I woke up this morning and went about my morning routine per usual, but as I was applying my second coat of mascara (necessary), I realized: It’s the last time I’ll put mascara on as a thirty-year-old.

Since becoming a parent, every year has become more precious and I’ve become more aware of the change of calendar as my baby has transformed into a young man in front of me. As I officially embrace being a “thirty-something”, my (not so)little boy will have his final single-digit birthday in just a few weeks.

I don’t know where the time has gone.

Thirty-one used to seem so… old and far-off. So sophisticated and grown up. I don’t know exactly what I had thought thirty would look like, but I don’t think it’s what thirty was for me. As I look to the rest of my thirties, I feel a strange sense of peace.

The past twelve months brought much change. We moved late last year and officially became a family of three. Both M and I started new jobs. F started playing hockey. And thirty-one, though not quite here yet, will bring much change for us as well. We’ll soon bring a new, four-legged family member into our lives. We’ll (hopefully) do some travelling.

And, with any luck, we’ll continue to try to be 19 at least every once in a while (then bitterly regret thinking we could get away with that nonsense for two days afterwards).

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