Vanity Shmanity

Okay, it's happened. I can actually tell I look older.

Vanity, get in the back seat....again.

I'm turning 30 in May, and I never thought I'd have a problem with that. I've always, always wanted to be older than I actually am. When I was twelve I couldn't WAIT to be 14. When I was 16, I couldn't WAIT to be 18. When I was 18 I met B.daddy, and I couldn't wait to prove to him how old I actually was. Then I started having babies and I realized my body could use some help in the number department. 22? Yes! 22. I'm only 22. Oh, thank the Lord I'm only 22! That must have been when my brain stopped registering age.

I grew up the youngest. I have three older sisters; I was the Baby. And 99% of the time I mooched off them to fill my social calendar. Except for a handful of--literally 5--friends, all my friends were older than I. And guys? My husband is 8 years older than I am. I aimed high. So when I meet someone new I almost ALWAYS assume they are older than I am. Even if they're 5 years younger I'm astonished to learn they are only 24 and that's less than 29. It's a disease! My vision is impaired. And my math--well my math is always off.

But lately...

I'll catch a glimpse in the mirror...

Or I'll be pouring over adorable pictures of our babies and come across one of me, and--GASP!--O. M. G.

I look 30.

I look like a normal, 30 year old mom. And you can't even see my stretch marks in that picture!! Why do I look so old?!

And then I take a deep breath.

Again.

I've taken this very breath many times. It's usually when I've been huge with child or deflated after dispensing said child. I look down at the Mass That Gives Life, and I remind myself, this love is bigger than your vanity. Suck it up, girl, and love that baby.

But this time the breath is not about accepting something as Life Giving as stretch marks. Those are immediately gratified when you look at your baby--even when your baby turns three. Everyday I know why my body looks like....well, like it does. Because my kids exist.

What's different is this time I'm accepting the life I've lived. The marks of Life Living. That's right. It's still happening. And it's not going to stop happening.

The creases and divots on my face are from gut wrenching laughter, earth-shaking sobs, and the chronic burden of the mundane. And gravity. There's not much that I've felt that I cannot now see on my face.

And this is a progressing condition.

If I'm lucky I'll have a thousand more good, belly laughs. If I'm here on earth I'll have several more reasons to cry out to God that I Didn't Want This! And if I'm me, I'm going to stress out about the laundry and bread that doesn't rise.

So it's only going to get worse.

On the surface.

But I know---deep breath---I know, living this life gives life.

Enjoying to the point of lost laughter.

Loving at the risk of grief; hoping like a little girl.

Caring enough to want to get it right and show them my love.

Yeah. I'm not going to stop doing that. I'm going to just keep on getting older and older. And if I'm here when I'm 90? Well, I'm going to look like crap. But I'd better be oozing love and wisdom or I am going to be ticked.