Of course, I’m referencing the song “Strawberry Wine” by Deana Carter; it came out when I was a freshman in college and I really loved it. And I really do remember thinking 30 was old.

Now here I am about to celebrate my 31st birthday. My oldest Haley informed of my oldness by stating, “Momma, you’re going to be 31 and you’re going to be old!” Thanks dear, I’m aware.

The little baby crow’s feet are slowly making their footprints around me eyes, although I refuse to acknowledge that they have ever even traipsed across the imaginary young, smooth terrain of my face. (All you young ‘uns can insert your devilish laugh here, but just remember, you’ll be here because I, too, thought 30 was old.)

Truth be known, I’m not scared of getting old. I welcome it. Heck, I might just throw a parade in honor of my ever fast-approaching geriatric state. And maybe I’ll have it corporately-sponsored by Metamucil, Depends, and Poli-Dent. Maybe I can get Florence Henderson to head the parade. Only in my dreams.

All kidding aside, I love my birthday. I’m grateful that I’m still able to have one. I’m like a little kid every year, minus the helium-filled balloons, tons of presents, and sugar-induced comas. Even my kids think I’m supposed to be making invitations for a party, although I try to explain that unless it’s a milestone birthday(which they don’t understand anyway), big people don’t have big parties. Mainly, because they don’t want to be reminded of their age.

My husband doesn’t get it; he thinks birthdays are for kids, along with Christmas, Easter, and Grandparent’s Day. But I say, psssh, it’s my birthday, and I’m C-E-L-E-B-R-A-T-I-N-G ’til the suns comes up. Which means, I’ll be partying in my sleep because there’s no way I’m staying up all night. I’m pregnant.

And I’m too old for that.

Thanks for all the birthday wishes. Hopefully a fire won’t be started with all those candles on the cake!

A quick birthday pic with my kiddos