Cocktail Party

I turned away from the hoopla around me, the small child wrapping her skinny arms around my neck, her face burrowing into my shoulder.  We passed by her dad, who leaned out of the conversation about music long enough to give her a kiss.  "Good night, Riley."

Navigating through the sea of people, I glimpsed snifters and wine glasses, sparkling with amber and maroon colored liquids.  The music held its own at a low decibel level, someone crooning "Sweet Child Of Mine" through the speakers while the voices around us laughed and whooped, and tittered with joy.

Walking towards the stairs, I smoothed her hair down as she pleaded, "But I don't wanna go to bed.  I wanna watch the snowman movie."

Glancing at the clock- 9:18- I responded, "Sorry sweetie, it's bedtime.  We'll watch the snowman in the morning."  I trudged up the stairs, careful to hold the railing with one hand and my daughter with the other, since, even at 35 and stone cold sober, I'm still a little unsteady in high heels.

I placed Riley gently in her bed, tucking her in up to her chin.  "Snuggle lamby, too," she sleepily instructed, and I obliged, pulling the covers around the matted, formerly grey-now-white lamb as well.  I sang a quick verse about jet planes, looking at her light blue eyes and dark hair, wondering how I created something this perfect in such a flawed world.

Finishing our Peter, Paul, and Mary moment, I clicked on the light in her fish tank, turned off the overhead light, and closed the door down to a crack.  "I love you, Riley."

"I love you too, Mommy," she said, rolling over onto her side and curling up around her lamb.  I think she was asleep by the time I hit the stairs.

I began my descent.  I could see the glow of the kitchen from the darkness of the hallway, and in a flash, I realized I was an adult.

I was now the mom putting the kids to bed.  My friends were the ones laughing, and drinking, and dressing up for the party downstairs, while the kids' doors remained closed to block out the noise.  I walked by the table piled high with cupcakes, and immediately found my sister by the sink. "I just had an epiphany,"  I said.

"We need more hors d'oeuvres?" she asked.

"No.  I'm the mom now."

"Yea, duh. You've been a mom for about 3 and a half years," she responded, taking a sip of her drink.

"No, I mean, we're the grown ups." The thought was hitting home, a stunning piece of recognition that I wasn't quite sure I could handle.

"I was just thinking that, actually, watching Riley and Ella running around.  Granted, Ella wasn't polishing off a beer like I did at her age," Nicole mentioned, referencing her brief period of toddler experimentation involving a partially drunk bottle she swiped from a table in our childhood living room.

"When the hell did this happen?"I asked, glancing around the room at the granite countertops, wingback chair, and leather sofa, all of which I paid for myself.

When did I go from freewheeling teen, hosting parties on our parents' back deck and making out in the bushes with boys, to a mom with a mortgage, tenure, and two kids?  When did I stop traveling, jumping from country to country, driving across the US on a whim, and become a suburban housewife?  When did I stop being the one put to bed, and start being the one doing the putting?

I thought about all the times my dad had carried me up the stairs, his red hair tickling my nose as I was transported to my room.  I thought about my mom kissing me goodnight, the smell of her Tuscany perfume lingering on my nightgown after she went back down to the party.  I thought of drifting off to the sounds of muffled laughter and a sweet symphony of voices, lulling me into dreamland.

I grew up.  No one can be Peter Pan forever, and flit around, with no home and no roots.  Eventually, I settled.

It's not always easy- the older we get, the more "stuff" there is to take care of.  Health isn't something to be taken for granted anymore- there are stress tests, echo cardiograms, and doctors visits.  Your friends start running marathons- for fun- and team sports become relegated to wiffle ball in the backyard and adult softball leagues.  Marriage is hard, taking care of someone in chronic pain takes its toll.  The stressors of owning a company and struggling to keep it successful are draining.  The constant barrage of new common core standards, tests, and paperwork zap me of energy I want to spend on innovation and actual teaching.  Children are the best gift in the world, but they need constant attention and don't understand the concept of mommy needing to sleep past seven in the morning- ever.

But growing older has its benefits.  I have more amazing memories than I can write about.  I have two daughters who think I'm the funniest, most wonderful person on the planet, and are a rapt audience for my singing.

I work at one of the best schools in the state, where my creativity is lauded, and my students are bright and eager.  I'm given the freedom to be me, to be the wacky teacher who has teens write epic memoirs, make videos and scrapbooks, and sit outside analyzing their philosophies on life with each other.

And looking around the party, I have friends.  Old ones from when I was 17 and awkward, and newer ones from trivia nights and work.   They're silly and willing to ham it up with fake mustache props and Etch-A-Sketch frames for photos.  I've got a ton of messages via social media wishing me well, from people I miss, people I love, and people I've known for multiple decades.

Celebrating a 35th birthday beats the hell out of the alternative, and on this birthday, knowing so many people I care about are struggling to make it to their next ones, I know I'm lucky.

I'm the mom now, and I have the privilege of hosting the grown up parties while my daughters sleep upstairs.  I'm 35, and it's a pretty good gig.