I asked Sophi today if she wanted a new mama. She said, “No, she liked her old mama.” and proceded to describe some of my least favorite characteristics to make sure I knew she knew which mama she was talking about.

This year my “baby” turned 5. There’s something that seems old about having a 5 year old.

I’ve been married 7 years. 7 YEARS!! I still can’t believe that one, but then, Molly is 5 (5 1/2 at the 7 year mark if anyone cares.)

Last year I turned 28 and it didn’t seem so bad. This year, 29. (Imagine that.) It’s weird getting close to 30. It seems old, but then 30 doesn’t really seem any different from 28.

So many numbers and they mean so little. As in weather, “Feals like” (aka windchill) actually matters more. Confidence wise, I have a hard time shaking the awkwardness of high school. Sanity wise, I’m pushing 90 without the joys of senility. Energy wise, some days I’m dead and buried.

But all my little angel was telling me, in her own sweet way, was that she loved me just as I was. She wouldn’t trade me for the world. That means a whole lot more than a bunch of numbers.

(Of course, before you think I’m too full of myself, I must tell you that Molly went through the entire list of people who would have to die before she could go live with Grandma and Grandpa Cudney, in the Meijer checkout line. Loudly.)

Besides, until I’m dead, I can work on improving the other things.