My birthday. A celebration of my years on the planet.
I remember when my best friend's mom turned 45, I teased her by saying, "oooh, you're half of 90!" She didn't like that so much, and it's come back around to me this year.
But, for me, being Half of Ninety isn't an insult, or a scary prospect. I have had a lot of living in my 45 years, and the last 15 in particular have been lovely, minus the heartbreaking infertility part. If I have a whole nother set of 45 years ahead of me, if I'm lucky, that is SO MUCH living. And I can skip over the sucky parts like my 20s. I can hope that it just gets better.
The superstitious person in me is knocking on SO MUCH WOOD right now, but also... Why NOT look forward to the next 45 years?
I'm excited for my birthday, even though it's my second pandemic birthday. Bring on Half of 90.
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