… the musings of an overly organized thirty-something, married, southern librarian turned stay-at-home-mom with too many opinions, too much ambition, just enough kids, and a stubborn, mouthy, redheaded country boy to accompany her through life.
Four years ago, Jake and I received the devastating news that we might never have children. Three years ago, Violet and Scarlett entered the world after much drama, as miracles of God and science. A little more than a year and a half ago, Thomas entered the world, a miracle of God alone. Five months ago, Sullivan proved that love truly is infinite after an FET. In just four short years, Jake and I went from a family of two, fearful we’d never be more than that, to a family of six… and possibly counting.
I am a somewhat older mom for the South, having had my girls at 33 and their brothers at 35 and 36. While I’d love to be 10 years younger, physically, becoming a mother in my 30s meant I got the chance to live for myself for a few years first. I got married. I got a bachelor’s degree. I got divorced. I started my master’s degree, began working out and had my own little glow-up. I spent years staying up all night having Vampire Diaries and Roswell marathons, eating popcorn and frozen yogurt for dinner. I hung out with friends whenever I wanted. I lay by my apartment’s pool. Not really one for travel, I visited Alaska and New Mexico regardless. I dated… a lot. I worked as substitute teacher, a circulation clerk, a half-time librarian once I got my degree, a full time manager, and then a teen librarian for five years. II got engaged and married, bought a house, took a trip to Colorado Springs with my husband, before Covid-19 hit. I loved my career and even went to the YALSA conference in Memphis, Tennessee. I had an entire life before my children were born. Still, I can honestly say, the most fulfilling and rewarding thing I have ever done was to be a mother.
I turned 37 last month, on the same day my blog turned 12. We celebrated by spoiling the kids with ice cream cake and donuts, taking them to the zoo, and spending all the money my dad gave me on Disney on Ice tickets. There was somethingfor me. I personally repainted and redecorated the entire house with my farmers market earnings. Jake also bought me the full length mirror I’ve wanted for years. My Gramma and Grandpa came out to eat pizza and cake and play with the kids. The highlight of my birthday, though, was the expression on Thomas’s face the moment he saw Woody from Toy Story in real life.
Don’t get me wrong. I have my own hobbies, as evidenced by the neglect this blog has gotten over the summer. I’ve been selling baked goods and hand made crafts at the farmers market, sometimes for weeks in a row. I’m working to catch up on my family photo albums, while taking surveys and playing cell phone games to earn the money to print them. I’m trying to teach myself photography and even took a class and bought a fancy camera. I am way too into politics and have read about virtually any mainstream national and international news story you can name. It’s been a bit since I’ve played the Harry Potter Legacy game on XBOX, but I do enjoy it. I cross stitch, sew, crochet, and am currently working on a homemade family Ghostbusters Halloween costume. I also still host not one, but two, DnD games every other week. I am not a woman who neglects herself for her children. Still, they are my greatest adventure. After all those years spent reading romance novels with marriage and babies epilogues, here I am, in my Good Ol’ Days. I could not be happier.
Jake is turning 40 this weekend. At times I’ve felt mournful over the passing of time and “getting old.” Then, I talk to my grandma and grandpa and realize that this is the best time in our lives. We’re in our prime, me still in my 30s and Jake just beginning his 40s. We’re young. We’re healthy. Our kids are still young. Our older relatives are still alive. Life is crazy right now, even when I’m not painting an entire house with four under four. It’s also beautiful and I intend to spend the next twelve years chronicling it here, as well.
You know that feeling, when you meet someone who shares the same birthday as you? It feels like the sweetest little coincidence, assuming it’s someone you like. Well, a friend just sent me a graphic listing the most common birthdays in the U.S. and mine is number one. I fact-checked her, of course, so feel free to fact check me, but I’m torn between thinking this is a special little detail and thinking it’s the very opposite. The defining feature of something being “special” is, naturally, scarcity and we September 9thers apparently have the least of that in the U.S. So is the burden of the over-thinker.
Eleven years ago, on my 25th birthday, I started this blog. Last year marked 10 years of writing, fairly consistently, about grad school, my dating life, my career, married life, being a homeowner, undergoing infertility, and finally being a stay-at-home mom. Only during 2020 did I take an extended break, while I dealt with the heartache of pandemic infertility. Even then, I told my tale on a linked page at Belle of Infertility. I wanted to record my story and feelings, for myself and anyone else suffering, but I didn’t want to turn my beloved blog into a depressing ode to infertility.
