40

So, that day has finally arrived. I knew it would get here. I've tried to decide if I should prepare myself for it, or if I should just ignore it. Normally, I'd give myself plenty of opportunities to fixate, to mull, to obsess. Lately, though, it's been too hectic in my world; children in school, birthday cakes to bake, laundry to fold, and the general day and night routines. I continued to think I would have plenty of time to prepare, to focus my thoughts and get my over-stimulated brain in the right place. But it didn't happen and here came the day with no noticeable preparation.

I'm now 40.

What? When? Well, officially on February 16. How did this happen? I just don't know.

There was a time, and there shouldn't be offense taken by anyone reading this, when I was little that 40 was, well, OLD. It was even older than "grown up" or "mature". I'm not sure where that notion came from, but it may have to do with my family. My father was an "older" father. In reality he was 45 when I was born in 1969. On each of his birthdays, from the time I knew to ask, I'd say "Dad, how old are you now?" His reply would always be "thirty-nine" and I always believed him. I never figured he was a fibber or that his age wasn't what he said it was. Thirty-nine seemed like a reasonable number to me and, though it was older than most of my classmates' fathers, it was just fine by me.

But now, here I am. I am exiting the age that my dad always claimed to be and embarking on a new decade. I'm dragging along my small children and husband along for the ride.