Today marks the first day of my bonus year.
Ever since the girl’s birthday they have been mildly obsessed with finding out how old everyone and everything is. They know my birthday is after Christmas, and ever since Christmas Day they have been asking me how old I will be. I’m all for upfront honesty with my kids so I proudly proclaimed that I would be thirty-seven (yes girls that is a three and a seven and yes that is old) on my next birthday.
Thirty-seven… hmm that is starting to sound a little old isn’t it? Like maybe I need to grow up and stop wearing my hair in a pony tail with bright coloured hair ties? Maybe I need to buy some grown up shoes and quit singing into my hair brush and dancing around the house? Thirty-seven, old enough to make me take a moment and think about life, but not so ancient as to feel life is over. Still, thirty-seven, my ‘child bearing years’ are rapidly racing away….
It was during one of the ‘how old are you going to be Mama?’ conversations while we were away that my best friend stopped me. “You can’t be turning thirty-seven”.
“Yes I am” I assured her… “I know it’s old… but you know, it happens to us all.”
“But you are only turning thirty-six”.
Hang on a minute….
Ok so I have never been very good at maths, but a quick calculation, a thought about how old my children are and how old my husband is and yeeeehaaa… BONUS YEAR! The year you have when you find out you are actually a year younger than you thought you were!
I am not sure what you are supposed to do with a bonus year…. something spectacular no doubt. I am not quite sure if I can live up to that expectation. After all, despite my bonus year, it seems that dementia has already begun to set in, since it took someone else to tell me how old I was.
Happy Birthday Me.