Turning 45 on Sunday made me stop and think about my life. Not in a "my life is almost over" kind of way, but in a "what is really important to me" way.
If I live to be 90, I'm halfway to dead. That is a big IF, if you ask me. No one in my family has lived that long. I think I might be lucky to make it to 80, in which case, I'm more than halfway dead. I don't really have time to mess around any more.
Like Wanda in the comic strip I love (Baby Blues), the kids in my life help to see that things I thought were problems might not really me the issues I should be worrying about. The Boy reminds me regularly that though I am shorter than he is, he loves me and will always be his favorite mom. The Girl has pulled off some really nice sentiments lately--maybe because she will begone fro 18 months shortly. But either way, they remind me that I am loved, even if they won't eat all my cooking.
If I am really sliding in to the end of middle ages, I hope that my mind will accept the fac tthat my body is just the way it is. I'm too lazy, or too comfortable being this size. As long as I can get around and do the things I want, I figure I'm good there.
So old and fat. Both are slightly true. And both are acceptable ways to be, in my opinion. Old and fat are easily trumped by "loved by my kids". And that will last longer than my age or weight.
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