A few days ago I slipped out of my twenties and entered the unchartered waters of a new decade. My thirties. Even as I type I find myself sighing with relief. I shall not miss the murky, muddy albeit rich waters of the past decade. Girlhood fading into womanhood against the backdrop of marriage and motherhood and the final severing of my parents’ apron strings; it has not been a smooth sailing.
I can’t help thinking that I have got my decades a little mixed up for contemporary tastes. Instead of carving a career, buying a flat in Clapham and enjoying city breaks on my hard-earned weekends, I have married a foreigner (at just 22), moved house no less than 9 times since graduating, and given birth to three beautiful boys. I may not have a clue how to make a margarita but I have honed my laundry skills to Olympic-gold standards.
Not that I am complaining. Much of what I have done (I might say accomplished – it is hard not to when I gaze on my children’s beautiful faces) is incredible whatever the age you do it. But, when I finished my degree and pursued a career in motherhood, I had no idea just how hard I would find both the silent work of the home and the sense of obscurity that seems to come with it. I have watched countless friends forge dazzling careers in the City, finally qualify as doctors after years of arduous training or travel to unseen corners of the globe. And they’ve had a fabulous time doing it.
But I’ve attended less than half the weddings I would have liked to. And not just because there haven’t been any weddings yet. Being the first to get married seems to knock you off your old friends’ wedding lists, perhaps in fear of you bringing the kids with you – or perhaps in chagrin at your absence from their countless house parties, dinner parties and social get-togethers over the years. Living away in Manchester for 7 years certainly culled many home-grown relationships. But, thanks to the sometimes-dubious benefits of Facebook, and quite simply, better time management (it seems the more children I have, paradoxically the more organised I become) I am rekindling old friendships.
As we emerge from the agonising self-seeking of the twenties I have had many pleasant surprises. We seem much calmer, more serene, and more whole. Self-image has finally been knocked down the list of priorities and we swop stories of life experiences and encounters. And, mercifully, inevitable discussions on politics seem less wantonly idealistic than they did ten years ago. While I have waded through nappies, hospitals and healthcare clinics with my disabled child, I have had the joy of seeing many friends rediscover themselves on the other side of a quarter-life crisis and enter the very same caring professions that serve my little J so well.
Looking back at the growing pains of my twenties, I can see why so many wait to get married now. Physical maturity might take place in your teens, but we save much of the emotional turmoil for the twenties. Getting your teething problems sorted out first, so you can really get your molars stuck into a serious relationship later makes jolly good, if a little clinical, sense. My husband and I have had to juggle our teething together. Calling us naive when we started out just doesn’t do us justice. We were like children (not that I think we are sage know-it-alls now). And yet, God-willing, I’ll be celebrating my tenth wedding anniversary as many of my peers walk up the aisle for the first time. Their sleepless nights will be from crying babies. Mine will be from teenage worry.
And I like to think that the wrinkles I am starting to notice are more pronounced due to early motherhood, not age, thus rendering them wrinkles of self-giving, rather than just a poor skincare routine or bad genes. It’s a long shot, and I’m coughing as I type, but it is a rather potent image of maternal self-sacrifice that is definitely more romantic than dry skin or bad soap.
Of course I haven’t helped that issue by going and organising a joint 30th birthday party with a friend who, despite being a fortnight younger than me, barely looks 25 and who, only a few months into pregnancy still has a smoother belly than mine 6 months postpartum. But life isn’t all about looks or I’ll be seriously moaning ten years from now, weeping in twenty and inconsolable in thirty. I intend to dance the night away with more energy than I have had for much of the last 8 child-producing years. I’ve got a lot of missed parties to make up for, so I’m kicking off my heels already.
So perhaps my ship is a little prematurely battered, but it is bolstered by three beautiful little blue sails and my handsome co-pilot at the helm. It hasn’t been always smooth sailing (the same is true of all my friends); navigating marriage, childbirth, disability and illness has rocked the boat like a quick succession of tsunamis. There have been the doldrums of depression that seemed to steal away two years of my life after C was born. Nevertheless, M and I are more sail-savvy now. Experience is starting to down-categorize hurricanes to tropical storms and we haven’t capsized yet. We’ve had amazing adventures, exciting encounters, watched glorious sunsets and if we look a little weather-beaten around the eyes, who cares, so long as we keep on smiling as we steer the ship into unknown waters.
The thirties? Bring them on.
sophiahc 