On Turning 37

Just a while ago, I was 16, celebrating my birthday at Sun 'n Fun and anxiously awaiting the day when my sweet ride would get her racing stripes. I blinked, and I turned 37, celebrating my birthday at home anxiously awaiting the day when I would have time to scrub the chocolate milk from the rear seats in my mini-van.

Thirty-seven is so old. I have a mortgage and health insurance. I've had a job that I loved and one that I hated (surprisingly being a lawyer was not the job I hated; ask me about technical writing sometime). My knees crackle on the stairs, and I drive a mini-van. 

Just a short while ago, I couldn't run a mile. I couldn't run a block. A lot of Mondays, I woke with an aching back and instantly dreaded the days ahead. I would shuffle from office to copier to kitchen. Sometimes, I would undock my computer and work flat on my back from my office floor. In short, I hurt.

Just a short while ago, I couldn't swim 200 yards. When I was 16, I could swim 3,000 yards, per day, 5 days a week. When I was 36, I couldn't stay afloat for 200.

At 36, my back hurt. I couldn't chase my son across the yard much less down the block. Sleep was the holy grail. I lived on a diet of processed cereal appetizingly served from plastic baggies while I checked email or fought traffic. My pop (soda for some of you) intake overshadowed my water intake tenfold. My skin was rough, and my hair was falling out.

None of these things were obvious. I carried my extra inches well, coaxed some volume into my hair most days, and medicated with drugs intended for senior arthritis.

At 36, I was a mess--a mess that I had made, for the most part.

I decided to clean up.

I made some changes. The biggest change, of course, was leaving my firm. I'd like to say leaving was the one magical thing that changed my world. But realistically, that's just not true. The truth? I spent the last year making internal changes that affect what I project and produce in the external world. Those internal changes have made all (well, most of) the difference.

At 37, I can run 5 miles and more. I can swim 3,000 yards again. My list of medications sits at zero these days (except for the acne, because my face still thinks I'm 16). I live on a diet of whole foods (lower case), for the most part. Everything in moderation, because who doesn't love an Oreo cookie or five every now and again? I have a tea stash that would make the Queen envious, and my pop intake is far outweighed by water.

I wish I could say I had some magic pill or supplement that I could share (or sell). I wish I could tell you that the past year was super easy and passed without angst. It hasn't been easy. Some days, I want nothing more than to stay under the covers and watch "Kipper" with RJ and Gigi. Some days, I eat the whole bag of cookies and top it off with potato chips. I still hate the way my skin smells like Clorox for days after a swim, and all of these super-charged, super-happy runners left out the part about chafing.

Wheatgrass tastes like, well, grass, and I still hate broccoli. Last month, I threw out my back and nearly panicked. A year ago, I would have been down and out for weeks. Now? I took my muscle relaxers like a good girl and hobbled to yoga class simply to be reminded to breathe.

I thought I'd feel older at 37. I thought I'd be lining up for back surgery. I thought I'd spend my days bitter and exhausted. And then I thought, "I could be wrong. Let's see what a year can do."

I'm 37. It feels great to be 37! I celebrated 37 with my favorite people:

These two little persons are the reason I made some changes. Sometimes, RJ asks me, "Mommy, do you remember when you couldn't run with me?" More often, he asks, "Can I go on a run with you?" 

It feels good. 

This is my daddy. He loves me so much that he gave me his birthday, and now we get to celebrate together every year. I love him an awful lot too. (Hi Daddy! I love you!)

This is my mom. She loves me so much that when I turned 37, she baked me a cake and drove over an hour to bring it to me. I love her more than she could possibly ever know. (Hi Mom! I love you!)

This is my husband. He loves me so much that he tolerated my bad year. One day, he told me to stop calculating everything and "just run!" His advice worked, literally and figuratively, on a number of issues that I had. I love him too, but he'd get embarrassed if I shouted it publicly on the internet. (Hi Hubby! I love you!)

By the way, this is how we celebrate 37 at my house: 

Crazy soccer skills. 

And mad basketball skills. 

So, I turned 37 just a while ago. It feels better than 36. I dig this trend, and I'm anxious to see what I can do with the next year. 

