I am the oldest of four kids – well, four people. The days of referring to ourselves as “kids” has long since passed, but of the original Barons brood, I am the eldest.
I hold the title of “oldest” proudly, as I like to think it carries a little bit of weight, some wisdom and a license to be a bossy know-it-all, if I am so inclined.
As the oldest, I like to make sure I check in on my younger siblings with some regularity. Not that they need “checking in” on, but I never like to let too much life slip by without a text or a call or a FaceTime conversation full of my children sticking their faces two inches from the camera, peppered in.
Today is my younger brother Jack’s birthday and during a textual transmission earlier this week, I told him I thought 27 was going to be his best year yet. It wasn’t an untrue statement, but it wasn’t until after I heard the all-too-familiar whoooop of the iMessage shooting off across to the other side of the country, that the weight of that statement hit me.
Best year yet.
Now, I know my advanced age of 31 doesn’t grant me even close to the amount of street cred I’d like it too, but after I sent that text I realized something – now that I’m actually paying attention, I can honestly say that as I bid adieu to each passing year, I send it off as my best year yet.
Is that totally corny and worthy of a major Liz Lemon eye-roll? Yes! Is it completely true and does it make me want to do an end-of-a-cartoon-episode, excited, freeze-frame air punch because it’s awesome and I don’t care if it sounds like the inside of a drippy Hallmark card?
Because there’s some rough shit in the world, I know that. There’s rotten people and politicians and terrible sitcoms ranked as the best comedies on tv – but there is also some really great stuff too.
Like how my son Archie likes to sleep with with favorite blankie and a naked baby doll named Baby Doll.
Or how my husband has wholeheartedly agreed to dress up like part of a s’more with me for Halloween. Willingly taking on both the graham and chocolate components, because Archie and I need to match as marshmallows.
And how my 5-year-old Oliver, does amazing, ninja-fighting karate moves with his eyes closed to defeat invisible bad guys.
Those are the oh-so-good parts. The parts that continue to fill my heart up year after year, just when I think there isn’t any room left to spare. Sure, there are bad days. Bad weeks, even. But just as the hard graham crackers squeeze out the ooey-gooey goodness of the chocolate and the ‘mallow, those tough times have a way of making the eyes-closed, ninja karate fighting, marshmallow-y chocolate moments, that much more delicious.
So I guess the moral of the story is, life is like a s’more that gets more delicious year after year.
Life’s like a moldy, old s’more.