It’s still quiet in my house and I lay awake another year older. I am 30.
For a split moment my husband is peacefully sleeping — our son’s feet are hovering near his throat but not penetrating yet.
The dogs are rustling — on the verge of unleashing their rooster-like screams — but all is quiet and I am 30.
The alien inside me is no longer twisting, turning, kicking, jumping, hiccuping and doing Tai Chi. “She” (fingers crossed) has joined in on the family sleep time and I’m enjoying the serenity.
My early 20s were an ambiguous mess of “what’s next?” and my mid-20s were depressed by job loss and a market crash. My later 20s have been a climb: to where I am still not sure.
I’m turning the corner to 30 unaware of next year, the next five, the next 30. I only know that my home is quiet, my mind is rested and today will be starting any moment. Ready, set, woof.