If you are the rounding kind, I am now officially closer to 40 than 30. Last week was my semi-big 3-5 birthday. It’s different having a birthday once you have a kid, especially when their birthday is just a week after yours. The contrast between the kid’s excitement to your own makes turning older even more of a let down. I remember how magical birthdays were as a child, but instead of getting depressed about turning another year older, now I just tend to go a little overboard in celebration of Iris.

For me, 35 is putting on comfy pants any time I walk in the door. It’s drinking wine instead of beer… even though I love beer. It’s pouring a glass as soon as the workday is done. It’s also dinner at six and bed by nine. It’s trashy TV shows and not knowing when you last read a book. It’s meal planning and cooking, with somehow not minding it. It’s still caring about what I look like, but not having enough time to do anything about it. It’s “sleeping in” until seven AM. It’s taking care of everyone else before myself. It’s about balancing adventure with responsibility the best I can.

35 is not caring that your birthday is just like any other day. With the night spent giving your kid a bath… In your comfy pants, with that glass of wine and a dirty mirror. It’s about being old enough to know that one day you’ll look back and sincerely miss these nights the most. And young enough to wonder about the adventures that are still in store.