31

On July 25, 1988, a sniffle, some tears, and a plea emanated from a tucked-in-to-her-chin six year old me. “Tomorrow you’ll be seven years old!” my mother excitedly whispered as she kissed me goodnight. An anxious giggle, a what-gifts-await smirk, an I-can’t-wait-for-birthday-cake grin is what I think she was after. What she got instead was a sobbing, “but I don’t wanna be seven. I like being six.” This statement, this hope for reprieve, was quite amusing to my mom. Despite her apparent desire to laugh, she held me and assured me that everything would be okay, that seven would be just as good, if not better, than six. She then wiped my eyes, repositioned my covers, handed me my beloved Fuzzy Bear and left me until the morning. 

When I woke on July 26, 2011, I slid to the end of my bed, put my head in my hands and wept bitter “but I don’t wanna be 30” tears. Wet-faced and three decades old, I wished I was six again. I longed for someone to pass me a Kleenex, to make a promise that 30 is 29’s trump, to cradle me until I was sleepy enough to forget the terror of another year gone.  

As I welcome 31, I look back on this former self.  I don’t remember what was so fantastic about six.  I don’t know what was so scary about 30.  Like my mom, I tuck a chuckle behind a comforting embrace, pat myself on the back and say, “it really is okay, Jenny.  Seven was just as good as six and 30 wasn't so bad."  I then snuff the candles of those bitter birthdays and, with open mouth and nostrils flared, blow a wish that I will never again wish my days away.