I celebrated the wrong year

I celebrated my 38th birthday last week. Yep - somehow the little girl running around Thornbury in Melbourne and rebelling at RMIT university in her teens is now in her 'late 30s'. Somehow that girl was woken up to breakfast in bed made lovingly by her husband and the most glorious roses chosen by her eldest son. And there were also some cute hand-drawn cards by both of her little boys. And lovely gifts and wishes from all over the world. And cake. One must always eat cake.

I have never truly celebrated my birthday - well, never rejoiced in it. Until I turned 37, that is - I was ever so grateful for turning 37. I had a health scare and thought I wouldn't see that day. But I did and finally understood what it was like to be thankful for being my age. I don't get the peeps who don't like aging and who don't want to look old. I do! It's a right of passage, I think - a gift for being on this earth so long. A visual reminder of how long you have been here for. I don't ever not want to look like my true self.

Every year until I turned 37 I would casually glance at my birthday and think, oh how lovely, another little birthday. But then when New Years Eve came around I would madly think of how to make the next year better and what plans I could have for it. I celebrated the New Year more than my own age.

Now I realise, in my life, NYE means nothing. It's just another year on a calendar. But being blessed with another year to live life and love my family and friends - well, that is something special and something that should be thankful for. I am so thankful to be 38. And I have plans for my 39th year of being around these parts...

xNess