I have three crocs.

Not three pair. Just three. Two turquoise, one orange. The flip-flops, by the way, not the clogs. If that matters.

I used to have four. The orange one once had a fraternal twin. But I have a teenage daughter who finds it easier to grab my flip-flops on the way out the door than her own. She also finds it easier to grab my flip-flops than to put them back from whence she grabbed them. Thus, three crocs.

My stash of deodorant-bought-in-bulk-when-it-was-on-sale is depleted. My hair styling product bottles sit empty in my bottom drawer. And the title to the curling iron has evidently been permanently transferred because, hey–who do I need to look good for?

So far my closet has remained a thief-free zone. My daughter is 5’4″ and a size 0, and I’m….not, so that rules out the majority of the wardrobe pilfering. But even my accessories–my hats, my scarves, my groovy jewelry–are off her radar. I once offered to let her borrow something–anything–from my hallowed hangers. “Anything you want. I insist.” Her lip curled like I’d offered her a plate of Spam. “No thanks, mom.” I blocked the exit with my not-size-0 body. “Really,” I said, “I insist.”

That’s when she put on her we-need-to-talk face, the same face I put on back when she was nine and asked me whether the big guy in the red suit was real. “Mom,” she said with all the gentleness of a channel catfish, “you’re stuff just isn’t…cool.”

Not cool? Not COOL? “I’m the epitome of cool,” I told her. And then I made her go look up epitome, because we homeschooling moms have to take advantage of every opportunity.

I’m cool. I’m totally cool. What does a thirteen year-old know about cool anyway? I was so upset about the whole thing, I spilled my soy-premenopause shake all over my “I don’t do mornings” Minnie Mouse nightshirt while I was digging through my diaper bag to find my Neil Diamond cassette….

This is my last blog post as a 40 year old. Yes, between now and the next time I sit down and agonize over whether my chosen topic lives up to my promise of not improving your life, I will celebrate my 41st birthday.

I was really excited about turning 40. I was working on a novel, I was the best shape of my adult life (which isn’t saying much, but it felt darn good), and I had just come off of the best home schooling year ever (the year we based all our curriculum on the eleven nations of the EPCOT World Showcase in anticipation of our end-of-year Disney World vacation). My marriage was rockin’, and I had just found out that I had neither MS nor lymphoma. Life was good.

What a difference a year makes.

I’m finished with the novel and have started querying agents, which–according to everything I’ve read and all the personal stories I’ve heard from fellow writers who have been down this path before me–means that I am beginning the get-used-to-rejection phase of the process.

Dealing with my family’s dueling food issues has consumed my waking life: Peanuts, tree nuts, seeds. Corn, which is in almost everything–including the meat, dairy, and eggs from corn-fed farm animals–and can go by about 150 different names. Tomatoes, red meat, shellfish. Then there’s the food coloring, high-fructose corn syrup, and hydrogenated fat to be avoided. After expending so much energy trying to just feed my family, the last thing I have energy to think about is feeding myself healthily.

I won’t even go into how our school year went, except to say that it is really hard to follow up a year of studying Disney World.

My marriage still rocks. And my kids are happy and healthy and take-my-breath-away amazing. I’m blessed, and I’m grateful. And life is still good.

I’m just a little achier, that’s all.

My body must have gotten the memo informing it that it was now out-of-warranty, and it has decided to fall apart. I’m sure the extra 20 pounds (I’m only guessing. The scale and I are not on speaking terms. And no, I will not tell you where I hid the 9V batteries) that I’ve put on by putting my eating habits on the back burner aren’t helping. But most of it’s just the wear-and-tear that come along with any high-mileage vehicle.

My head is covered in highlights-waiting-to-happen, if only I had the time to make them happen.

Reading all those labels and their teeny-tiny print is getting harder. I mentioned that fact to my eye doctor about 5 years ago, but luckily I was wrong, because according to her that doesn’t happen until you’re 40.

My right rotator cup is blown from fourteen years of handing snacks and toys behind me to babies in the backseat. I tried to toss a shirt onto Riley’s bed from the hallway to save myself the agony of actually walking into her sty room the other day and remembered only too late that I’m strictlly an underhanded pitcher from here on out.

The last time I went to the dentist, I only had one child to find a sitter for. Next time I lay back in that vinyl recliner, I feel like I need to cross myself and say “Bless me doctor, for I have sinned. It’s been thirteen years since my last cleaning.”

Somewhere in the course of 36 months of pregnancy and 46 months of breastfeeding, my girls flew south and never returned.

I am adamant that these are ‘sun freckles’ on my arms. Denial works for me.

Going through childbirth four times means that things like coughing, sneezing, sudden laughter, and jumping rope give rise to a fear unrivaled by any Steven King story.

And somewhere in the mix, my brain has abandoned me when I need it most, rendering me unable to form meaningful thoughts or complete sentences. Although one could argue that last point is old news.

The real irony is that, although this earthly shell is feeling all-too-mortal these days, I still don’t feel like a grown-up. I’ve never gotten a handle on the whole “demure” thing–that quality that makes other women look like adults. I am all too familiar with the taste of toe jam, the result of spending much of my time with my foot in my mouth. And I have a whole closet full of nice soccer-mom blouses that make me feel like I’m playing dress-up in Mommy’s closet.

I lamented this fact to my step-mom one day. She said to me: “Some people are born old, and others hit a certain age and stick there forever. You, my dear, are perpetually 16 years old.”

Sixteen? Is she serious?

Because I can so totally live with that. Now if someone would just send my body the memo….

How about you? Let me know what surprises growing up has left on your doormat. You know what they say about misery….