It’s been more than ten years. That’s longer than I spent in college, longer than I worked in my library system, longer than I’ve known Jake. I’ve gone from working two jobs and wondering when my life would start, to the #girlboss and teen librarian, to Just Wife and Mama. Blogging may not be as in fashion as it once was, but this is the closest I’ll ever have to time travel, as I revisit different versions of myself and my world. It’s been a wonderful adventure, growing up and keeping track of the funny, sad, frustrating, infuriating moments. I look back over the last 11 years and I see that it was all worth it: the grad school drama, the financial struggles, the missed job opportunities, the bad dates, the toxic friendships, the stress of moving to a new city, of buying a home, the devastation that is infertility, the heartbreak of losing my mother, the fear of nearly dying in childbirth, and the confliction of leaving my career. Every tearful prayer, every moment of wondering what would be, every scream of rage brought me here… and here is really good.
As I start a new year, at 36, I look forward to a thousand more adventures with my husband and our hard-won babies. I’m certain the next year will bring even greater chaos, but I’m optimistic it will also see the completion of our family. This year, we hope to add one more, our fourth and final, rounding off the stage of life that is growing our family and moving into the stage that is raising it. We aim to put infertility behind us once and for all, pull ourselves out of the debt it’s inevitably led to, and enjoy our young family with a little less stress. We won’t be traveling the world or enjoying expensive luxuries, but all the same, on my 36th birthday, I’d say I am very much living my dream.
Two years ago, today, I thought I was sick. I suppose I was, if that’s how one would describe a woman who’s 35 weeks pregnant with twins and has undiagnosed pneumonia, sepsis, and cardiomyopathy, but it feels a bit simplistic. What followed was the scariest week of my life, as I simultaneously tried to care for my newborn twins and waited to see whether or not they would grow up with their mother. The next few months weren’t much easier, physically or emotionally. It was October before I received the news that my heart would completely recover. It was December before I could lift the double stroller without becoming out of breath. Ultimately, the trials of pandemic IVF, the death of my mother, and my own near death in childbirth led me to leave my career as a librarian. I loved the work, my coworkers, my customers, the money, but I wanted to be with my babies. I wanted to change all the diapers, soothe all the tantrums, kiss all the owies… and so I have for two years now.
Everyone says the years pass in a blur, that you blink and the time is gone. I can see that, but for the most part, it has felt like two glorious years since I became a mother, if not more. Last year, on my girls’ first birthday, I wrote about how it seemed a lifetime had passed since their birth. In many ways, that’s truer today. My existence before children feels like another lifetime, in much the same way as my single years or my high school days. For the last two years, my girls have been my constant. They’re my shopping buddies, my post office pals, my doctors’ office plus twos… and now three with their little brother. I am rarely without them and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love seeing the bond they share, with each other, but also with the baby brother who would be in another room at daycare. I adore witnessing their creativity, imagination, orneriness, stubbornness, and determination. Every new word is a delight, every trip an adventure.
For years, I was alone and knew no different. In a way, that was a balm to my senses after being with people who mistreated me for so long. Only when Jake came along did I realize how lonely I’d been for much of my life. Now that I have twin girls and their little brother, I am never lonely. My days are full of kisses, giggles, tantrums, screams, and tickles. My heart might have been weaker at one time, but these gals have really put it to work these last two years. It has never been stronger. They were absolutely worth the struggle to bring them into the world. They’re bigger, messier, sassier, and still an absolute joy and privilege, whether they’re snuggling with me or throwing my shoes in the trashcan. It might be their birthday, but I’m the one who received one of the greatest gifts in being their mother. Cheers two wonderful years, baby girls.
Years ago, I was entering my mid-late 20s in the South and had spent the time since my divorce trying to figure out if I wanted the things I thought I’d wanted, or if everyone had just told me I wanted them. Growing up in the early 2000’s suburban/rural town of Shetland, marrying one’s high school or college sweetheart wasn’t just the dream, but the expectation. Shetland’s welcome sign declared it A City With a Vision, but the Kasey Musgraves quote “If you ain’t got two kids by 21, you’re probably gonna die alone,” would have been more fitting. Indeed, by the time I found myself reclaiming my maiden name on my undergraduate diploma, I was one of a dozen young divorcees from the class of 2006, most of whom did have two children. While I’d initially felt behind at 23, thumbing through all of those Facebook posts of engagement rings, wedding photos, new homes, and ultrasound pictures, I eventually came to the realization that I had it all to do over again. I could choose something different… if that’s what I actually wanted.
