Last night: A surprise birthday party at Beki’s (I had NO idea), a roomful of wonderful friends, calories galore, and a hilarious game of Catch Phrase, where Allie made the amusing observation that I make “jazz hands” every time I pass the buzzer.

Today: An 8 a.m. phone call from Pete in Brazil, my baby boy singing “Happy Burr-day Dear Mama,” chocolate cake with Beki’s family, and a parting hug from my mom at the airport.

This morning, as we drove to church, Mom asked, “So how do you feel?”

“Older and wiser,” I quipped, my eyes on the road.

“And you should feel loved,” Mom said. “You’re very loved.”

I paused. Mothers have a way of bringing it all home.

I think a lot about the people I love — your faces, your stories, your joys and pains. But to think about being loved — me of the funny faces and the jazz hands and the silly quirks — now that is something else entirely. To pause and consider your love — to unwrap it, and hold it up to the light — is a great gift.

The greatest gift.

Thank you.

Love,

A Very Grateful & Blessed Thirty-Year-Old

Friend or foe? Read on…

No, my biggest fear is not llamas (although that would be pretty funny). This photo simply serves as a “warning shot” that a paralyzingly scary picture is soon to follow. We’re talking BLOOD-CURDLING here. I recommend that those who are faint of heart please place their hands over their faces and read this entry through cracked fingers. I certainly would.

Okay, here goes.

Are you ready?

AAAAAGGH!!!!!!!!!

Hee hee, that was just a test. Now get those hands up! You’ve been warned!!

As you may have guessed from the photos above, we spent the day at the zoo with my mom. Pete is in Brazil through Thursday, so it was especially nice to have my mom there for moral support as I stared down my demons.

By demons, I mean SNAKES (they are synonymous). The very word makes me shudder.

For as long as I can remember, I have suffered from an intense phobia of these legless, slithering creatures. We are not talking about an Indiana Jones-like distaste or general fear. Picture a grown woman trembling and sniveling all over herself, leaping six feet sideways to avoid a piece of old tire on the ground that displays snake-like qualities. I do not like fake rubber snakes. I do not like pet store snakes. I do not like ferrets, because they resemble snakes with fur.

I do not like them, Sam I Am. Here, there, or anywhere.

So it was with fear and trembling that I entered the Reptile House for perhaps the first time in My Entire Life, surrounding myself with cases full of snakes of all colors and sizes and degrees of evil.

Allow me to present to you the capstone of the Pushing 30 Project: me staring Death (or at least His Agents) in the face.

(Gee, do you think Noah sensed my fear?)

I would keep typing, but that picture is giving me the creeps. Tune in tomorrow for the Grand Celebration (my birthday!) where I promise the only scary picture will be Me at Thirty with all the gray hairs and cellulite that crop up overnight.

Goodbye, 20s! It’s been fun!

Don’t laugh — this may be my greatest act of daring-do since I started these 30-day shenanigans. This woman is the Yoda of Scrabble. She is the Triple Word Score Tyrant. She can make words that start with “Q” that don’t even require an accompanying “U.”

[Case in point: QAT (noun). A shrub cultivated in the Middle East and Africa for its leaves and buds. Are you getting the picture?]

A face-off with my mother over a Scrabble board requires three things: courage, laser-beam focus, and humility.


Because she will beat you.

Do not be fooled by her pleasant, self-effacing demeanor. The moment victory is in sight, this person emerges:

Yeah. Consider yourself warned.

There will be a day when victory is mine. I may be 30, I may be 60. I may have to wait until she can’t see the tiles properly and then sneak in “QAT” on a triple-word score.

Just don’t expect her to let the birthday girl win.

Riding Whiskey, My Noble Steed

Whoa, Nelly. Is that a horse I see? For me? For me?

(The six-year-old in me is jumping up and down and clapping.)

It looks like 20+ years of wishing for a pony for my birthday have finally paid off.

Beki’s birthday present — a morning ride on her (former) horse, Whiskey — certainly met the Pushing 30 criteria of celebrating life in all its fullness and wonder. As she, a seasoned horsewoman, will attest, there is nothing like the sight and smell and feel of a horse.


For Whiskey, however, I can imagine there are better things than the sight and smell of me on a Thursday morning, with all my quivering nervousness and excitement for The Big Ride. So we made friends over a handful of carrots.

Apparently we are alike in our ability to bond over a good snack.

Beki taught me all kinds of helpful things about good horsemanship, like how to brush Whiskey, how to saddle her up, and how to scoop out her hooves before riding.

I taught Whiskey how to pose for close-ups.

Cheese!

Climbing into the saddle, or should I say, mounting the horse (I am still perfecting my lingo), was exhilarating. Insert sneaker in stirrup, grab saddle horn, say prayer, and swing a leg over.

Ta-dah! Yay for us.


From that point on, with Beki’s careful guidance, it was an easy ride. We walked and trotted, dodged the occasional tree limb (it was easy to forget I was the one steering), and perused the property. If it weren’t for the fence and my love for Beki, and the fact that I am totally inexperienced, I would have ridden off into the sunset.

Because I like the view from the driver’ seat.

As does Beki (who actually could ride off into the sunset):

And to quote wisdom of old, “There is nothing better for the inside of a man than the outside of a horse.”

