That's how old I turned this week: 30.
I know a lot of people get existential crises when they turn thirty, but not me. I guess it's because I don't really feel that old. Sure, I have a few lines in my face that I didn't have ten years ago, but I'm ok with that.
When I was young I thought that being a grown-up meant being serious and never having any fun at all. It meant giving up the last strawberry so your kids could have it (WHO DOES THAT?!) and having to clean up poop.
Well, I am definitely up to my elbows in poop. But I don't mind giving up the last strawberry. Nor could anyone accuse me of being overly serious. Example: Last week at Karate when we did sparring, I started jumping up and down like a little kid and said, "Sparring sparring sparring whee!" I still like cartoons.
I haven't "gotten my body back" after having the Shieldmaiden (I should have named her "Princess Drooly-face."), but I'm healthier now, at age 30, three months after birthing my third child, than I was when I was 20. (It's the Karate.) So life is pretty good. Yay for being 30.