So today is the last day of thirties. I’m trying to spend a little time thinking about that milestone.
When I was a kid, it seemed that turning 30 meant you were an adult; when my parents were young, turning 20 meant you were an adult. Now it seems increasingly like 40 is the (arbitrary) marking point. But whatever I thought being an “adult” would be, I don’t feel like I’ve achieved it yet!
I can’t say I’m happy to be turning 40, but I’m more at peace with it than I would have been without Phoebe. After all, I suppose being a parent is a sign of being “grown up.” And she is a pretty amazing early birthday present!
In other respects, I guess I can look back on my thirties with some measure of pride. I married my lifelong love. I published a book and a number of comics. I established a viable freelance career doing what I love. I’m working on a graphic novel project that I’m passionate about. I bought an apartment. I have many wonderful friends. I’m living in one of the world’s greatest cities. And now I’m a new dad!
The one thing that boggles my mind is the fact that when my mom was the age I am now, I was already 16 years old! (When Phoebe’s 16, I’ll be 56!) There’s no way I could have imagined being a parent at 24, like she and my dad were. But that was her generation, and this is ours.
So on to the 40s. Time to come up with some new goals.