When, as a kid, I pictured myself as a grown up, I envisioned a mature, pretty lady wearing a nice sweaters and slacks with killer boots, working at a cool job, being deeply in love with an attractive blonde man, and carrying a baby on her hip. And this grown up I pictured was always 34.

Some people have the “scary age.” I don’t know that I have one of those, but I have always thought that when I hit 34, I’d be a grown up. I’d be that vision I carried in my head of the put-together, professional, happy mom and wife.

Greg’s not blonde and I rarely look “put together” (at least not on days when it rains and my hair turns into a frizzy mess before I’ve walked through the office door), but the rest of it is pretty close.

So today, on my 34th birthday, I am filled with gratitude, love, and a bit of smug satisfaction that the image of adulthood I’ve had my entire life has almost completely come true.

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