“I used to think I knew everything. Now as I get older, I realize there’s a lot I don’t know.” -every older person that wanted to annoy me
“Oh I know. Believe you me, I know.” -naïve self 

The first time I said my new age was on Twitter. It read, “I am 30.” Strangely, there was no unexplained vomiting or dying like I predicted would happen. It didn’t even taste bitter coming off my tongue. I might have actually smirked a little when I said it out loud, which I spoke while I was tweeting. So, I survived.

A new decade feels like a new life. I drag in a deep breath and see that my hands are more open instead of more determined like they were when I had 20 candles on my cake. I’m ready to embark. Guess I better be, I’ve already set sail. 
I reflect back on what I’m taking into this next stage.

Life is Unpredictable. I didn’t believe it until I lived it.
 When my belly swelled under maternity overalls that were a mistake, my Chase was building our first home. We lived in a makeshift apartment in his parent’s basement for two years while he worked full time, stacked logs to frame our walls, and drained himself over blueprints. On the same two beautiful acres he’d bought in high school, where he’d found the perfect pine tree to carve a marriage proposal, we were starting our life. Dreams of protecting toddler fingers from splinters, a constantly roaring fireplace, endless dinner conversations with our teenagers, and two rocking chairs surrounded with grandchildren filled my mind. A garden here, stone landscaping there. Christmases fit for a Pottery Barn spread.
Then baby girl came, and giggles were missed because of the hour-long drive to work and the hour-long drive home. We got feet of snow, not inches, that had to be plowed just to get down the driveway for milk again, and again. Winter gripped us much longer than summer graced us.
“Let’s buy a rental in town,” became “Let’s move into the rental,” became our new place. We had a boy, another girl, and seven years of memories I wouldn’t trade. 
It wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t what I planned. Until family time was robbed and suburbia gave it back. Yeah, life is unpredictable but that’s part of the fun.

Your True Heart is the Key to Freedom
Words.
Being a safe place for my kids to talk.
Not oatmeal. Or peas. Never peas.
Date night.
Abba.
A quote that changes me.
Writing. Horrible writing. Good writing.
Hours of reading. Horrible reading. Good reading.
Listening to someone hurting.
Letting someone hurt with me.
Strong coffee. Plenty of cream.
Boundaries.
Less self.
More women’s shelters. More homeless.
Time to change Barbie’s clothes. Time to get bandages on scrapes. Time to watch growth.
Hunger and thirst.
Second chances.

You Get to Change Your Mind
There is a place, a most precious place in our quaint metropolis that serves an old-fashioned, loud-waitress, you-are-family kind of menu. I secretly fantasize about working there when my all three of my children are in school for more than a morning. I’d thrive as an employee as much as I do a paying customer. Mostly because there are lots of retirees who sip coffee while talking about what used to be. I’d be fantastic at waving some decaf in their direction.
When we found this most valuable nugget I ordered a big breakfast. Choice of egg: scrambled. Choice of meat: sausage. Choice of pancakes or French toast: pancakes, as large as a dinner plate and drenched in an ice cream scoop of butter. Please.
My wise Tinys would get the homemade cinnamon roll. They gave me samples (meaning I used my mom voice to teach them “sharing”), and I’m telling you that coil of icing is not of this world. And I’m not entirely sure from which side of the eternal spectrum it comes forth. Then one day I tried the French toast. OK, there are no words. My order has shifted. Choice of egg: scrambled. Choice of meat: sausage. Choice of pancakes or French toast: the toast, don’t forget the ice cream scoop of butter. Please.
Because I’m a grown-up and being responsible doesn’t happen without humbly knowing you can be wrong or have the liberty to change your mind.

 There will be Loss
If there’s a hint of a sniffle, a whisper of a cold catching on, I can guarantee one or all of the kids will be calling my name in the night. “I need a tissue,” they say with a swipe of their sleeve.
A few short hours ago I was lying in the dark, clenching my retainer and whispering prayers about a new diagnosis. News of a friend that broke my man down to stunningly handsome tears.
We’ve said good-bye to more than we’ve wanted. We’ll do it again.
I’ve learned this is the cycle until my name is called.

So many lessons. Parenting is hard, and no one knows how to do it until they jump in, no matter the age. Marriage trails with the same statement. Farting will never not be funny, though I don’t do it. Conflict molds you when done well. Heartache draws you to Truth when you let it. Happiness isn’t as rich as peacefulness. Losing sleep is sometimes the only quiet moment I’ll steal, and when I steal chocolate. Seinfeld will forever be the backdrop to my laundry getting folded. 

And I’m pretty sure all those oldies who said the more they know, the more know they don’t know? They were right.