the other evening, I was standing in the kitchen, making a bedtime snack.
I had a weird moment where I realized, holy cow.
this is mine.
this knife is mine. I bought this food. This furniture, this apartment, and that man sitting over there on the couch watching sports? Mine. The baby calling for "mama" from his crib? He's mine too. That mama he wants is me. It was weird.
Because when did I get so old? My baby brother turned 17 last month. I told my mom that I still feel seventeen. Although, quite obviously, I am not. He asked my mom how old I was the other day. When I heard that, I thought, oh, I'm 22. Except wait. Am I? No I am not. I'm 23. And I passed my half birthday, so I'm really closer to 24, and when did that happen because I feel like Travis and I just got married?
But we didn't. I'm not 17, because I met Travis when I was 18, and we got married when I was the ripe old age of 19. And now here we are, five years later, with this life we've built, and this stuff. our stuff.
And you know what? We've got it pretty good.
A degree to each of our names (we made it through student life, when did that happen?), careers and insurance, things like internet bills to pay (and money in the bank to pay them), 2 cars, a lovely warm home, plenty of food and 1.5 kids.
we've worked hard and we've been so blessed.
It's a pretty good age to be, I think.
I wouldn't change a thing, and I'm so glad I get to spend this life with my two favorite boys- and soon, a tiny daughter too.
I'm glad this life is mine.