So Far

Today, we are twenty-five—motherhood and me. The oldest of my three beautiful sons is twenty-five. In life experiences, all three are on learning paths toward their chosen careers, two of them are married, and they all delivered speeches.

We laughed and cried. Quite the speechmakers, these boys. And since this is the only anniversary I celebrate on the blog every year, you probably wonder if I do that thing in which I define myself by them.

I’m considering it, honestly. They’re awesome. And we’re in those glorious years when I don’t have to balance their diet or make the rules. I’m planning to be a watch-and-smile kind of parent now that they’re adults. Just, “so proud of you,” “I love how you did that,” and “I feel lucky to know you,” from now on to forever.

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I think a lot about this right now—how we define ourselves.

I think it would be so, so fun if the story of my life could be how I started a business and became a millionaire. In my last post, I said I was starting a business because I wish. The post was 100% sarcastic, and then someone I admire thought it was real and congratulated me on the new biz and I’ve been a little depressed ever since because why haven’t I?

The story of my life does not include anything shiny, lucrative, or even terribly successful when it comes to work. It’s not about becoming a celebrated novelist or famous actress, either. Based on my life reflections so far, the work subplot of my life is a thing to barely mention while the real adventure happens.

On my own birthday this year, I got a tattoo of the actual story of my life—all the good stuff.

The heart is because love is a very good story in my life—romance, being mama—all of it. The ribbon is because being a survivor is the story I tell myself every moment of every day when I veer even a hair toward taking precious aliveness for granted. The w is for writer because life is beautiful. I write to see it.

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My tattoo has three symbols—not for the three sons individually but because the sons make the number three another meaningful thing in the story of my life.

Every year on this day I revel in the being mama part of my life as though it is the only thing that matters, the only thing that makes me alive. What I mean to say is that not much of my story matters as much to me as being mama, but it’s not the only thing that matters for anyone.

What I hope to say is that we all have a story. We don’t get everything we want, but it is our divine right to lean into the best and beautiful parts that make our story something.

How we tell it—even to ourselves—makes all the difference.

And a pretty sweet tattoo.

Happy birthday, John Michael. And God bless all three of these precious speechmakers for my mama years. 💗💗💗