So, yesterday we got up very early, too early for a public holiday and a house devoid of children. The weather was bleak. Actually, bleak is being generous. It was pouring and we were up at dawn, not for the ANZAC services but for our first triathlon. Preparing for this "event", I never imagined rain. I had visualised the running and the cycling and had just got my head around swimming in that very murky, man-made lake, but in all the visualisations there had never been any rain.
Last night, race results came through. I came predictably last but satisfyingly within my goal time. What struck me though, what kept me awake for a little while thinking, was my age written next to my name. 39. Where did that come from? Surely I am still 32? 22?
40 is next year. I have a few things I am quietly ticking off a list before January, a triathlon being one of them. I once had plans for a great South American adventure for my 40th. That was a few years before children. Actually, it was just as I was making the commitment to have children. Back then, I thought I would take off and have a great hurrah as I turned 40. Clearly, I had no idea what having children was all about. The strong-hold on your heart. I can leave them overnight, even for a few nights. But a couple of months? At this age, when I am their everything? Quite unimaginable. I want these two spitting on my cake as they help me blow out my candles.