Branson: The Remix

We doubled down this year with season passes to Silver Dollar City. So, with passes in hand and a $44 motel (MOtel, not HOtel) awaiting our midnight arrival, we left behind our worries, cares, quite a bit of yard work, and even more laundry. The Ozarks were waiting!

I hope this photo becomes a family tradition. I love this hokey, pokey little amusement park. 

As a family, we have the unique ability to make a 5-hour roadtrip last at least 7 hours. As a toddler, Gigi has the unique ability to assess whether a road potty has an auto-flusher before the swagger wagon has made the exit. A prepared mommy (as I am) travels with a portable outhouse, or as it's known in our household, the frog potty. Portable. Green. Adorable and functional. Seven hours later, we arrived at our humble yet clean accommodation: the Branson Garden Inn. Conveniently located just 47 minutes away from the Branson Landing in summer traffic on Highway 76, the Inn boasts soap, towels, and a room air conditioner that could freeze the ice pops in the cooler if the room refrigerator didn't. Luxurious, the room was not; functional indeed.

We spent two full days at Silver Dollar City. 

And we noticed a disturbing trend with Gigi--it seems every time she's being particularly adorable, there's a pole. It makes a mother nervous. That combined with her religious views makes me downright anxious. "I don't want Jesus to hold me. Only mommy can hold me. But I played with Jesus. He put a Bandaid on me." 

RJ's faith is a little stronger these days: "Only Jesus can cut steel. Or big cutters. Really big strong cutters." His faith in his Daddy was strong enough to brave his first roller coaster, and my little daredevil loved it. 

Gigi discovered the foam blaster along with her brother. Really, who would think that a giant vacuum system with foam balls would be so entertaining. We spent an hour in there!

My little scientist experimented with putting her pigtail in the fountain at the spray park. 

The conclusion? Fun!

I promise, she was really excited to ride the pink pony (and yes, she is clinging to yet another pole-anxious, I tell you). Many tears were shed as we waved farewell and promised to come again. Of course, Silver Dollar City is also home to a real pony or two, and some goats. One of the things I love the most about this hokey little amusement park is the attitude that most of the retiree park hosts have toward kids and their job. The goat herder (for lack of better description) provided us with one of our biggest vacation smiles when he plucked Marshmallow the goat from her perch, set her on the ground, and softened his reprimand, "Oh Marshmallow, you know I still love you." Many parents (myself included) could learn a lot from the goat herder's gentle reprimand. 

Why yes, he did get a killer haircut before the trip. 

Ah, the red, white, and blue. I love the Fourth of July. 

Gigi loved the little playhouse at the park. I promise she did have on a matchy-matchy cute girlie outfit--just before she piddled on her pants. We were 2 blocks or 45 minutes from our motel on Highway 76, so her striped bloomers saved the day in a pinch. We're OSU girls anyway--orange pants are awesome. 

We rode the rapids!

Toddler troubles: when you're too short to see over the rails. 

Only Silver Dollar City would set up board games and blocks for an afternoon of fun. We could do the same on our patio--but with the patio comes the house--and with the house come the laundry, the dishes, and the vacuum cleaner (and it doesn't have fun foam balls to blast around, though perhaps I should look into something like that.)

He'll tell you he's too big for mommy snuggles. He'd be fibbing. 

He'd also tell you he's too big for the merry-go-round. 

He gave the dunk tank his best shot. 

In addition to Silver Dollar City, we managed to find a grand fireworks show.

We hung out. Sang some songs. Listened to some country music and played some basketball. As always, the swagger wagon was practical and accommodating, particular for a little princess who was casting her spell and sending up pink and purple fireworks just for us. She knew the trip was special: "Are we going on coronation?!" (We live in a Disney World when American little girls know more about coronations than vacations.)

Best seat in the parking lot. He's learning the rules of parking lots these days. Upon seeing a car with a sticker parking in the handicap space, he shouted, "Look!" I braced myself. "They have the password for that parking spot!"

We played some mini-golf. 

Drove some go-karts. 

And ate a lot of Cheetos. My children are like starving badgers when it comes to Cheetos. I had to beat them off the floor scraps and remind myself that the Lord gave them good immune systems as I discovered Gigi munching Cheetos that could have come only from the trash can (a motel trashcan--gah!)

I just love the Fourth of July, family vacations, and fireworks.