As I enter my 40th year, I find myself this morning at the kitchen table, diligently assembling a model Porsche with my seven-year-old son. It’s a stunning red Boxster—a sight that dazzles from the box, at least. With school out, my son and his older sister bounce into the kitchen, asking, “Mom, are you going to be using the kitchen?”
“Well, not exactly,” I reply, a touch hesitantly.
It turns out today is Car Day, and the kitchen is the chosen workshop. My son, full of excitement, has decided he can’t wait for the weekend when Dad can lend a hand. In an instant, he scatters all the model parts across the table, leaving my personal plans in the dust.
As I carefully follow the confusing instructions to piece together the Porsche, my son cheers me on. But soon, he dashes off to join his sister in an imaginative game involving a mountain of toy cars scattered over the kitchen floor. It’s a scene reminiscent of their toddler years, and clearly, that playful spirit hasn’t faded with age.
To be honest, model car assembly is not my strong suit. The tiny pieces, the perplexing directions with illustrations that hardly match the parts, the holes that are just too small, and those flimsy screws that seem to vanish—it’s all quite the puzzle.
“Oh no!” A rebellious screw goes pinging across the floor and disappears without a trace. My kids groan in unison: “Moooom!” I remind them (not very convincingly) that this wasn’t my idea; typically, this is Dad’s territory. We all dive to the ground, brushing aside crumbs and dust bunnies, until we finally recover the crucial screw.
But you know what? This is my life at 40, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. These little voices calling me away from my computer (“You love your computer more than us!”) so that I can witness their latest skit or marvel at a quirky house made from shoeboxes for their pipe-cleaner figures—this is the stuff of life.
I once envisioned that turning 40 would mean I’d be a sophisticated go-getter, probably too preoccupied to assemble a model car. I imagined myself as a better-spoken, better-dressed woman, with a life defined by meaningful accomplishments rather than reacting to strawberry jam stains on my daughter’s favorite shirt, which she needs for school tomorrow.
“Mom! With the Porsche, we now have eighty-nine cars!” my daughter exclaims joyfully. Seriously, how does one family accumulate so many toy cars? Clearly, my assumptions about growing older were a bit off. The sight of those eighty-nine cars scattered around is a vivid reminder of the joy and chaos of family life.
Reaching this milestone birthday, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that change has been gradual and gentle, rather than the dramatic shift I once expected. I’m content sitting here in my jeans, perfectly attired for engaging with what truly matters—my kids and yes, that model car. A sense of accomplishment? Absolutely. My little clients are thrilled, even if I couldn’t quite get those headlights on.
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In summary, while my 40th birthday may not align with my youthful daydreams, I’m finding joy in the little moments that create a rich and fulfilling life.