Turning 40 - It’s All About the Journey

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On Turning Forty

The unthinkable has happened: the dawn of my fortieth birthday.

I’ve tried ignoring it, pooh-poohing it, working through the psychology of it, and even re-naming it (a fellow author taught me to call each subsequent birthday the “Nth” anniversary of my thirtieth birthday). But it just won’t go away.

So, in the spirit of having joyfully stayed at home with my children all these years, and of looking ahead at what is supposed to be my prime (assuming I have anything left), I thought I’d make a list of all the “good” things about turning forty. You are welcomed to laugh at me, commmiserate with me, or save the list for your own fortieth birthday when it rolls around (if it hasn’t already).

Turning forty means:

1. I am officially too old to be labeled a “twit.” I was definitely a “twit” when I married Eric. I spent years moving in and out of twitdom as I matured (too slowly). There might be other labels that now apply, but “twit” doesn’t work anymore.

2. I’m that much closer to not having to buy tampons anymore.

3. The stretchmarks of childbirth no longer phase me. Nobody expects a forty-year-old woman to worry about tiny cosmetic details like stretchmarks. Crow’s feet, yes, but not stretchmarks.

4. I will no longer wake up in the morning and realize that I’ve got poop under my fingernails from a middle-of-the-night diaper change.

5. Nobody will assume that it’s my child who is screaming at the top of his lungs in the toddler class at church. I will appear far too mature and “together” to have a screaming child of that particular size and age. It’s far more likely that it’s my not-quite-teenaged child who has climbed one of the trees in the parking lot and is frightening the old ladies.

6. I can smirk at all the eighties fashions that have reappeared on the store racks, in full confidence of knowing that, twenty years after the fact, I would not be caught dead wearing any of them.

7. I can go to the mall without a stroller, diaper bag, box of wipies, band-aide supply, sippy cup, or Baby Gap clothing size card.

8. I no longer have to worry about young men in grocery stores, gas stations, and the post office mistaking my friendliness for flirtation. They will automatically assume that I’m old enough to be their mother and won’t give me another thought.

9. I can give advice to young mommies and they will actually listen to me because, after all, “She’s over forty and must know SOMETHING about raising kids.”

10. I have made peace with my boobs. If they want to rest somewhere around the level of my navel, so be it. They’ve worked hard nourishing four babies, and I’m too old to obsess about them anymore. Besides, that’s what push-up bras are for.

11. I no longer have to peel grapes, slice raisins, de-crust bread, crush peas, or cut peanut butter sandwiches into microscopic squares. In fact, I can pretty much throw food at my children and they will catch it and eat it. (Okay, not really — but almost.)

12. My vocabulary no longer consists of ridiculous sentences like, “We don’t go pee-pee in the tub,” “Let Mommy wipe that boogie off of your face,” and “Mommy is going to bite those piggies, yes she is! She’s going to bite those stinky, little piggies and eat them for lunch! Ready? Here she goes! Here goes Mommy biting your stinky piggies!”

13. I no longer have any hang-ups about sex. Seriously. There’s something about the “been there, done that” factor that renders it all rather irreverent and matter-of-fact. Well, most of the time, anyway.

14. People have stopped asking me if I’m going to have any more children. And I’ve stopped crying about having to say, “No.”

15. My husband still calls me “beautiful,” and now I know that it has a far deeper meaning than simply what’s on the surface.

16. I haven’t had a real zit in over six months. For someone who’s struggled with her complexion since the age of thirteen, that is quite remarkable.

17. I don’t step on Legos in the middle of the night anymore. There’s nothing that brings me one step away from sudden murder as quickly as stepping on a Lego. Of course, I haven’t bought any Legos for my younger son. I may never buy any Legos for him. I’ve done my time with the Legos.

18. When I go out alone, nobody knows whether or not I have any children. I don’t have that deer-in-the-headlights, spit-up soaked, where-did-my-IQ-go look about me anymore. I don’t have watermelon breasts that scream to the world, “This woman has to rush home and nurse her baby before she explodes before your eyes,” either.

19. I haven’t engaged in a frantic, pre-bedtime search for a three-inch strip of “blankie” for ages. In fact, all four of my children are actually capable of tucking themselves in. I kiss them good-night because I want to, not because it’s part of an elaborate, nightly ritual.

20. I am officially entering the “prime of my life,” which many say falls between the ages of forty and seventy. That makes me a mere babe in the grand scheme of things! I am married to the Love of my Life, I have four of the neatest kids I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I weigh less now than I did before I was pregnant with my first child. When all is said and done, I’ve come to this place in my life with a smile on my face and a song in my heart (the gray hairs on my head have been conveniently hidden with coloring and highlights).

If I can just manage to get carded when Eric takes me out for my birthday dinner, I’ll be set for life. The last time I was carded, I was thirty-six. Surely four years haven’t made THAT much of a difference, have they? (Please don’t answer that.)

I feel much better now. Forty, here I come!