I get one sappy one per year. Happy almost last birthday of my twenties to me.

I just remembered this morning that my birthday was coming up soon and I made the mistake of mentioning it to the kids. So they have spent the entire day, enraptured in the idea that they are going to throw me the greatest muthaf'in party ever.

"Oh mommy, we're gonna bake you a coconut cake, cause we know you love coconut, and we're gonna fill it with candy and sparkles and magic!"

Kids, you can skip the magic. Save yourselves the hassle and just feed mommy vodka.

Which would be really sweet if they didn't also start asking me how old I was gonna be (Where the hell did that spotlight come from?!?) .

The answer; I'm turning 29. And the funny thing about turning 29 is I remember my own mother's 29th birthday. I don't remember any of the details, but I just remember that it doesn't feel like it was so long ago.

And I start thinking about how I still feel like that awkward little girl. And how the fuck is that little girl turning 29, when I feel like I am 28 going on 15? At least I can rest easy knowing that we can skip the whole "Hey let's play spin the bottle even though you have never kissed a boy and will have to explain why the game defies your rigid moral principles" part of my soiree. 

And of course, this also means that next year, I turn 30. Which society has, for some reason or another, earmarked as panic button time. Time for you to have met certain "life goals" and societal deadlines that all of the other brainwashed masses killed themselves to accomplish.

Time for you to be set in your ways. Old. A bonafide adult.

Which I had hoped would have meant wiser, but apparently for me, has just meant that I now have wrinkles on my forehead when deep in contemplation about which "So You Think You Can Dance" contestant is gonna be eliminated this week. Amelia was boss, you judges are dicks.

So, long-winded story short, I have started thinking about where I am today and what the school-aged version of me thought I would have done by almost 30.

I thought I would be the indispensable CEO of Makebelievebusinessland, making $500,000 a year, have a 6 bedroom mansion in an unpronounceable country, speak three languages and have found the cure for a disease.

The reality is that I rent an 800 square foot apartment paid for by my husband, whom I married last year, despite our already having three kids (shut up, we clearly were both drawing comical penises in "health class" when they spoke about birth control).

Which also means that I share a bathroom with four other people and every single one of them misses the toilet.

I don't currently pull a salary as CEO of Everyoneshitsonmeberg and not only do I not know other languages, but most of the time, I feel like I should be arrested for raping the English language.

Yes, I know I used the wrong word, Mr. Terror-know-it-all, but the children have eaten all of the useful parts of my brain like fiending zombies.

And that curing disease thing? I can't even keep a goldfish or house plant alive. Although I am positive that we are growing at least two different types of penicillin in the spilled shit in the crisper of the refrigerator, which was sponsored by the undying "I didn't do it, so I'm not cleaning it" motto of our household.

There are two goals that I have met the criteria for; I am married and I have kids.

But I did those so right, I think they should have more weight on my final score. My husband is someone who makes me laugh like a hyena until I can't breathe (and heads up, I will probably die of some sort of comedy-induced hypoxia) and we go together like a badly-worded Grease song, or like a timeless sitcom couple (Dan would never leave Roseanne. That last season totally doesn't count).

And I have three kids who, despite constantly actively working to disprove it, actually do love me a whole lot. And lucky for us, they're extremely cute. Even when they look me right in the eye while taking a shit on the carpet. "Aww honey get the camera! Look how cute he shits on the floor!"

So, I'm getting up there.

And yeah, I can't even get hired to work at the Gap due to questionable employment skills, history, work ethic, etc...

And I probably (never say never) won't be the CEO of some fortune 500 company.

We don't have tons of money, we don't own property, hell, I don't even own a pair of pants that doesn't have at least one hole in it.

But, what I can say is that I am on my last year of being in my 20s and I am right where I want to be. I have the freedom to just exist in the moment, where ever it takes me. I don't have to focus on working for the man and being a company slave. I can focus on the kids, and in a few years, when they loosen up on the Darth-Vader-like grip they currently have around my neck, someday, myself.

I consider myself lucky to be where I am right now, regardless of where anyone else, including school-aged me wants almost 30 me to be.

And fuck you. I get one sappy one per year. Happy almost last birthday of my twenties to me.