Metal Meredith

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.