As a young girl, I remember my birthday parties vividly. School friends would gather at my suburban New Jersey home, splashing in our pool and spreading sleeping bags across the basement floor. The atmosphere would be filled with screams as eerie noises echoed from the walls, and teenage faces would make ghastly appearances through the basement windows. At first, I was frustrated with my siblings, but then I noticed how much my friends relished the spooky antics. The highlight of the day was receiving a plastic chain-link necklace adorned with colorful clip-on charms and a trendy off-the-shoulder shirt splattered with neon handprints.
I was 10.
Fast forward to August 1995. My father was hospitalized, and I visited him after finishing my shift at the perfume factory. With my recent decision to leave my telemarketing job—where my supervisor gently reminded me that selling was crucial—I found myself with free evenings. Dad was suffering from a kidney infection, a diagnosis far clearer than the mysterious illness that had plagued my mother the previous year. During that visit, I joyfully shared that I had purchased my first car, a beat-up tan 1983 Dodge. I had carefully saved $1,000 in cash for the purchase, the same way my mom used to pull money from her purse for groceries. I couldn’t wait to drive to campus in the fall and take my friends on adventures.
I was 20.
In August 2005, the heat was unbearable, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection; my round face and belly were unmistakable signs of pregnancy. Three years earlier, my husband and I had fallen in love with an old Colonial house, complete with charming hardwood floors, but it lacked air conditioning—a detail that didn’t seem significant during our cool December signing. I had resigned from my demanding law job, which I believed contributed to my struggles with infertility. Now, I was a stay-at-home mom-to-be, waiting for the arrival of my child. I spent my days in the nursery, observing my niece and nephews play while I rocked in the chair next to the empty crib, which our cat frequently occupied. The doctor predicted three more weeks, but we were unaware that our son would be fashionably late, arriving nearly five weeks later, safe and sound.
I was 30.
Now, in August 2015, the absence of air conditioning still affects us. I often take my laptop to the porch, hoping for a refreshing breeze as I write amidst the chaos of motherhood. With my children growing up quickly—my youngest starting kindergarten soon—I find myself reflecting on the past decade of parenting, filled with both challenges and joys. I embrace the summer warmth, preparing for the inevitable gray of winter that seems to seep into my life as the years pass. As my children grow more independent, I realize I too am evolving. I am replenishing my spirit and embracing my newfound strength and wholeness.
I am 40.
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In conclusion, the journey through the decades is marked by significant milestones of growth, both personally and as a parent. Each birthday not only signifies another year but also a deeper understanding of life and the beauty of transformation.