In one week I am turning 24. TWENTY FOUR. That’s such an adult number.
It feels so whole, so together. Twenty-three felt pretty big, but very transitional. At 23 I was unexpectedly pregnant, trying to get all of my ducks in a row and being a confused mess.
24 is a whole different kettle of fish. A whole separate um thing. (My brain hasn’t yet come back out of baby fog. Will it ever? I doubt it.)
This year I am a mother. A strong, powerful, successful mother.
This year I have a drive that is more powerful than anything I could ever imagine. I am driven to protect my child and give him the best life that I could possibly give him.
At 24 I know that I want more children. I know that I want a big family. I know that I want a warm, dry house. I know that I want to co-sleep and breast feed and cuddle and love. And if I have a child that doesn’t like to share a bed, or body that doesn’t want to lactate then I’ll double up on the love.
I am on my way to being a wife. A loyal wife. A caring wife. A wife who does not forget the needs of her husband, who loves him and supports him.
I am an adult. An individual. I have many titles, but I am also me. And that definition of myself is constantly changing. There are things that I like, things that I don’t like, and a whole bunch of things that contradict each other. I’m still working through the truths and misinformation about myself – having so many titles does lead to a fare dosage of identity crisis. But I’m getting there.
And in one week I will be 24.
That’s a pretty good sounding age.