Metal Meredith

Vivienne did a great job picking out my presents. Phil took her to Target where she picked out a few things for me. She insisted on getting me chocolate, because it is my favorite. She chose a mint chocolate bar, because I like mint.

It was ‘Intense Mint’.

She also picked out some slippers that just scream “Meredith!!!”

Whoo hoo!

It wasn’t because the red was fading. It wasn’t because I needed to do some root touch ups. Nope, it was because each time I looked in the mirror, I saw another gray hair.

*before dye job*

I am not opposed to gray hair, I kind of like it. It was cool to find the first 5 or so. It is neat to part my hair and see flecks of silver shining back. But when they started to glisten in the sun, when I could see them without trying, when I knew one application of color would rid them for a little while longer, I just couldn’t help myself.

On Friday, I will turn 35. I am not sad, I am not scared, I am not depressed. I am simply turning 35. I would say middle age, but I fully intend to make it past 80. Let’s talk middle age when I am 40, okay?

As I was carrying Henry into the kitchen this morning, I was struck by how strange it feels to be a mother, much less a mother of two. When I am holding one and blurting out answers to the other’s questions about if rocks come from trees or if flowers are better than stars, I can hardly believe that this is my life. When I am changing my clothes for the second time to a shirt without crumbs and stains ground into the fibers, I am sure that this is a cruel joke.

I am sure that sometimes I have popped into someone else’s life from the much cooler host body that is my real home. I am almost positive that I work in Seattle booking bands into the coolest venues, living on Mercer Island in one of those amazing contemporary houses from Dwell Magazine.

But then I find a drawing of Phil and Henry in chicken suits.

Or I hear a faint baby giggle and turn to see a toothy grin.

I might not be the coolest or the prettiest or the most successful. I might not be ecstatic about the place I stand at this very moment. But for right now I am here.

I am a mom. I am a wife. I am going to be 35 and I am just getting started.

I told Phil on Wednesday morning that it felt like I had been paroled. My crime? Having sex 5 years ago. My sentence? Eight weeks at home this summer with my four year old.

On Tuesday, she whined at me one time too many, declaring “Ma-oh-a-um-UH (5 syllable Mom, by the way)....... what can I dooooo?.......... I am SO BO-RE-Duh.” Remembering that I only had 16 hours left, 8 of which would be slept through, I gritted my teeth and dealt with it. She barely scraped by, honestly.

At 3:30am, she came into our room (by OUR I mean MY because Phil doesn’t count when he is dead to the world asleep) with a stuffy nose and a slight fever. I found myself sitting straight up, trying to figure out what concoction of drugs would eradicate a cold in 5 hours. It was almost physically shaking at the thought of pushing her first day back one more second, let alone one or two more days. I dutifully slept in her room with her for 30 minutes, she came into our room and slept from 445am-545am, when she sat up and told me she couldn’t sleep anymore. Back into her bed we went until 730am.

She woke up groggy, but excited to go. No fever, still stuffy nose but without a stream of greenish goo flowing from it, her butt was going to school. She was adorable, I was a zombie.

*BIG SIGH*

Of course, there is no getting away from the ‘real’ Vivienne:

Even Phil was excited!

I spent my first free day running my butt off trying to get errands done that I had been putting off for weeks. I didn’t rest, I was exhausted. But the fact that next week she won’t be at home again....I don’t care if I spend the next 48 hours running errands, I have the next 8 months to get things done.

*Exhale*