It was at 26, while substitute teaching an elementary school class that I realized exactly the life I desired. I didn’t like young children and only took such assignments if I was desperate for money, like when the school year was ending and I was staring down a summer with only my half-time librarian position to pay the bills. It was an easy enough day, overseeing a music class and watching Frozen on repeat, broken up by an end-of-the-year assembly in the early afternoon. “Assembly” probably wasn’t the proper term. It was more like a show, where Ronald McDonald performed childlike slapstick comedy to a crowd of children roaring with laughter, as I cynically rolled my eyes.
After ten or fifteen minutes of silly props and noises, however, I noticed that it wasn’t just the children who were laughing themselves sick. The parents in attendance were in similar hysterics at seeing their little ones so innocently amused. I looked around the gym full of kids, still lacking the affection expected by Southern women, yet suddenly more aware than ever of the enjoyment they brought their parents. That’s when it hit me that I wanted this… not because of some animalistic biological drive or archaic gender standard reinforced by life in the South, but because I wanted it for myself. I’d spent years considering more adventurous paths less traveled only to finally realize that I wanted exactly the mundane life expected of me… and that was okay. I would, however, need to get serious about dating. It was then that I began to pray, every night, for God to bring me a good, hardworking, even-tempered man, who would make a great husband and wonderful father… and most importantly to open my eyes and allow me to recognize such a man despite the fog of unreasonable expectations and my own self-sabotage.
My first date with Jake started with a pep talk, as I reminded myself that the worst that could happen was another funny story… only to sigh because I was getting awfully tired of funny stories. It had been a year since that day in my elementary school gym. As much as I had enjoyed the single stage of life, I was ready to move on to the next adventure. I was ready to fall in love and be on my way to the marriage and family I’d failed so miserably to secure previously. I didn’t want a romcom Meet Cute or soapy drama. I wanted someone to come home to, curl up with on the couch while I read and he did his own thing, a presence to feel in the middle of the night. I wanted to laugh, argue, grieve, and plan a life with someone. Odds were, my first date with the fluid engineer I met on Plenty of Fish would be forgettable at best, but perhaps… just maybe… it would be my last first date…
… and so it was.
It was on my first birthday with Jake that I realized he didn’t really do birthdays. When I responded with fitting horror, he explained that such occasions were for children and no one in his family really celebrated them after the age of twelve. Even so, on our three month anniversary, Jake made the trip to Shetland and joined me in a two day birthday celebration, meeting my parents for the first time and humoring all of my ridiculous 28-year-old whims. A month or so later, he indulged me once again, as I insisted we celebrate his birthday, not with all the hoopla and whimsy of mine, but by doing something he specifically wanted to do, which turned out to be Topgolf, pizza, and a movie.
Over the years, I’ve gotten no less demanding with my own birthday, insisting on celebrating the struggles and triumphs of the previous year and the excitement to come in the next. There have been numerous ice cream cakes, trips to the zoo, and even a new puppy. There was the Post-IVF Failure Quarantine Birthday of 2020, where we watched Belle Movies all day and ate takeout. There was the first birthday with our baby girls and just last month, our first family lake trip. Surprisingly enough, Jake has begun to look forward to his own birthdays over the years, as well. Friends have visited from Texas. We’ve eaten poorly made boxed carrot cake, sat through Lord of the Rings movie marathons, baked stuffed pizzas, and even unveiled a pricey gun safe in the hopes we’d need it soon, with small children running around.
Regardless, I’ve no doubt that Jake would let his birthdays slip by with little to no acknowledgement, were it not to humor me. With his quiet, stoic affection, though, he brainstorms ways to make the day special for himself, because he knows doing so is important to me. Whereas I see my own birthdays as a celebration of the adventures past and the welcoming of those to come, Jake’s are a celebration of the answering of those many fervently, even desperately, made prayers. This weekend, as Jake bathed our girls, after I sorted and folded laundry, I looked around and really acknowledged my life as it is, the life this man has helped me create.
