I’m not old. I get irritated when people in their 30s and 40s and 50s say they’re old. And, considering I like to think we’re all going to live to 100, even though I know that’s not true, people in their 60s and 70s also aren’t old—not when they have 30 to 40 more years to live.

And while I’m sensitive about some parts of my physical self, wrinkles are not one of them. Laugh lines show a life well lived. I’m much more interested in doing whatever it takes to be a part of this world as long as possible (I’m ashamed to say how enamored I was with Tuck’s life in the well-loved childhood novel). I, honestly, don’t care how many wrinkles I have near the end of it. That said, the cream came with the whole brush kit, which is part of my I-should-really-wash-my-face-and-take-out-my-contacts-every-night resolution this year. And, why not? It feels good on my face and if it delays the inevitable a little longer, so be it.

Still, something happened tonight, on the eve of my turning 33. I looked at that tiny glass container of wrinkle cream sitting on the shelf and then I closed the medicine cabinet door. There was a woman staring back at me. Not a baby or a little girl or a teenager or a young adult. But a woman. Someone who is no longer ID’d at bars. Someone who is called “ma’am” on a regular basis. Someone who feels awkward shopping at Forever 21. And the woman startled me.

She shouldn’t have. I’ve lived with her my entire life. It’s not as if I changed overnight. Yet tonight, staring at myself, if felt that way. So often I think of myself as 17. Or 22. Or 28. I’m baffled by the fact that classmates are planning our 15-year high school reunion. I forget that I didn’t graduate from college last year. Or the year before. But that it was years, many years, ago. Sometimes, when I dream, I’m still a child, living with my parents and siblings at home. And I wake up, shocked, a little, at the fact that I own my own home. That I’m married. That I have children, these little people who sort of look like me and depend so dearly on me. And still, in my mind, my face is 10, 15 years younger. Growing up, as a little girl, my parents were in their 30s. That doesn’t seem so long ago. And if it wasn’t so long ago, how can I now be in my 30s? How does that happen?

I know 30 years from now I’ll look in the mirror and have similar thoughts, thinking of myself in my 30s, wondering where the time has gone. And I hope, 30 years from then, I’ll be doing the same.

But some nights, the realization is just so startling. And bittersweet. And like most moments in life, nothing big happened tonight. Rather Andy and I watched two episodes of “Downton Abbey.” I drank a glass of wine. I watched, as a white wooden door, smudged with fingerprints, closed on a small glass jar of wrinkle cream only to reveal someone I think, deep down, I considered as my future self. And yet she’s here, now. Shocking, yes. But also comfortable, too. For I know her well. Sometimes too well, for I think we all tire of ourselves at one point or another.

But this wasn’t a realization of sadness or regret or depression. Rather, acceptance. I’m a “ma’am” now. I may very well be construed as someone’s mother in Forever 21. I’m a mom now, and not even a new mom now, but a mom now. My wedding ring has made what seems to be a permanent dent in my finger. I’m a woman who smears wrinkle cream on her face at night, prepping for the what-ifs, the tomorrows. Of which I’m thankful to have had so many of, and of which I’m anxious to have so many more. And I can—and can’t—wait for my next moment of realization, of a changed me, staring back at me. Who am I to become? Who are any of us to become? That’s one of the many delights of this world, and it’s a delight I cherish greatly.

Still, I imagine I’ll buy more wrinkle cream, even when the jar that came with my brush kit runs out. For as startling as it is for me to see it in my cabinet, I find it comforting to cling to something that feels like it has the ability to slow down time, even if it doesn’t.

“Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.”  —Samuel Ullman

Until her last haircut.

Some history: Nicholena has been cutting my hair for years. Sophie loves Nicholena. She talks about Nicholena often. Some days, she begs me to take her to get her hair cut, even when it doesn’t need cut. End history.

At our last visit, Nicholena and I decided we should try to grow out Sophie’s bangs (we, of course, asked Sophie her thoughts on the matter and, after consideration—and explanation—she agreed). But then I thought about the adornment—or lack of. I expressed my concern to Nicholena. How would I keep her bangs clipped back during the sometimes-awkward, growing-out stage?

So Nicholena spoke with Sophie. She told Sophie how much she loved barrettes and headbands and how pretty she thought they would look in her hair. Sophie listened, intently.

And then. After almost four years of my not being able to keep a single barrette in her hair for any length of time, Sophie insisted on this the next day—the entire day:

At our next visit to the salon I plan to ask Nicholena to share her passion for green beans and broccoli.

“The hair is the richest ornament of women.” —Martin Luther

After this particular workout, however, I just wasn’t ready to go back home. I needed just a little more time—I craved just a little more time. So I called Andy claiming we absolutely needed some things from Target. And we did. But we didn’t absolutely.

He understood.

I chose a cart instead of a basket. In it, I put paper towels. Dye for my hair. Shaving cream. Shin guards and elbow pads for Sophie. Face wash. A new collar for Tucker. Etc.

I wandered. And lingered. Ran into friends and talked to them. Put things in my cart and then took them back out. Debated over thank-you card designs. Checked the children’s clearance racks. Walked slowly.

Eventually, I went back to our car, having spent more than I intended—both in money and time. It was 8:30pm. The kids go to bed at 8pm.

I drove home with that mish-mash feeling of guilt and calmness, which I imagine most moms feel at some time, when they choose to do something unnecessary or unproductive away from home, just to be away from home, while also feeling and wanting to be at home. It’s a difficult thing to describe.

And then, I drove past Woodfill Elementary, where Sophie will eventually go. I passed its new electronic sign and read, in bright, bright blue, “Father-Daughter Dance Feb 11.”

