Sometimes, you just need chocolate.
Like when your to-do list is a bazillion items long and you’re trying and failing to make tacos for dinner because your toddler hid your jar of cumin and the shelf holding all of your stemware falls down for no apparent reason and you get your very first NYC parking ticket because you were four minutes late in moving your car on street cleaning day.
Hypothetically-speaking, of course. (But not really.)
And on those days, those particularly trying, so-frustrating-you-end-up-laughing-just-to-keep-from-crying days, nothing but chocolate will do.
Today is my 27th birthday. And while there’s nothing particularly special about the 27th year of one’s life, I think year 27 was a pretty fantastic one. Crazy, yes. But also fantastic.
In my 27th year, I survived my first full year of parenting. 365 days. And I was mama to an adorable tiny person for all of them. My almost-two-year-old is still alive, healthy, and happy (well, most of the time, anyway…cue melodramatic meltdown of the day). Am I now a parenting expert? Not by any stretch of the imagination. But I think I’ve earned the title of “mom who finally has some idea of how this parenting thing works” in my 27th year. Success.
In my 27th year, I held down the home front while my husband was in Afghanistan for a nine-month deployment. Our house was still standing when he returned. Our child was still alive (see above). I retained the majority of my sanity. And I finally learned exactly who I am and what I’m capable of. Oh, and I made some crazy amazing friends who made those months a lot more bearable. Deployments have a way of bringing people into your life just when you need them the most. I’m looking at you, Kelly and Hannah!
In my 27th year, I had the sweetest reunion of my entire life to date. A nine-month separation really has a way of reminding you of all of the reasons you love someone!
I love the city. The people. The sights. The sounds. The hundreds of takeout options. The endless list of activities available within just a few blocks of my front door.
I love being able to walk everywhere.
I love buying my wine from a wine store and my bread from a bakery, both run by local merchants and both on the same street, within walking distance of my apartment.
And yes, I even love my 750-square-foot apartment filled with IKEA furniture and “vertical storage solutions.”
But I’m going to level with you here. Sometimes, I miss the suburbs. Mostly, I miss paying less than $5 for a gallon of milk, which is a virtual impossibility within the confines of the city.
Which is why, every Tuesday, the tiny person and I hop in the car and make the 20-minute drive to Staten Island.