33 Years and 33 Months

When I turned my lucky number 33 in September, I thought “this is the year I”: finish my thesis, workout 6 days a week, maintain a spotless house, read more books, write one book and maybe even solve world peace in between binge watching Parks and Recreation (love you, Amy Poehler) and now Fuller House (damn you, Mary Kate and Ashley). Anyway, age 33 is half over and here I am, with none of the above accomplished save for the Netflix episodes. Coincidentally, my precious 2 almost 3-year-old just turned 33 months and it got me thinking how I view myself and how she views herself, which I’ll tie together at the end. Until I reach my point, here are the similarities and differences between 33 months and 33 years old.

At 33 months, Gabrielle Grace struggles to wake up each and every morning. This little night owl sings herself to sleep each night for at least a half an hour, hence why she assumes the form of a teenage boy at 7:30 a.m. the next day. At 33 years old, I’m an early bird whose friends are worried if I’m awake past 9:30 p.m.

At 33 months, Gabby refuses to wear “wiggly pants” which is anything but snug leggings. At 33 years old, I wish it was acceptable for me to wear wiggly pants to work.

At 33 months old, she still can’t spit out her toothpaste, so I brush her teeth and she swallows most of it. She wants to use the floss sticks even though most of her teeth don’t even touch. At 33 years old, I’m so over flossing, except for the night before my dentist appointment.

At 33 months, she squeals with delight every time we see a school bus on the way to preschool and longs to ride one again after her last field trip. At 33 years old, no thank you.

At 33 months, she wants to hold my hand as I walk/she hops into her classroom each day. At 33 years old, I hope this never ever ends and think I should start holding my own mom’s hand again.

At 33 months old, her thick and beautiful, long blonde locks are the envy of most grown women. At 33 years old, my stray grays are just not that cute.

At 33 months old, she can and will bust a move in the toy aisles at Target. At 33 years old, I embarrass my husband when I try the same thing.

At 33 months old, Gabs doesn’t like scary movies and covers her eyes if a suspenseful part comes on. At 33 years old, I do the same thing. We also ask a similar number of questions during feature-length films (Who is dat? Why? What’s gonna happen? Huh?)

At 33 months old, she wants to wear her swimsuit (or birthday suit) around the house at all times. At 33 years old, oh hell no.

At 33 months old, she cries easily. The other night when she finished having her moment she said. “Look mom, no more tears are coming out!” At 33 years old, I have the same leaky eye problem.

At 33 months old, she hates having her hair combed and cries before I even touch her head with the pik. At 33 years old, I would pay someone to brush my hair for five minutes.

At 33 months old, she loves hide and go seek, though she hides in the same spot 90% of the time (behind the curtains). At 33 years old, I still find this game fun.

At 33 months old, she and her sister are both suckers for the Funny Face at Village Inn. At 33 years old, I would never even think of stealing any of their pancakes!

At 33 months old, she cannot wait for her birthday party and the “jumping castle” that will go along with it. At 33 years old, I will take advantage of the jumping castle when everyone goes to bed.

At 33 months old, she love finding Easter eggs, but thinks my hiding spots are lame. I tried to take it easy on her, but she proclaimed, “Mom, you forgot to hide this one!” At 33 years old, I find it’s even more fun to be the hider!

At 33 months old, she is super into any and all mascots. At 33 years old, I’m pretty partial to Cy.

At 33 months old, she loves me to tell the story about how she peed on me right after she was born. At 33 years old, a good urinary mishap is still surprisingly funny.

At 33 months old, she can sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” At 33 years old, her dad has brainwashed me to say “Cubbies” instead of “Home Team” too.

At 33 months old, she’s a major mommy’s girl. At 33 years old, so am I!

At 33 months old, she has an unmatched sense of adventure. At 33 years old, I’m done with that. You can find me holding everyone’s belongings at the exit of the roller coaster.

And finally, even though at 33 years old I still think I should be doing or have done so much more with my time, it’s a 33 month old that teaches me that motherhood is an everyday accomplishment in and of itself. The other day I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. In the video below you can see her think about it for a brief moment and then say with complete certainty: a mom.

It was a lightbulb for me that what I’m doing here is already enough. I don’t need to have a book under my name, a master’s degree, a clean house, a killer body or ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD to feel successful. I’m not saying it’s not important to challenge yourself (and eventually finish that damn thesis for the love of all things holy), but I am saying that it’s important to recognize that because certain things aren’t checked off your to do list doesn’t mean you’re a failure. It means that you’re busy being a mom. And that’s really all children want us to be.