Another 365 Days

Well, I made it. Okay, I have almost made it. As long as I don't get maimed in some freak accident on the way to Target today, I will have lived for 35 years. Depending on your age, you will look at that number and either say "OMG, you are like so grossly old and nasty." or " Wow young lady, you have a long time to figure this whole life thing out." I feel like both are pretty spot on with how I feel right now. Some days I feel grossly old, like yesterday when I let my naturally curly hair be free from the burning smell of a straightener. I was embracing who I really am, which is someone with genetically crazed hair. When my preteen daughter came home, she found me in the bathroom scrunching (is that still a thing??) my rambunctious curls.

"What do you think?" I asked her, as I twirled around like a proud toddler with a new party dress on.
"Is that on purpose?" she asked.
"Yeah. My hair is naturally curly so I'm not flat ironing it today. How does it look?"
Chuckling, she said "Umm, you're really going out with it like that?" 
I told her to leave and proceeded to mope as I looked at myself in the mirror. Then I tried to fix the manic twirls on top of my head. I should have just shaved it all off and called it a Halloween costume. In that moment I felt old and really uncool.

Other days I feel like it is possible that I have a few more decades to figure this all out and that I am in the prime of my venture here on planet Earth. I can usually hold onto that feeling until I see myself naked in a full length mirror or hear myself saying "I don't care if she likes it or not. She is taking piano because kids who play an instrument do better in school." Better than what? I don't know, but that's what old people say and I'm there. The youngish feeling comes when I am hanging out with my brother and/or sister and strangers will say "Who's the oldest?" I selfishly point fingers and live on that high until the truth comes out. It's me. The midget of the bunch who still gets carded for beer, but has to dye her progressively graying hair.

I am more confident and less confident at almost 35. I'm happier and less happy. I'm mature and a completely immature asshole. While the number I am forced to list on surveys has gone up, I feel like I am the same person I was ten years ago except I have a different set of goals and a new set of worries under my belt. I don't have to concern myself with potty training or peeing on a stick in hopes that we can grow our family. Those days are gone. Now I watch my oldest put on makeup while she shares secrets with me about cute boys and going to movies without me. I'm not sure why she would want to, I'm really fun. I don't worry about money the way I used to when my husband and I were first married, but now I worry whether we have saved enough for a catastrophe or for college. Kind of the same thing. Getting old is weird and I have a love/hate relationship with it. Knowing what I want to be when I grow up is just as hard as not having a fucking clue. Being forced to shop for appropriate adult attire is just as hard as being followed around Contempo Casuals (remember that store???) by some super chic cashier. I'm 35, almost. And I'm still trying to figure this whole thing out. Perhaps that's the point.

What I'm Up To This Month

Image courtesy of dc.about.com

Favorite month!!!! We all know what makes October amazing, but let's review. Pumpkin Spice lattes at Starbucks, pumpkin loaf, pumpkin muffins, pumpkins, cool weather, hoodies, boots, boots with leg warmers, sweater dresses, my birthday, candy, caramel apples, trick or treating, carving pumpkins, leaves, photo ops, my birthday, pumpkin rolls, soup in the crock pot and, let's not forget, my birthday. I don't think I mentioned that.

This month is especially exciting because I have decided to put all other projects on the back burner and write. Not for other blogs, not a ton for this blog, but for my book. I am making it my job this month and I am super excited and completely mortified. I have about 17,000 words so far and my goal is 80,000, so I have some work to do. There is a lengthy list in my phone of ideas for stories and the longer it gets, the more overwhelmed I feel. Will I get published? Will I make money? I don't know. That is my hope, my dream. It's what drives me and depresses me. It's what I long for and fear. I am tackling it this month. My intention is to finish my rough draft and be ready to do my first edit in November, find a book whore (thanks for that recommendation, Robin) to edit it again and find out if there is a place for me in this industry. I don't yet know how to get there, but I am determined to learn.

So, there will be blog posts on here. I don't know when or what about, but they will be here. It is a daunting road I am embarking on and I am sure there will be days that I can't go any farther. Thank goodness you will be here to shove me off the cliff, to remind me to keep going. I need that. You should keep going, too. Whether it is photography, painting, starting your own business, staying home with your kiddos, or pursuing a great relationship, begin this month. Make a plan and live your dream. I would love to walk this scary path with you, my friends.

If you haven't yet, check out my most recent post on mythirtyspot.
http://www.mythirtyspot.com/2013/09/an-interview-of-lifetime-sitting-down.html

Mommy Fail

This was my parent failure moment of the weekend. My youngest turned seven on Mother's Day and he had one big request for mom...a Lego cake. We sat together on the couch and researched cakes on Pinterest, I became more and more insecure about my abilities. Most of these monstrosities were the size of a smart car and covered in a mortgage payment worth of fondant. I kept scrolling. "I love that one," he grinned as he lay his head on my shoulder. Try saying no to that, you heartless bastard. "Okay, buddy, I'll make that one." It was the least intimidating cake we had seen, two large square Lego blocks with real frosting and marshmallows for the nobs. I could do this. I found a YouTube video that showed me step by step how not to fuck up this cake. I watched and laughed and imagined what a hero I would be when we served up a cake in the shape of plastic blocks. Mom Of The Year.

Growing up, my mom designed cakes for us every year and in every possible shape. She was ahead of her time with Cake Boss style chainsaw cakes, mouse cakes and my one true love, the Cabbage Patch doll cake. Every beauty was made with a cheap box cake, basic pans and creativity that would put 21st century blogger moms to shame. Our birthday snapshots are filled with cheesy grins and professional looking desserts whipped up by a woman who made me believe it was nothing special. Didn't every mom bake professional style cakes every quarter of every year for two decades? It's what makes my failure feel even more like a kick to the baby maker.

The day of my son's party, I woke up early with excitement and anticipation. I eagerly searched online for how to make box cake taste like homemade and got to work. The cake came out of the oven looking beautiful, that would be the first and last time it would. As I wielded my butcher knife it became clear that I was in over my head. The more I cut, the more it fell apart. "I'll fix it with frosting" I thought. I started mixing the red and after draining the mini bottle of dye, I realized I had enough coloring for hot pink, not red. I was out of frosting except for the container that someone had opened, eaten out of and placed back in the pantry. It smell like belly button lint. Frosting the squares brought me to tears and I was hoping it would get better when my mom walked in to witness my sham of a life.
"You okay, hon?"
"I've ruined his birthday. I can't make red frosting, it's all falling apart and I can't fix it." I cried.
"It happens, just go buy a cake and let it go."
Easy for her to say, she hadn't ruined my 7th birthday and I still turned out to be a fucking mess of an adult. How much therapy would my little man need?

My husband took him to the store to pick out a cake and they returned while I was showering off my disappointment. I only saw the cake as we were leaving for the sweaty foot pizza parlor. This $20 cake was covered in bright colored daisies and butterflies with Happy Birthday!!! chicken scrawled in red frosting. My jaw ached as I held back tears and the thought of hiding under the dining table crossed my mind, as did pulling out the boxed wine and suckling straight from the nozzle. My hubby saw the look of horror on my face and said "Let it go. He liked it and the options were slim. No one is going to care."

He was right, no one cared except me. I wanted to be my mom, I wanted to be a Pinterest mom, I wanted to be a perfect mom but instead I was a me mom.  Maybe one day my son can blog about how his mommy ruined his 7th birthday cake and he loves her anyway.