Twenty with a Four Year Old

The beginning of the end of my twenties is rapidly approaching.  I turn 29 this Wednesday, a birthday overshadowed, in my mind, by Amelia’s four-month anniversary of life, which was last Saturday.  I can’t decide if I’m upset about moving closer to my thirties.  I don’t want to move chronologically backwards, but I’m feeling my age, or maybe age has nothing to do with it.  Having a baby (and not sleeping because of this baby) has added more gray hairs and furrow lines than any arbitrary date on the calendar.

I distinctly remember my birthday wish last year.  We had moved into this house a few weeks before and I had discovered my pregnancy around the same time.  I made Dave buy me a cake and candles.  I really wanted candles so I could make a wish;  somehow the wish wouldn’t be official without the smell of burning wax.  I wished for two things:  A healthy baby and the ability to keep my birthday cake down.  I got the healthy baby, but the cake came right back up, as did most food for months afterward.

This year I don’t care about candles.  All I want is a decadent cake.  I plan on eating a giant slice, or two.  I like surprises, but I’m also particular, so I strongly suggested Dave order me an ice cream cake from the local ice cream shoppe.  I let him pick the flavor.  I trust he knows my tastes and I’ll eat almost anything.  This birthday I’ll be able to hold my healthy baby as I keep my cake down.  I can’t imagine a more perfect birthday.  Okay, maybe I can, but a good night’s sleep might be too much to ask (perhaps a 30th birthday wish?)

Last week I went to a local cafe while our sitter watched Amelia for a few hours (Dave was off playing in California’s desert for a week).  As I waited in a line, an elderly gentleman chatted with the barista, telling her about his young granddaughter about to have her first baby.  He turned to me and asked if I had children.  I smiled and told him about my four-month old.  He gestured at the barista, exclaiming “See, she is only 20 and has a four-year old,” as if to make a point about the explosion of teens having babies.  I quickly corrected him, saying I was 29 with a four-month old, amazed by how this man’s hearing problem had drastically changed my life’s narrative.  I admit I was pleased he undershot my age by 9 years, until I realized I probably looked young because 1) most people look young to someone over the age of 80 and 2) wearing no makeup, a ponytail, and a t-shirt with jeans is bound to make anyone look juvenile.

I imagined my life as interpreted by this man and decided I liked my version better.  Turning 29 isn’t so bad.