Friday night, Jake and I hosted our bi-weekly game night, where we ate ourselves sick and laughed ourselves silly with friends in honor of his birthday. We spent Saturday getting lunch with our beautiful, hard-won babies, before hitting the local pumpkin patch, where we took pictures and all four played and laughed in a trough full of corn. We came home tired and dirty, with dried corn in our shoes, as the girls vacillated between fussing and giggling, having missed most of their naps for family fun. None of it had been a farce, staged for appearances in person or on social media. It was true contentment and joy, ending at the home we own, as a happy family unit. The house was clean and comfortable. There was plenty of food in the pantry and the bills were paid. I fed the girls and cleaned the kitchen, while Jake made soup to freeze for our new baby’s arrival. We discussed what movie we would watch and what kind of pizza we would order for our own private birthday celebration.
Compared to where I once was, my life is utter financially strained, middle-class bliss. There have been many times when I thought I would never have this. I prayed every night for half the man Jake is and God delivered. My husband is good, hardworking, funny, smart, ambitious, and an absolutely fabulous father. He’s a prideful, stubborn, know-it-all, who rarely shows any serious emotion, seldom apologizes, and drives me absolutely crazy. He’s also built a new career from the bottom, taken on every home improvement project I’ve dreamt up, financially supported us even through two rounds of IVF, and slept in an ICU chair for four days when I almost died delivering our girls. He’s gotten up in the middle of the night to clear the drains during a storm, chopped wood in freezing weather, and scraped my windshield without my asking. He’s changed countless diapers, soothed epic tantrums, and come home for lunch every day to help feed and play with his girls. He’s made it possible for me to stay home when I couldn’t handle leaving them. He’s comforted my every rational and irrational fear. Simply put, Jake is everything I ever prayed for and more.
We celebrated our first birthdays together when I turned 28, looking back on my single life; and when Jake turned 31, looking forward to new possibilities. My husband still isn’t one to anticipate his birthday with as much excitement as I do my own, but I find myself looking forward to it with increasing giddiness each passing year. I might have my very own holiday every September 9th, but every October 14th, I get to celebrate my best friend, whether that means cake and DnD or pizza and another viewing of the movie Warcraft. I get the chance to give my husband a day that’s all about him, where I can express my gratitude for the man that he is and the life he’s built with me. Jake wasn’t my way out, exactly, but he was the ultimate destination for a gal who wanted nothing more than a blissfully exhausting family life.
My mother once told me that she never minded getting older, until she no longer had anyone to do it with her. This past month, Jake and I celebrated our seventh set of birthdays together and with our girls: 35 and 38. I don’t mind those numbers even a little bit, as long as we get to celebrate the rest as a family, too.
I’ve been dreaming of writing this post for several years now. Having started this blog on my 25th birthday, I wondered if I’d ever make it here, still sharing my story with Future Belle and her readers. I imagined how my life would unfold over ten years. Would I ever get the job, meet the boy, buy the house, have the babies? I’m sure the overall picture is quite different in several ways, but I am undeniably happy.
You see, today I am 35 years old, a big number in the world of infertility, and I am a mother of two, soon to be three. While I never fully joined the online infertility community, I do occasionally dip my toe in and read stories from women still struggling and others who’ve survived. From the happily married and trying for years, to those still searching for love and unsure of whether they’re ready to take on single parenthood, it’s no secret that women hoping to conceive often dread and fear their 35th birthday. While we all rationally know that every body differs, we still hear echoes of generalizing doctors, aunts, and old wives’ tales warning us that if we’re not calling ourselves mothers by 35, there’s a strong chance we never will. We turn 31 and tell ourselves we have plenty of time. At 32, we get a little more anxious. At 33, we feel rushed. At 34, we start to panic. It’s positively triggering for women struggling with infertility to even think about 35.