I know Beki would agree. Thanks, friend, for an unforgettable gift.

You do not want me for an exercise partner. I whine, I oversleep, I feign communicable diseases. I walk slowly and stop to retie my shoelaces. I wear gym shorts that date back to the early ’90s. I communicate in grunts between the hours of 6:00 and 7:00 a.m. I refuse to jog, except through major intersections. I resemble the Geico caveman.

But Beki refuses to give up. She seems to think I have exercise potential.

So today we walked. And talked. And talked. And walked. And because we met at 7:00, my full vocabulary was up and running — which made the excursion rather enjoyable, I must admit.

But I still looked like the Geico caveman.

Carpe diem!

Making room could well be my theme for 2008. Making room in my life for the things that really matter. Making room for relationships, study, creative pursuits. Making room for prayer and stillness. Making room for the needs of others.

But tonight, dear friends —

— it’s all about making room in my refrigerator.

Guess whose mother is spontaneously flying in from Colorado to help celebrate her daughter’s 30th birthday?!

MINE. How’d you guess?

If you saw this post, you know I have a bit of work to do over the next 36 hours to prepare for her Thursday afternoon arrival. So instead of skydiving, I guess I’ll sort through the contents of the Frigidaire.

I don’t know what to call this next picture: I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! or I Can’t Believe I Have Four Open Containers of This Stuff!

Apparently, I missed the memo on finishing one container before you open another. Mom, you may need to offer a refresher course when you get here.


My efforts are not limited to the kitchen — I am also a lean, mean, shreddin’ machine. Oh, the detritus of our days…

I am proud to have snuck these gems into the garbage before Noah decided to use our bank statements as confetti. Phew.

Making room, cleaning out, paring down, emptying. It is a relief to usher the clutter out of my house and life, and to prepare to fill it with the sweet, joyful presence of Mom.

I took a day off from my project.

Because it’s almost my birthday.

Because it is raining outside.

Because I am too busy indulging in Beki’s homemade chicken pot pie to think about anything besides its chickeny creamy goodness.

Because you probably don’t want to hear anything more about my personal hygiene.

Because the novel I’m reading is halfway decent.

Because I can. And it’s oh-so liberating.

The blank canvas. I have to believe even Angelina Jolie has mornings like this.

If you have been reading this blog for more than five and a half minutes, you know that I have a rather tempestuous relationship with my hair. I did not realize that my penchant for holding a 400-degree flat iron to my scalp was actually an extension of my control-freak personality until I read this article online. I don’t know which is more frightening: my psyche or the fact that someone actually took the time to analyze the deeper psychological underpinnings of a hairdo.

I would not want to see their file on Billy Ray’s mullet.

For Pushing 30 Challenge #24, I hosted an international peace summit between my flat iron (straight hair) and my diffuser (curly hair). The outcome of our peace accord was enhanced by my online research, where I discovered a new and life-altering way to tame the mane.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you… THE URBAN TURBAN.

Actually, it’s a beauty technique called “plopping” aimed at enhancing curl structure, but because I find that name so distasteful on so many levels, I am changing it to the “Urban Turban.”

It is a multi-step process that involves wrapping your wet hair in a T-shirt to set curls into clumps…

… while absorbing excess moisture. Is it me, or am I straight out of The Gleaners? (See Dad, I did pay attention in art history.)

*WARNING: Do not expect your spouse to find you even remotely attractive during the beautification process. This is not pretty, people. I recommend hiding in a locked room with coffee and the Today show for at least 20 minutes. (To quote Noah: “You look funny, Mama.”)

Once you reach the air-dry stage, it is safe to come out in public.

‘Til at last — ta-dah! —

— you fully emerge from your T-shirt cocoon like a beautiful butterfly.

Or at least, you no longer scare small children.

Kudos to anyone who can tell me where my title quote came from.


Anybody? Anybody?

Ding ding ding! Time’s up. It’s from Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, one of Noah’s all-time favorite books (and mine).

Earlier in the day, at the breakfast table, I demonstrated for Noah what a wild rumpus is. It involved me getting up and dancing around the living room to an imaginary tribal beat, arms flailing, knees bouncing. Noah laughed that deep, aerobic belly laugh that I love so much. Since I don’t have any pictures of that (except for the ones now in your head), I am posting the ones from our afternoon “rumpus” at Iain’s birthday party, where we bounced like wild things on the birthday boy’s new trampoline.

Does this lady look 30 to you?

On second thought, don’t answer that.

You do not have to have great teeth to change the world. Just ask George Washington.

But for once, I would like to not be the person who covers the down payment on my dentist’s new Mercedes every time I darken the door of her office. I am the brushing, rinsing, flossing type who, despite her best efforts, cannot avoid the Cavity Club. I am a lifetime member.

Challenge Day 22 ends the great Flossing Rebellion, in which I briefly scorned the cool minty tape out of sheer frustration with my recalcitrant gums. I renounce my rash vows that flossing makes no difference to the health of my cavity-prone teeth. Deep down, I know it’s a good thing.

I just hate it.

If you are brave, leave a comment and confess whether you are a Lapsed Flosser, an Anti-Flosser, or a Model Flosser. I really would like to know.