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Jan 30

47

When I look back, I don’t think my forties will be one of my favorite decades. I mean, on a spectrum, and with the caveat that I love my life, I’d have to rank my 40s as not the best. Not second best either. Maybe third. Overall.

I didn’t enjoy my first decade, at all. Not really. I didn’t like being little, there was a lot of drama, parental divorce, and I didn’t start really reading for pleasure until fourth grade, which is way closer to the end of the decade than the first. My teens were better than the first, probably tied with my forties. There were struggles, I didn’t love the social situation in school, but I had a few friends, I had a part time job I loved, I did a lot of babysitting. There were perks, but it wasn’t my favorite.

My twenties were great. I mean, they weren’t perfect, but I was overall pretty happy, felt like I was in control, things were going well. I had an apartment, a little dog, a job I loved, friends and family I loved. And then I met Marc and had Jessie. All good.

My thirties were straight up fantastic. I mean, we had no money, and I was trying to figure out the whole stepfamily dynamic. Marc worked a million hours, we were struggling a lot of the time. But I had my babies in my thirties, I think parenting was SO much easier when they’re little. We had five or six or eight kids around all the time, and I loved it.

My forties have been rough. Obviously, Sam’s accident is such a huge part of why this decade has been such a struggle. And the kids all got older, and more complicated, with problems that I can’t fix by just picking them up for a snuggle. We seem to be victims of circumstance a lot more this decade, qualifying for a mortgage twice and then having it ripped out at the last minute through no fault of our own (Marc got laid off suddenly with no warning, and then we got a global pandemic going on…). Jessie’s going to move out this decade, and I’m already dreading that.

Maybe if I reframe this. If I go for ten year increments, starting at the age of 7, I could start all over again this year. It would even work, logically. Birth to seven is really small childhood, and then 10-17, 18-27, 28-37, 38-47. I can do that. Although then I’d have to pretend that I’m 48 this year… I’m okay with that. The only one who remembers how old I am is Julie (because she’s wicked good with numbers).

That’s it, it’s official – I’ll start over this year.

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