30 Candles

On February 19th, I turned 30!


Andy, Sophie and I, along with my parents and Andy’s mom, had dinner at Dewey’s. Here Andy’s trying to calm Sophie by blowing on her hair (she still loves any form of wind).


30 candles =


fair amount of candle smoke.


Sophie hanging out with Grandma. (Grandpa flew in Friday.)


Last year, on my 29th birthday, Andy and I ate a quick dinner and he gave me the most beautiful pair of earrings, handmade by an artist in Greece. We then spent a couple hours at our natural childbirth class and came home, just the two of us, to enjoy cake. I think about that and I think about how much has changed in the last year of my life. I worry I don’t have everything figured out. I worry that I’m diminishing in my role as writer—no matter how much freelance writing and editing I do at home. I worry, with every rejection I receive, about never publishing beyond a glossy. And I worry about my abilities in my new role—mom.

When I was a little girl, my parents were in their 30s. They seemed so grownup—they were grownup. And they seemed like they had everything figured out. I still have so many questions. Why, for example, is it now popular to wear really short shorts with Uggs? And what really happens to us when we die? (There’s a range.)

My aunt Ellen recently e-mailed me, asking about my party (pictures to come soon). She said, “Don’t worry about trying to figure out your life by this age; I don’t think anyone has her life totally figured out by ANY age!” Good advice. (She, by the way, celebrates a big birthday this year, too!)

“Thirty was so strange for me. I’ve really had to come to terms with the fact that I am now a walking and talking adult.” —C.S. Lewis