There are so many choices in life, so many doors closed after one is opened, by the time we reach our mid-thirties. Over the years, I’ve coped with these missed opportunities through my own (probably scientifically inaccurate) interpretation of the Many-Worlds Theory. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, there is a Belle who works as a veterinarian specializing in large cats… in another, a successful travel blogger… in yet another, a respected theologist or historian. For years, I’d often slip into one of these imagined realities for a time, escaping the monotony of real life for a bit of adventure. Yet, I find myself doing so less and less often, these days. I’m not reporting a fascinating life to Instagram. My father does not live vicariously through me. I’m not a renowned academic, publishing scholarly articles. I’m not even a librarian anymore, something I’d never have imagined on the day I started this blog, ten years ago. Nope. I took the road more travel and I wouldn’t slip into one of these more interesting worlds for anything.
I’m a wife and a stay-at-home mom. My days are filled with sing-alongs, story times, and Target runs. I no longer lead meetings, attend trainings, or make schedules. The only emails I send are links for my Gramma, when she wants to buy something for my girls or the new baby. In ten years, on my 20th Blogiversary, I’ll likely be that respected professional, once again. I’ll put my master’s degree to further use and earn new anecdotal stories from my dad. Right now, though, my most wonderfully average dreams are being fulfilled. There have been several times in my life, when I’ve feared I would never have this, when this was the universe I visited. I’m happily married to my best friend, living in a home on one unremarkable acre, enjoying the most amazing days of my life to date, raising precious babies. One day, I’ll be interesting again, but here, on my no longer triggering 35th birthday, I am trulyhappy.
Nine years ago, today, I turned 25 and celebrated by starting a blog. Since then, I’ve posted fairly consistently, making this one of the greatest commitments of my life. I’ve been writing this blog longer than I was in college, longer than I’ve known Jake, almost longer than I’ve been with my library system. In those nine years, it’s chronicled the tales of a brokenhearted divorcee, a single gal navigating the dating scene, a clueless and inexperienced girlfriend, a career woman and a boss lady, an apathetic wedding planner, a new wife, a shattered woman facing infertility amidst a pandemic, and now a mom to twin girls.
In the last nine years, blogging has gone in and out of fashion, but I’ve always been here to share my laughter and tears, my rants and musings. I don’t know what the future will hold, but I can almost guarantee that I’ll report it all, as the Belle of the Library.
Eight years ago today, on my 25th birthday, I started this blog. Since then, I don’t think I’ve ever taken a five month hiatus… but there also weren’t any global pandemics in that time. As much as I’ve enjoyed chronicling my day to day and making self-deprecating jokes, as much as I love viewing snapshots in time of my life and my person, I just… haven’t been able to bring myself to share these last few months, because 2020 is kicking my ass.
For nearly 10 years, this blog has predominantly been a positive form of self-expression. Sure, I’ve shared tales of frustration with bad dates or disappointment over friendship breakups or work woes and stress, but never have I experienced a full year of devastation… at least not since that 25th birthday.
Jake and I are okay. If anything, this wretched year has made our marriage stronger. I know it’s made me love him more. As for the reverse, well, if I didn’t really know why he liked me before, I definitely don’t now, because I’m a complete and utter mess. We’re both still employed in our fields. He’s actually looking at a promotion. Our pandemic suffering has not been a career crisis, but I can’t bring myself to share all of the horrible details as they unfold, because I don’t want to look back on my worst year since 2010.
I’ve been making annual photo albums, through Mixbook, for years. I started with 2010 and began working my way to present day in 2013. I’ve always been a record keeper, even in my teens, when I carried a film camera to school every day, until I upgraded to digital. I eventually scanned every one of those photos into an album and had it printed, as well. My Mixbooks are one of the first things I’d grab under a tornado warning and I can barely bring myself to compile 2020’s. It’s a good thing I’ve forced myself, regardless, because I guarantee that I’ll have no desire to look back and create it later… something I genuinely enjoy and which makes me feel immensely grateful for my life and all the blessings in it.
So, today, on my 33rd birthday, I’m updating you. Where have I been? I’ve been at home… almost exclusively. I’ve been at the library, where there are almost no customers. I’ve been wiping down tables in gloves and a mask and goggles. I’ve been spending days in bed, because I can’t bring myself to get out of it, sometimes watching Netflix and sometimes doing nothing. I’ve been missing my family and friends and normalcy. I’ve been crying… a lot. There’s of course more to all of this and I will share in time, but the pandemic has hit me hard… and that’s not a snapshot I’ll want to view in five years.
