It’s November, which is something I’ve been waiting for most of the year. I love the end of the year, from October straight on through New Year’s (though October slightly less because it tends to be bad luck for me in general), and I’m feeling really good this year, at least on a personal level. Thanks to a generous gift from Kyle’s grandfather, we’re actually feeling comfortable financially, and we’re able to get started on celebrating Christmas and giving our kids a fantastic holiday season.

Facebook’s memories feature keeps reminding me that, for several years in the past, November meant the start of NaNoWriMo for me. Nano, for the uninitiated, is National Novel Writing Month. It’s this big… thing where people across the country and world sit down and try to bang out 50,000 words over the thirty days that make up November. It usually involves a lot of crying, swearing, and procrastination on some level.

(shown: 6 hours of work)

For me, it typically involved (past tense for now, I’ll get to that in a minute) the early adoption of Christmas music, as somehow, the dulcet tones of holiday hits, both present and past, get my writing fingers going. The words flow, the stories build, and I get things done when there’s Christmas music playing. For some reason.

(sidebar: I discovered this during graduate school, when I’d procrastinated on my final paper and presentation until the night before. I poured myself a bowl of cereal, turned the TV on to the Music Choice Sounds of the Seasons channel, and banged out 15 pages of philosophy/rhetoric thoughts and a 10 minute presentation; and combined, the two earned a 95, and I got a 93 for the class. Moral of the story? As we used to say back when I studied at Oxford, procrastination is merely the realization that true genius is forged in the white hot flames of crisis)

So anyway, that used to be the case, but for obvious reasons, Nano has been a struggle since 2014. I started to try it that November, but Sam was six months old, we were in the process of buying a house, and my body was still adjusting to my antidepressants. The next year, I was working, as with the year after that and the year after that. This year, I’m not working, but I now have two eight-month-old babies and a four-year-old.

“So what?” says the reader, and I say, so I’m tired. I have ideas, but they mostly come to me as I’m drifting off to sleep late at night, and I’m far too tired to pull myself out of bed and get them on paper or else wake myself up properly enough to make a note about them (though I probably should do that). I’m tired, and I hate it. God, I miss writing, but by the time I get to the end of the day, even the best days, I’m ready to zonk out, floating with that feeling of running on E.

I’ve always compared writing to oxygen for me, and though I’ve been reading plenty, I haven’t been creating as much, so it feels a bit like taking a deep breath and holding it for a while. Sooner or later, you need to exhale.

Which is what this blog is, I suppose: a small exhale for me. I have ideas I want to play with and develop, I have stories I want to keep telling and start telling; I just get to the end of the day and stare at the blank page and wish it would just fill itself without me needing to think about it. I used to be able to do that, honestly, but I think I’m just so drained by this particular phase of my life that it’s harder than it should be. Ugh.

But it’s a phase, and Sam will be in kindergarten next year, and it’s only four or so  years until the twins are in preschool 2-3 days a week, depending on what school we send them to. I have plans, and people say, “Don’t wait! Start today!” but seriously, I’m tired. I know what will happen the first morning all three of my children are at school: I will nap. The second morning, I will go and buy a dozen donuts only for me. The third morning, I will write.

(of course, the best laid plans and all that; I’ll probably spend the first morning sobbing, the second morning watching The Price is Right, and the third morning constructing an elaborate city in The Sims or something)

Speaking of phases, though, I’m an hour and a half away from turning 35!

(how’s that for a segue? Yep, I’ve still got it)

Thirty-five. It’s a weird number. When it comes to fertility, it’s this dreaded number, where your fertility drops off and you start producing the weird eggs, the old and dusty bottom of your reserve. This isn’t really true, actually; your fertility drops off a little at 35, but it’s not this drastic thing. Still, though, once you hit 35, any fertility dances you do are done with an added caution sign.

Which– I used to be worried about it, but now I’ve got three kids, and any further kids I’d want to have would come from the embryos I froze last year, so I’m actually kind of okay with 35 from a fertility perspective.

Obviously not the only one that matters, but I’m happy. Life is honestly pretty good right now. The kids are fantastic. Kyle is incredible. I’ve got a comfortable home, a rockin minivan (two words I don’t usually expect to put together), great friends, and awesome family. If this is 35, I’m loving it.

A couple of months ago, I was at a family get-together, and my mom frowned and plucked a grey hair from my head. I no longer get carded, as Kyle and I discovered when we went out to eat the other day (and I was served possibly the worst cosmopolitan I’ve ever had, by the way). My joints snap, crackle, and pop when I try to function. I am well acquainted with back pain.

But I don’t really mind it. There’s this weird life stigma against aging, that it’s something to dread or feel sad about, but I don’t. Grey hair is easier to dye fun colors. No longer being carded means I don’t have to fish for my wallet every time I want a glass of moscato. I’m not a fan of all the aches and pains, but they’re manageable enough thus far.

Basically, aging has been pretty great thus far, and I’m looking forward to the future, to seeing where my life goes from here, to grabbing onto and living out new dreams.