Why I'll Always Tell My Age

Today is my 34th birthday!!!!!!

I kind of absolutely consider my birthday a universal holiday.  I was semi-joking with my baby sister that we're entering the Royal Birthday week.  Her birthday is June 4th (hope you had a great day Pickles!), my birthday is June 5th, and Sweet Pea's is June 6th.

I've always loved my birthday.  Always.  As one of nine kids, having a day devoted to you was amazing. 

If you don't make a big deal about your kids' birthdays with things like no chores, having them pick dinner, etc, I suggest you do it.  It ranks right up there as my favorite thing about childhood.

They'll remember not having to do dishes or pick up toys long after they forget they got a new [insert toy of the year].  Promise.

While I love my birthday in a totally self-centered-it's-my-day kind of way, it's also a reminder to me every year that goes by that I've had one more year with my family and friends.  For that, I am so so grateful.

Right before my 29th birthday, you know, that one where many women start blurring the lines of actual birth year and preferred stated age, I almost died from internal bleeding (the result of an ectopic rupture).

So today, when I say I'm 34, I say it proudly.  With fine lines around my eyes that weren't there a few years ago.  With bags under my eyes that don't plump back up as fast as they used to.  With a slowing metabolism that makes it harder every year to stay fit and healthy.

I'm 34.  Thank God.  Because you know, the other option was not making it this far.  I'm so grateful for the last five years, the hard, the good, the amazing.  I got to live every bit of it.

So, in 34 more years, I hope I'm still here in the thick of things, holding grandbabies and enjoying a margarita.  With my saggy upper arms, my soft middle and three decades more worth of wrinkles.  Because this life is too amazing to not own every single year of it.