This blog has long been my pride and joy. I’ll try to post more, perhaps sharing my thoughts on the 25 classics I’ve vowed to read this year or who would make a better president than our current terrible options. I am not gone… just coping. Thank you for sticking with me. Check on your friends.
I met Jake exactly three months from my 28th birthday. It was the next year, however, that I scheduled thirty daily countdown text messages just to be certain he neither forgot, nor underestimated the importance of such a special celebration.
Jake: “How am I getting a text message from you right now?”
Me: “Um…”
Jake: “Did you schedule a month’s worth of birthday countdown texts?”
Me: “Maybe…”
… and it was only in that moment, he realized what he’d gotten himself into…
I love my birthday. I love my birthday so much, that I celebrate it for a full week every September. No worries, though, because over the years, I’ve garnered some enthusiasm from Jake for his birthday, as well, when he’d previously considered them to be for children. Every year, each of us gets a holiday weekend of our very own and it’s even better than when I was single. Now I have my best friend to tour the zoo, eat junk food, do “fall things” like browse the outdoor shop and choose a Christmas ornament, and watch movies with me to celebrate another glorious year ahead of us. Then, one month later, we get to do it all over again with the shooting range, craft beer, pizza, and terrible boy movies.
I’m not only celebrating 32 years, though. I’m also celebrating seven years of this blog. It was on my 25th birthday that I decided my life was finally good enough to chronicle. A lot has changed in seven years. I finished my master’s degree. I switched jobs… a lot. I moved to another city. I married my favorite person in the whole world. I made new friends and grew apart from old friends. I own my home and hope to start a family soon… and I’ve blogged it all.
Seven years definitely constitutes one of the longest commitments in my life. It’s longer than I was ever in any school as a child or any home as an adult. It’s the length of time I spent in college. It’s almost as long as I’ve been in my library system. It’s longer than I spent single and longer than I’ve been married. Honestly, I’m pretty surprised I’ve kept it up, but now that so much time as passed, I’ve come to treasure this blog more and more. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to a time machine, glimpsing the life and thoughts and feelings of 25-year-old Belle, who worked two jobs while waiting for her life to start… of 28-year-old Belle, who had no idea how to do this relationship thing… of 30-year-old Belle, who adjusted to the transition from old friends in an old life to new friends in a new one. One day I’ll get to transport myself back to the joys and pains of new motherhood… of installing a new roof… of saying goodbye to my dog. It’ll all be here for me and my 1600 or so followers. So, thank you for reading and cheers to the next seven years.
It’s been six years, y’all. Six years ago, I celebrated my 25th birthday, while working two jobs, finishing up grad school, and becoming accustomed to experiencing the world both single and not 270 pounds. I had no idea what the future held and decided to begin chronicling it via blog. It was thrilling and absolutely terrifying.
It was just like taking… caffeine pills? Is that really what was happening in this episode? I owe my master’s degree to Five Hour Energy.
Here I am today, on my 31st birthday, working as a full time teen librarian (my dream job), married to my favorite person in the whole world, living in an entirely different city, writing my sixth birthday blog, from a home I own. Instead of hoping the next year might hold a guy who’s not a total douche or the fantasy that is just the one job, my wonderful husband and I are talking babies. There were times, at 25 or 26, when I would wake up and wonder if it would ever happen, if my life would ever start. Sure, in hindsight, I know that that time in my life was valuable, but I wanted more… and now I have it.
A lot can change in just a short time and at 31, it seems that life is moving wonderfully faster and faster. This blog has taken many forms, from the chronicles of a recovering divorcee, a grad student, an online dater, a librarian, a newlywed. Here’s to the many other forms it may take over the next six years, as I will continue to be the chronicler, the researcher, the ranter, the overanalyzer: The Belle of the Library.
I’m pretty sure no one has used a Logan’s Run reference on their 30th birthday in the last 20 years, but it is truly one of my favorite movies. In fact, I made Jake watch it early on in our relationship, in exchange for Blazing Saddles, one of his favorites.
Jake: “Why is everyone in this movie naked?”
Me: “What? They’re not naked. They’re wearing drapery.”
Jake: “It’s see-through.” Me: “It’s not… ooooh. How did I never notice that?”
Jake: “How many times did you say you’ve seen this movie?”
