It's the middle of the afternoon and the girl's nap time. And Zach is getting ready for work. Boo.

I love Saturday afternoons with him, after the girls are asleep. We usually order Chinese food and catch up on our DVR, cuddling on the couch, joking around and talking about plans for tonight.

He's not supposed to work today. And although he does work lots of Saturdays during the Spring, Summer and Fall he is usually home by 2:00 PM to enjoy our ritual. But now, because of the few inches of snow we got yesterday, a broken Dodge truck and a church that needs to be plowed by 4:00 Pm he has to go. Thanks a lot all of you random coincidences.

And now, I'm left alone with my blog. Sulking. Like a child.

Which actually brings me to my blog topic that I was planning on writing about anyways! (Did you just go on the same emotional roller coaster I did? Sulking to Excited? Wow. Sorry about that.)

I am in the middle of an existential conundrum(Ok, over dramatic, right?). Fine, I'm having an identity crisis.

This is serious.

I feel old. Like really, really, really old. And I know that I'm not. I know that. But my birthday is at the end of this month and it's not a fun birthday, ok. It's not like I get to celebrate turning 21, or even 23. I am over the hump. No longer in my early twenties,. In twenty days it will be my late twenties. I'm basically 30.

I used to remark that my age needed to catch up with my lifestyle, but now that it's on the verge of actually happening, I'm not so sure.

I'm not ready for this! I'm getting wrinkles. My hair is turning gray(Yes, it is.). And a host of other problems that I am not secure enough to mention.

I realize I can't stop the process. It's happening whether I want it to or not. I understand that I need to embrace the change, accept there is no turning back, look forward to the future, basically just stop bitching about it. But the truth is, I haven't come to terms with the whole ageing process yet....

Doesn't it sound awful? Ok, fine. It's not that bad. But I've only told you half of the problem. The crisis. The internal confusion.

On one side of the spectrum I feel like this old maid, ready for retirement and dentures, ready to learn how to play canasta and take Metamucil. On the other, I feel like this total child, playing pretend and completely unqualified for the responsibilities facing me.

In so many ways I feel two feet tall looking up at the world around me as bigger than life. Small. Childish. Unprepared for life.

I have to remind myself on a daily basis that I am a mother: entitled, strong, and powerful. (Insert, I am woman hear me roar.) But reminding myself is not enough. Why can't I feel that I am all of those things? Why can't they come naturally?

After all, don't I have two children? Don't I have a husband and a house? Don't I take care of the cleaning and the cooking and the shopping and the finances?

I mean that's a lot. Not more than most women, I understand the full plate we carry. But all of that should be at least enough to qualify my emotions. Right?

Take Stella's dance classes for example. I am the youngest mom there, by far. Well, ok, Lindsay is a little bit younger then me, but she gets to teach the class and be away from all of the chaos out in the hallway. So, out of the mom's who stand around watching our beautiful children, I am the youngest.

They have their lives together. Wealthy(Or at least Better Off), thin, always put together, tan(Ok, sometimes too tan) and they all drive really nice cars(I notice the cars most of all because as much as I love my 1998 Plymouth Voyager, it's a little.... out of place. I pull into the parking lot and it's an instant episode from Sesame Street, all of the kids turn to each other and ask, "Which one of these is not like the other?"). They are real moms. They are the real deal.

Me? I'm like this imposter. The pretend mom that probably got knocked up in high school. Ok, obviously not high school. But in today's society when the average mother of a two year old is getting older and older and modern science continues to expand the expiration date on a uterus, I really am still an infant.

An infant raising infants. A nanny turned mother, but still seen as the nanny. People look around me, waiting for their real mother to walk in. Thankfully, Stella has begun calling me Rachel, just to give this stereotype more credence. She does it on purpose, I'm sure of it.

And the thing is, I realize motherhood can happen to a woman at almost any age and usually comes along unexpectedly, even if you planned the pregnancy, motherhood is at the least a very surprising experience.

Most all of my friends have children, my age and younger. I never look at them and think, wow they are way to young to be a mom. They all do such a fantastic job. They all seem to fit in to this clique of age appropriateness and inate maturity. Why not me? Why can't I fit in, stand in, or even just blend in?

I stand apart. Too immature and too naive. The disallusioned airhead that's lucky to get from point A to point B without losing a child along the way.

And I'm not just being hard on myself. I am being honest. Listen, I break more things then the children, I spill more things then the children, stain more things, drop more things, lose more things and definitely cry at more things.

I'm always late. Always unprepared. Always one step behind.

When I was younger, I used to think there was an age when everything would finally click. A moment when I would finally be able to do things the way my mother did. Things like turn left overs into a completely different meal. Pay the bills on time. Stock up on essentials so that I don't run out and need shampoo and toothepaste right then and right there.

And although I've learned to accomplish those tasks, there was never an Ah Ha moment, a glorious conceptual experience where everything clicked and I finally figured out the way to accomplish.... life. Most skills aquired are hard to learn, difficult, time consuming and never ending. Which is fine, that's the way life is supposed to be. But in truth, I did expect a mutual feeling of maturity. Of aquired wisdom. Of entitlement.

Instead.... nothing.

If anything, I feel more child-like then ever before.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't a pity part. This isn't a Woe is Me cry fest. This is me being honest. I don't know what the heck I am doing, and I'm starting to realize other people don't think I do either!

Zach and I want to buy a house this spring, but really what bank is going to lend money to a 12 year old inhabiting a 30 year olds' body? This isn't Big, and I'm not nearly as charming as Tom Hanks. Although I can play Chopsticks quite well. And this isn't Invasion of the Body Snatchers either, I can't scare them into giving me a loan. I don't think I'm capable of scaring anybody, even my kids realize this.

I would like to be a professional in something, but what company is going hire a pre-adolescent incapable of making any type of descision or having an opinion(Seriously, I have no opinions, I really, really try to care about things or want things but I can't, I am incapable. Just ask Zach. Just ask Zach how easy it is for me to decide where to eat on Friday nights. Ha. Number one thing we fight about. It goes something like, Zach: "Where do you want to go." Me: "I don't care." Zach: "Well, you pick. I've decided that last 500 times." Me: "I have no idea, I don't care where we go." yea, that goes on and on for like thirty minutes before Zach threatens to just take me back home and even then, he always ends up chosing. I'm pathetic.)

So to recap: On one side I am this rapidly ageing, backwards Benjamin Button, and on the other side I am this innocent little child, looking at the world through rose colored glasses and letting people run all over me.

Can't the two extremes meet? Can't there be a happy medium? Can't there be this place where I feel comfortable in my mom shoes, standing next to dance moms and enrolling my children in school with the right to be there? Because right now it seems impossible. It seems like dress up and when the birthday party is over I am going to have to hang up my princess dress and plastic tiara and go back to the nursing home for Bingo night.

It doesn't make sense. But I guess it's where I'm at.

Also, just a side note. I am incapable of making my blogs shorter. There's no way. I tried and if anything I think they just get longer. So you're going to have to deal with it. Lo Siento.