I pulled into the driveway not remembering the road I had just traveled. Instead, my thoughts were with future Sophie and future Andy. She in pink, I suspected, with lots of tulle making her skirt puffy. He in a tie she, no doubt, insisted on picking out. Her small Mary Janes on top of his dress shoes. Twirling. Lots of twirling. Balloons, perhaps? Streamers? She would like that. And hopefully, lots of pictures (I would insist). I thought about how we were just dancing with her infant self to “Build Me Up Buttercup” in our old living room and now here we are, me able to vividly imagine this dance that will be hers—and his—in only a few short years.

I felt a bit foolish for my Target wandering, even if it did calm me. At the same time I know there will be many more bedtime routines to come—some days it will feel like too many, other days, not enough. But more than anything, that brightly lit sign just made me so excited for what’s to come. It was yet another thing from my childhood that I had forgotten about, yet loved. And it’s coming. For her. For him. For all of us.

Grateful.

“And in today already walks tomorrow.” —Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In that time a substantial amount of dry rice was spilled all over the kitchen floor. Sophie then decided to “skate” on the rice, using the boys’ diapers as ice skates. The boys thought this was hilarious.

“Figure skating is a mixture of art and sport.” —Katarina Witt

It was the best dream. I woke up so happy.

And then, I thought about how happy I felt—after such a tremendously boring dream.

And that made me feel a little sad.

“We see but in dreams the ideal.” —Henri Cazalis

I love this. And I want to remember this. Which is why I’m writing about it here.

“I like to think that the moon is there even if I am not looking at it.” —Albert Einstein

We were wrong. It’s always the last-minute, throw-in-the cart gift that wins out. The less than $20 one. (Sometimes, even the “free” one, when it comes to boxes and tissue paper and items found in kitchen cabinets.)

She loves her princess castle. (Discovery Kids; Bed, Bath & Beyond; less than $20 w/ coupon.) All the kids do. They knock it over and it becomes a cave. They hide in it, have snacks in it and play peek-a-boo with each other through the windows. They knock it over and pop it up. Sophie reads in it, colors in it and yes, sometimes, she even uses it as it was designed to be used—as a castle, for a princess.

It’s big. And clashes with everything in our dining room. And yet, I smile every time I see it, have to move it or put it back together after particularly rough play. It’s always the simple thing, the least expected. And even though I gave a lot of thought to her other presents, and did a ton of research, the fact that it is always the simple one makes me happy, too.

“Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.” —William Wordsworth

Early December Andy and Sophie played scientists in our kitchen. Andy had stumbled upon this video on YouTube and decided to try the experiment at home with Sophie. It’s so simple—and so cool. Sophie loved it.

Here’s what you need:
• a dinner-size plate (we used a reusable plastic one)
• about a cup of milk
• food coloring
• one or two drops of dish soap

1. Pour enough milk to cover the surface of the plate.
2. Add your food coloring. We let Sophie do this part and she put lots of drops of all four colors everywhere (instead of all piled up in the middle), which resulted in a vibrant display.
3. Carefully add one drop of dish soap.
4. Watch!
5. After awhile we pushed the colors around with a toothpick and added another drop or two of soap.

“We should not teach children the sciences but give them a taste for them.” —Jean Jacques Rousseau

Sophie: “Daddy, is it cold out today?”
Andy: “Yes.”
Sophie: “On that case, I will wear my hood.”

(in Great Grandma’s bathroom)
Sophie: “Mommy, look at the shower curtain!”
Me: “It’s very pretty. I like the birds and the vines.”
Sophie: “Look at the top part. It’s glorious!”

(on showing her some purchases I made at Target the night before)
Me: “I bought you some new socks, that actually fit!”
Sophie: “Oh!”
Me: “And 4T jeans—with sparkles!—and a 4T shirt. You’re getting bigger!”
Sophie: “Oh!”
Me: “What do you say?” (We’re trying to teach her to say thank you unprompted.)
Sophie: “That you forgot new shoes?”

(on telling her she has to put the iPod away)
Me: “You’ve been playing games on it for too long. It’s time to put it away.”
Sophie: (some type of whining response)
Me: “Read a book! Play with your dollhouse! Dress-up! Color a picture!”
Sophie: (some type of whining response)
Me: “Seriously, put your iPod away. And actually, it’s not even yours. It’s mine.”
Sophie: “I just love it so much more than you do, Mommy.”
Me: “Well, you can’t play it all day long. It’s not healthy.”
Sophie: “I’m going to be the girl who plays the iPod all the time.”
Me: “I don’t want you to be the girl who plays the iPod all the time.”
Sophie: “But that’s who I am! I’m going to be that girl!”

“Children are like wet cement. Whatever falls on them makes an impression.” —Dr. Haim Ginott

It took me a good 30 minutes to get all three kids dressed to go outside for just a small bit of snow. The boys had never worn boots before, and it was a struggle to shove their feet into them. (I was so thankful for the boots though, hand-me-downs—as are many of the things they wear—from our good friends Rebecca and Chris’s son, Evan.) And while I was busy putting something on James, Owen would take off whatever it was I had just put on him—and vice versa. And the entire time Sophie was saying “let’s go! let’s go!”

We finally went. Here Sophie’s wearing the winter hat Nini and Pop Pop found for her in Italy.

The gloves—oh, the gloves. They, too, were a gift from Italy, from Nini and Pop Pop. As I was helping Sophie put them on, I realized she had never worn gloves before—only mittens. So this activity took quite some time, too. She’d put two or three fingers in one finger slot, pull them out to separate and in doing so, put two fingers in another slot. But now, she’s a pro.

I couldn’t find James’s mittens so yes, he’s wear Sophie’s old ones.

Owen refused mittens.

“The Eskimos had 52 names for snow because it was important to them; there ought to be as many for love.” —Margaret Atwood