Here's The Truth

The truth is, I don't feel like I'm turning 28 today.  20, maybe.  22, more likely.  But 28? 

I don't feel like I'm old enough, mature enough, in-charge enough, to be a 28-year-old mother of two.

Here's what I do feel like:

A champion pretender.  I can whip up a good imaginary world for my daughters several times a day, and become the villain, the fairy godmother, the frog, or the shark at the drop of a hat.  But aren't these things too juvenile for a girl my age to be doing?  Shouldn't I be better about letting them play on their own while I do something important?  Like bill-paying?

A first-rate procrastinator.  I'd rather read a novel than figure out what's for dinner, and I'd rather go swimming than finish the laundry.  I think that's not unusual -- wouldn't most of us prefer the fun to the chore?  But aren't my willpower and self-control supposed to be more robust and steadfast than they are?  Aren't I, as a 28-year-old, supposed to be better disciplined?

The luckiest woman alive.  Even though I don't think I'm very equipped for this life of parenthood and home ownership, it somehow feels good to me.  I'm surrounded by the best things in life -- love, joy, peace, (air conditioning...) -- and I don't deserve a bit of it.  How could I?  I'm only 20 years old in my mind!  (Does dementia settle in so early?!) 

The truth is...I'm happy.  I just don't know how I got here:  Pictures on my walls of two beautiful girls, the scent of aftershave lingering in my bathroom, toys dripping in the bathtub, leftovers in the refrigerator, a handsome man walking in the door every evening....this is my life?

I'm 28.

I'm a wife, a mother, an adult.

I'm starting to see it, faint around the edges, stronger every day:

This life -- this beautiful life -- is my truth.

(Happy Birthday to me!)