Early this morning, Mr. W sang happy birthday to me. I participated. It went something like this:
Mr. W: Happy birthday to you
Me: [whimper]
Mr. W: Happy birthday to you
Me: [whimper]
Mr. W: Happy birthday dear love
Me: [whimper]
Mr. W: Happy birthday to youuuuu!
Me: [burying head under pillow]
Mr. W: You’re in your 30s now!
Me: [popping head out] I am NOT! Not until like 5:30!

Driving this morning before work, I thought about what’s so special about 31 that has me so bummed out. Because this is where the old life ends, and you get new life by starting a new phase, like adulthood — family and kids — and I don’t have that, my brain thought. I can’t be a caterpillar my whole life, I need to come out of the coccoon and be a butterfly, be the adult insect. And I cried the rest of the drive. As much as I’d been declaring war on birthdays for the past 5 or so years, this is the first one where I’ve actually shed tears.

At work, I got plenty to cheer me up. Lots of presents, coworker friends, song, and this beautiful delicious artisan mocha cake with cinnamon and brown sugar “sand” and white chocolate and edible glitter “seashells”:

The text messages, emails, cards and e-cards were pouring in, and I especially felt better when I read this little text message gem from Mr. W’s daughter:
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY CINDY! YOU ARE STILL SO MUCH YOUNGER THAN MY DAD :] HAHA I LOVE YOU!”

And then came my mom’s happy birthday email. It was just this portion that got me crashing back down again:
“WELL, CINDY , IT’S ABOUT TIME TO PLAN YOUR FUTURE, YOU DON’T WANT END UP JUST YOURSELF TO THE END, IT’S KIND GOOD THING TO HAVE A FAMILY, CHILDREN, SOMEONE TO SHARE YOUR LIFE. [Mr. W] IS A NICE PERSON, BUT IF [Mr. W] IS NOT THE ONE TO HAVE FAMILY WITH, YOU KNOW I MEANT… ”
She doesn’t know that I torture myself with this on a daily basis, because I’ve made it seem like I nonchalantly disregard any consideration about my future or childbearing, stuff like that. I don’t think I’m ready to have kids right now, but I don’t know that I won’t want them in another few years. All I know is that presently, kids in general annoy me. I want nothing to do with them. I make the occasional exception for the occasionally exceptional kid, but those kids are few and far in between. (By kids I mean ages 4-12.) I watch Mr. W’s daughter patiently play with and talk to other people’s kids, and I shake my head in amazement. I don’t have that in me. But will I ever?

Mr. W said that life isn’t about overhauling phases, it’s one long and gradual process. To him, there’s no such thing as going from child to teen overnight, from teen to young adult overnight, and from young adult to family-producing grownup overnight. I think he feels I’d be shortchanging myself if I force myself into expected traditional roles at expected traditional ages, instead of being as my bailiff was telling me earlier, “true to myself.”

So I emailed my mom back, pensively, with, “I think I deserve to just enjoy being happy with my life right now.” Her response came back after lunch and I was almost too scared to open it. When I did, it said simply, “OKAY, BE HAPPY!”

Maybe this is all really in MY head.