Tomorrow is my birthday -- the last one in my thirties.
Previous birthdays have been spent in a horrific funk, usually involving copious cocktails or wine if not cycling at the time, and hearing a feedback loop in my head of...
One more year I'm not even pregnant, let alone a mom.
One more year I'll be creakier and tireder if we manage this feat anytime soon.
One more year I'm probably less appealing to a birthmom.
One more year closer to forty with no real progress in this area.
One more year for my metabolism to continue its grind to a halt and make my BMI scarier.
This year, I feel a bit of this, as my knees creak disgustingly audibly as I trudge up the stairs, forcing Bryce to sing with his fingers plugging his ears because it's so gross-sounding. I fear I am headed towards titanium knees. I feel a bit betrayed that I got to be this old and still haven't managed parenthood yet. I am definitely mad at my metabolism.
BUT, I feel a lot of... not this. A lot of lightening of the load that's plagued me for nearly six years of attempting to build our family. Because...
This is the year we are doing something truly HOPEFUL and FORWARD-MOVING about our lack of parenthood. (Both "progress" and kinda sorta "expecting.")
This is the year I found out that my thoughts on birthmoms being afraid of my "advanced maternal age" were erroneous -- with age comes stability, and it was lovely to be told, "you're not that old, you're fine, I wouldn't even worry about it" by our Family Advocate.
This is the year that I decided that I can do what I can to be a healthy person, but obviously my body is doing whatever the hell it wants to, and if it is going to be fluffier, well then I'd best embrace that to an extent and get me some clothes that are flattering for my voluptuousness, as-is. (It's sure as hell appreciated by my husband, who adores a curvy shape on a woman.) So I ordered a boatload of pretty dresses in a size that made my throat close momentarily from Mod.cloth, and decided better to go bigger and fit than to have the distressing experience of having not one dress be flattering when they arrive. Thank you, mother-in-law, for the gift card... I shopped the hell out of that thing!
I want to CELEBRATE my birthday this year. This year could be (maybe) the best year ever, or at least get us a heck of a lot closer than we've ever been. This year I am going to stop hating my body (or at least try really really hard) and accept who I am each moment, not who I wish I could be (or fit into, as I am not my size). This year I am going to spend my birthday having wine and good food with my adoring husband, and there will be no crying.
Happy birthday to me...may this be a year of acceptance, and progress, and self-love, and preparations in earnest for FutureBaby!
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