Regardless of the fact that this is apparently just cleverly disguised porn… or not so cleverly, as it may be, for the last 10 years, I’ve planned my 30th birthday around a Logan’s Run theme. I was gonna buy brightly colored age-coordinated gauze, glue plastic jewels to hair ties, make a geodesic dome shaped cake, and hold a viewing of the movie, while my friends watched in confusion. Then reality hit.
I live in Cherokee, 45 minutes from all of my friends in Shetland.
I got married this year and have spent enough money on parties.
My new husband isn’t above “accidentally” walking into a crowded room wearing nothing but drapery.
I even had to nix the lantern release from Tangled, after Gail the Wet Blanket informed me that it was “illegal.”
Alas, my Logan’s Run theme has turned into a t-shirt I ordered from Redbubble and an evening viewing with Jake, as I’ve compromised with a more “normal” celebration and relocated my birthday gathering to a downtown food truck site, in the hopes that people will you know… come.
As I hear it, such is the way of growing older. Reality sets in and all those outlandish dreams you once had fall away… except in my apparent fairyland, where that’s been proven to be complete and utter hokum. That’s right, y’all. I turn 30 today, September 9th 2017, and I have accomplished very nearly everything I had hoped to accomplish… as I’ve detailed in my blog for exactly five years to the day, including annual birthday/blogiversary posts.
It’s a big milestone, y’all and this is exactly how I dance.
Surprisingly enough, I never actually sat down and created an official list of things I hoped to accomplish by 30. I think I’ve just always known that if I wrote a goal down and never achieved it, regardless of why, I’d feel like a failure… even though, as I’ve chronicled in my beloved blog, my goals have changed in the last five years. I’ve changed… and that’s okay. I proudly consider myself a very self aware person and now that I’m here, I think it’s for the best that I didn’t make any grand declarations of what I’d achieve by the end of my twenties. That doesn’t mean I’m not really proud of some things, though. Such as…
I lost the weight. I went from “somewhere around 270,” too ashamed and miserable to know an exact number, to “somewhere around 160”, as someone who can hike up a mountain, bike 10 miles, and never receives a raised brow from her doctor.
I’m confident. I learned to apply makeup, fix my hair, and comfortably wear cute clothes, which are blessedly far more affordable than when I was morbidly obese. I owned my quirky hobbies, and fandoms, and even my general social awkardness. Even if I still occasionally miss the mark, I learned how to more accurately gauge when to tease friends and when to be kind and supportive.
I finished school. I went straight through, graduating high school in 2006, my bachelor’s in 2010, and my masters in 2013.
I got my finances under control. I paid off some debt and improved my credit score. I consolidated my student loans and entered an income-based repayment program. I enrolled in the Public Service Loan Forgiveness program and am eligible on 2024.
I’m a full time teen librarian. At times, I thought it would never happen, as I worked two jobs for two and half years after receiving my MLIS. Even after I got full time, I thought the ship had sailed on working with teens, but through a crazy course of events, I’m working as a teen librarian in a suburban library, while still earning the pay and benefits of a big city system.
I fell in love and got married. I unashamedly admit that being married by 30 was pivotal to my overall happiness. Bt 27 or so, I didn’t want to come home to an empty apartment and Netflix any longer. I wanted a loving husband and a family.
When I started this blog, on my 25th birthday, I probably would’ve listed owning a home and children as goals for my 30th and now, five years later, I realize that it’s all come in God’s perfect timing. Jake and I weren’t ready for each other until exactly the day we met. We weren’t ready for marriage until the day we exchanged our vows. We won’t be ready for a house until next fall, when we’ve saved the money. We’ll benefit greatly from two years alone together, learning to communicate and not strangle each other, when I passive aggressively hide the clothes he throws on the floor, before we start talking about kids.
People keep asking me how I’m coping with turning 30 and my response is… coping? Why would I be coping? I live in a fucking fantasy world, where life only gets better as time passes. Despite the combined efforts of the entire South, I’ve spread out the good things in life and have yet to experience the best days of my career and buying my first home and having babies and watching my children grow and settling into a comfortable and steady marriage with the love of my life. In all honesty, if I did have Logan 5’s opportunity to seek renewal on Carousel tonight, I’d only go if I could be me all over again… because I have a shit ton of good coming my way, including a lot of brightly colored cookie cake.
It’s a big milestone, y’all and this is exactly how I dance.
Belle of the Library 