I turn thirty this month. I haven’t been posting regularly because I’ve felt like a freshly molded dog turd thanks to a [potential] stomach ulcer. Yippy!
Anyway, thirty isn’t a big deal for me — at last I’m not throwing a shindig. I’m going to make cake pops and see how many I can eat while drinking scotch before I throw up or wind up in the ER (kidding… sorta).
I’m aging. I got excited over a fridge a month and a half ago that my doting parents got us. I have this sexy beast in my house now covered in magnetic butterflies (THAT ARE THE SHIT!):
Frigidaire Gallery 20.5 Cu. Ft. 2-in-1 Upright Freezer or Refrigerator
This thing’s a BEAST. I make suggestive passes at it when I touch the stainless steel front. I’m tempted to write more smut about lusty appliances… Hey, don’t laugh. (If you get bored just go google this word: Sybian)
Anyway, so it converts between a fridge and a freezer which is mad-awesome if need be. We needed a freezerless fridge and thus this fit the bill. See, I have a giant chest freezer from Sears that is my go-to frozen food storage. I just didn’t need a fridge with another freezer, just a fridge to keep my not-frozen shit chill. What did it replace? Well, glad you asked. Our old fridge, a contraption built when I was a pre-teen, sometime prior to 1998 (no, I am not exaggerating). Had it been any older it would have required the name ‘Ice Box’ and restocking of actual ice. Yeah, we needed a new fridge.
I’m over-the-moon about this one.
Outside of the vast space and beautiful light and awesomeness of this thing, there is a con. That is that the seal on the door is so tight you can’t open it with the handle without raunching so hard you might tip the fridge over. So instead of using the handle you have to finger the seal (and thus break said seal) to get it open. It’s like aggressive foreplay with an food storage device but, frankly, it’s a minor detail once you get in the habit. AND our electric bill, now sans the giant ancient ice box from (again) 1998, is down nearly $20. Fluke? I dunno. We’ve run the AC like it’s hot upstairs (because it is) and the bill still dropped $20… Also, the internal temp on this thing does not violently flux like the old fridge. We’re stoked. (And the next appliance is a new hot water heater!).
But, yeah, being old makes you love the convenience of appliances. Between my Kitchen Aid, the fridge, the freezer, a dishwasher, washer, propane dryer that gets hotter than the hubs of hell, and a perfect little ice machine, I’m in a domesticated heaven with technology.
Turning 30 with twin girls and a spouse means the chaos of the night life, the loneliness of singledom, and plenty of freedoms are gone. Yet getting over the monotony of everyday life and responsibility, in even a semi-functional groove is … wildly and strangely liberating. Sure, I’m trapped camping out with my children but we have a lot we never did before. Having kids is hard work, it’s selfishly fulfilling, and getting a front row to it all is amazing –especially when they are sleeping or behaving but not while they are screaming at the top of their lungs. And my husband works an incredibly hard job, doing what he does well, doing exactly what he wanted to (well, at least in part). We’re getting shit done, making things work. It’s awesome. 😉
I mean, look at this beautiful crew?
I love my peeps. I love this so freakin’ much.
So no matter how much bullshit goes down I can’t even right now with how amazing our family is, how lucky we are, how much I want to rub some people’s noses in this glorious shit. Instead I’ll let them click this and fall into it themselves. Note: Not that I want to be mean to regular people who aren’t having a happy time or whatever — this is purely targeting people who said shit when we got pregnant and who still have all my spite.
Hi, fuckers, I’m turning 30 and we’ve a beautiful, happy family from the loins of an unwed mother!
Mark my words, I will have the last laugh.
This makes me feel warm inside (it’s probably the ulcer).
Sure, we have room to work out the kinks, still, and tons of opportunities ahead. You don’t get a better palette set and you don’t get do-overs anyway. It could, of course, go up in flames somehow, but we make what we can control count for what it’s worth. And it’s worth a lot in keeping this ship called our lives and little family afloat.
Unlike what people with age-based amnesia I have yet to attain, the last few years surely didn’t fly by. And what makes me dust off a shoulder in pride is that we worked our asses off for this. We did it together — with help sometimes and other times just bracing against the storm with each other here. Hoping. Trying. I was a Prisoner of War through a winter with twin infants — chasing diapers and bottles until I’d hit my knees for two hours, Will would come home do a diaper set and feeding set, then I’d get up and start again. Will was doing so much non-stop overtime I thought one of us was going to wind up in the ICU.
Time crawled at certain points — where we were at the wits end of things. During my existential crisis and postpartum PTSD (that I didn’t know was a thing). At one point I had an actual, literal existential crisis no one but my partner knew about. We both ran our gambit with being overtired and overworked. We had our blow ups, meltdowns, and we clawed our way to keep it working. This is blood-sweat-and-tears written all over it.
I’ve learned monotony, patience, and calm-functional parenting (minus one mega blow up after a pizza-on-the-Roku). We haven’t accomplished potty training and we’re working on being a bit behind in language… But it’s coming along. Slowly.
I turn thirty this year and my kids turn three. I’ve been with the man I love for four years and we’re happy. We’re still in love and lust. We’re tired but functional. And we’re making headway in being better financially than either of us have ever been.
I realize nothing is certain, everything is a lie, there is no truth, and everything is allowed…
But this is definitely okay.
And so is turning the dirty thirty.