With the help of therapy for my Post Partum Depression, I’ve been focusing a lot these days on the question of “Who is Jenny?” And “What do I need to be the happiest, healthiest version of me?” All very deep stuff, you see. I’ve tried to make “Me time” a bit of a priority and have been constantly aware of how I view myself and how others view me as well.

WELL, with it being Mother’s Day yesterday, I got to see how Matthew views me. Mike had Matthew draw me a picture – a family portrait. It’s phenomenal – all of a sudden (it feels like overnight), Matthew draws really well. His people look like people (all the appropriate body parts in the approximately correct locations), his trucks look like trucks, his soccer balls are circles, etc. So, I got this adorable picture yesterday of the Martin Family – complete with a flower, several soccer balls, Grandma and Matthew’s pal Jack. On closer inspection, I noticed that the personage representing “Mommy Jenny” was about four times as wide as everyone else – literally. This little stick figure Me was not so stickish! It’s a good thing that part of my Mother’s Day was getting to go to the gym for the killer Spin class (and then having a delicious brunch made by Mike later…I’m fairly certain that he removed all the calories for me though).

So, Matthew views me as a big circle on skinny legs. OK, I can accept that. How I view myself is also an interesting question. I’ve never felt my age – ever. As long as I can remember I have felt older (more mature) than my actual age. My parents will tell you that as a toddler I was 3-going-on-13. I’ve often hung out with a more mature crowd. Many of my friends are older than me – some by 10+ years, and I’m definitely ahead of most of my peers (got married young, bought a house young, made babies young, etc.). I’ve always enjoyed the game of people guessing my age – especially fellow moms (they tend to assume that I’m in my thirties already). I knew that there would come a time when this game wouldn’t be quite so amusing to me and when my age would catch up to me. I think we may have reached that day.

Next Thursday, I will be turning 27. By no means do I think of 27 as “old.” But I do think I’m getting closer to the age that I’ve always felt. My “plan” was to get married at 25 and start having kids around 27. Huh! Funny that at 27, I find myself with a husband of nearly six years and two ankle-biters. I’ve been a very busy lady!

I’ve done all this by the ripe old age of 26 (I can only say that for another week or so), and I’m pretty pooped. On Saturday, after getting up early for a run and experiencing the joys of garage saling, I was ready for a nap by 2pm. So, once the boys were down, I laid down too. When I got up, I was doing the whole inspect-yourself-in-the-mirror thing – checking for obvious signs of nap hangover or weird sheet creases, etc. – suddenly, I noticed a line on my forehead. It was pretty high up and close to my hair line. I thought at first that it was a smudge – some make-up that had traveled north during my slumber. I rubbed at it for a moment and then realized, Oh! Silly me. It’s not a smudge, it’s a sheet crease from my pillow. So, I rubbed at it a bit more, trying to get it to disappear. (Yes, at this point, you’re asking yourself: How slow is she?!). All in all, I maybe only rubbed this mystery line for a few seconds before the truth hit me like a semi-truck (an 18-wheeler big rig, to be exact). HOLY DOODILY! It’s a wrinkle! An honest and true, I’m-getting-older wrinkle! No matter how hard I rub it, it won’t go away. This guy is sticking around for the long haul. Me and Wrinkle. Wrinkle and Me. We’re inseparable. ‘Til death do us part, we’ll go through life as a package detail. You want Jenny? Well, you get her little high, forehead wrinkle too.

So, approaching 27 is not scary for me, but it is a wake-up call. I may not feel my age – I actually feel older. I may not look my age – with two kids already under my belt. I’ve literally got the proof under my belt. I carry around my “Mommy Pooch” like a sandwich billboard. And of course, one mustn't forget the road map of stretch marks on every inch of my stomach. [Reader discretion advised] And then having nursed two kids, I’ve got the post-nursing breasts: the saggy, old lady, pizza slice boobs that you need to roll up to fit into your bra. And don’t forget to adjust things, or you’ll have one pointing North-East while the other is indicating a more South-Westerly direction.

I’ve made my choices and I wouldn’t change them for the world. It doesn’t mean that I can’t fantasize about a tummy tuck, boob lift, and wrinkle-removal by the time I hit 30. Or, as a birthday gift to myself, I can just accept me – all of me: every wobbly-jiggly, saggy, wrinkly part of me. I think that’s a much healthier option and one that therapist Louise would definitely approve of, don’t you?