Thirty.

So its taken me four months to get around to writing a post about turning thirty. And that pretty much sums it up I guess. I'm busy. Busy and happy. And I don't think I've ever used those two words in the same sentence before. The first decade of my life was spent avoiding work by any means necessary- hiding under my bed, hiding in my parents closet, hiding in the forest surrounding my house, feigning illness, deafness, mental incapacity, or just straight up refusing to help stack firewood. I reasoned I had better ways to spend my time than bowing to the demands of school and home. I had stories to write, clothes to design, imaginary dragons to talk to. "I can't WAIT until I'm a grown-up" I wrote in my pink diary, "Grown-ups can do ANYTHING they want."

The second decade of my life was spent avoiding work as well as experimenting with haircuts that best represented my teenage angst. The only point I saw in completing my homework was avoiding confrontation. I was not career-driven, but I think I kept telling everyone I wanted to go into graphic design so they would leave me alone. But I was far too busy nursing my inner-turmoil with John Steinbeck novels and Radiohead to do anything really productive. My only real goals were to get the heck out of Lake County, fall in love, and have a family. Plan B included writing a book and becoming a keyboardist in an alternative band.

There is something to be said for having realistic expectations. I did get the heck out of Lake County, earlier than anticipated and I did fall in love. Several times. Until I actually did fall in love with Andy, whom I married and started a family with. And lived happily ever after...for a week until it hit me- marriage is WORK? What the-! It turns out, marriage and motherhood require more of you than most careers do and they pay significantly less (although the benefits are pretty sweet). What happened to "Grown-ups can do anything they want?" Its bull crap. I have since learned that work of one kind or another is unavoidable. And the few exceptions to that last statement apply only to the very ill and douche bags. Not to be confused with very ill douche bags, which is another thing entirely. 

I started with the cooking. It is a good thing I married a kind man with a stomach of molten lava. Before marriage I survived on a steady diet of tuna, microwaved potatoes, and Marshmallow Mateys. Today, thanks to ten years trial & error and the invention of cooking blogs, I feed a family of five reasonably well-balanced and delicious meals. Developing a work-ethic at age 22 by caring for a colicky infant while simultaneously learning to cook and clean, gain self-esteem, and budget is a crash-course in reality I do not recommend. Although effective, it was difficult and depressing. Depressing, yet strangely empowering. Like maybe I can do anything if I give birth to three high-maintenance girls while learning life-skills.

Maybe I can make curtains and paint furniture and grow my own vegetables and run and teach piano and write a book and buy $50 boots. I'm a grown up sucka! Thirty is fantastic because I finally feel comfortable in my own skin, confident in my choices, happy to be celebrating ten awesome years with my best friend and husband, happy to have a good relationship with my three fantastic daughters, happy that I can finally make Bruschetta Chicken, get puke out of sheets, budget my money, manage my time, and all do all those other totally unglamorous things grown ups do. Thirty is unstoppable. I may even go back to school and become a graphic designer after all...as long as its not TOO much work.

The Language of Love.

Love Language #1: Quality Time

Poor Norman. He just wanted some one-on-one. That's what made him feel special. A private conversation with plenty of eye- contact. A little mutual bonding. Time spent together in pleasant activities- like taking a walk, sharing a bundt cake, playing a board game, taxidermy... Why not take some time for your favorite psycho this Valentine's Day. A little quality time goes a long way.


Love Language # 2: Words of Affirmation

For Grima, a simple, "I love you." would have really made his day. He needed a little verbal reassurance. Maybe a "thank you for folding the laundry, Grima," or a "your hair looks especially wet today, Grima," or a "You certainly have a knack for emotional-manipulation, Grima." Don't let another day pass you by. Take the opportunity to say what's in your heart.



Love Language #3: Gifts
All Xerxes wanted was the world. He showed his affection through gift-giving. Some reciprocity would have been nice. Like a thoughtful card, or that new sweater he's been eye-balling, maybe another golden-piercing, or countless subordinate minions. It isn't the price tag, but the thought that counts. Be kind. Put some thought into the gifts you give.


Love Language #4: Physical Touch
Give him a Baby Ruth and he's yours for a day. But what makes Sloth really feel loved is a hug, or a nice, wet lickery kiss, watching pirate movies cuddled up on the couch. Don't be a goonie. Show your love a little physical affection.




Love Language #5: Acts of Service
The question isn't what would Gollum do for his Precious, but what wouldn't he do for his Precious. Suffer torture in the hands of cruel orcses? Take out the garbage? Hike across Middle Earth?  Dive into the fiery depths of Mt. Doom? Make a favorite dinner? Find ways to serve your Precious. When your love is truly giving it will come back to you ten-fold.

The Real Clause.

You might not want to read this around innocent children or puppies.

I stopped believing in Santa the year I realized there was no way anything larger than a chipmunk could fit down our tiny chimney. My mom attempted to assuage my concerns by suggesting he came through the front door, which actually did not make me feel better at all. Santa coming through the front door= Super Lame. Plus, coming through the door would require he park his sled in our driveway and I had absolutely no evidence that a reindeer, let alone thirteen, had ever set hoof on our property. Raccoon prints- yes. Reindeer prints- no. Either Santa was breaking some pretty major Christmas code exploiting small woodland creatures or somebody else was the one eating the plateful of cookies. Somebody with a key.

Strike two against Clause was the fact that he never brought me what I asked for in the letters I wrote him at school. Granted, he brought me plenty of cool stuff- like mind puzzles and a light-up globe. But the thing was, I specifically asked for tiny fairy dolls with fairy outfits and accessories that existed only in my mind. I figured A) Santa's magic and B) He's got factories of free elf-laborers working overtime for him. He shouldn't have any trouble making it happen. Only every year the dude totally ignored me, almost like he wasn't reading my letters at all. Almost like somebody else was putting the presents under the tree. Somebody who had absolutely no clue what I wanted.

Strike three: Through the years I had encountered more than one fat man claiming to be Santa Clause. And not one of them made me "laugh when I saw him in spite of myself". No, not one Santa inspired anything but emotional discomfort bordering on terror- the exact reaction I have always had to clowns. Never trust a grown man in costume. If these false-Santas were anything like the real thing, I was dead bolting our front door. He could keep his light up globe. He and his army of scavenging raccoons.
My suspicions grew as Christmas morning came and I rushed down the stairs with my little sister, only to be spun around and marched directly back up the stairs by my Grinchy Dad to wait until Mom was ready. And you know Mom took her sweet time; she stretched and yawned and dragged each leg out of bed. Her hair a feathery-nest as she zombied towards the bathroom; My parents must have gotten some amount of satisfaction torturing us every Christmas. They had us right where they wanted us and my dad made sure he captured every second of the occasion on film.

When my mom finally emerged in her bathrobe, hair fluffed and camera-ready, we were given the green light to re-descend the stairs and race to our presents, so long as we were facing the camera. My generally mild little sister flew from nutcracker to toy to whatever else "Santa" had brought us shouting with territorial enthusiasm "That's mine! Look Diana! That's mine!" while I smiled and steeled myself for the probable socks that waited like ticking bombs of disappointment inside their deceptively happy wrappings. Wrapping paper which, I couldn't help noticing, looked incredibly like my mother's wrapping paper.

"Santa has the same wrapping paper we do." I tested conversationally.

"Well, Santa must have been running short on time and wrapped your presents here."

"Mommy! My reindeer won't work." My sister fidgeted with the on-switch of the electronic Rudolph she had claimed.

"Stupid Dang Santa forgot the batteries!" Mom exclaimed in exasperation. That sounded about right for an illiterate Santa who flew raccoons and came through front doors. It also sounded a lot like my Mom. It was then that I knew: I didn't have a Santa Clause magically providing me with gifts. And with this realization came a greater appreciation for what I did have: two parents who loved me. Even as they bumbled their way through Christmas, they did it for me and my sister- to make the holiday special for us. I also had a plethora of socks.

I continued humoring them for several years, all the while planning how to break the news. I would get up in the middle of the night Christmas Eve, add a few presents of my own, leaving hoof prints all over the driveway effectively blowing their minds. But I was nine and knew I couldn't pull it off convincingly so I settled on telling my little sister who didn't take it as well as I had.

"No Diana YOU'RE WRONG! Mom and Dad would never LIE to us!"

Yes they would. Merry Christmas!