My child "A" recently turned 10 and I've got milestone birthdays on the brain.

For me, turning 10 was a big deal, because it was my "golden" birthday. Is that even a thing anymore? I asked the Wonderful Husband if he knew what that was, and after I got a blank stare, I explained it to him. He seemed a little less than impressed with the idea and may have muttered something about "the ridiculous things women think up …"A golden birthday is the year that you turn the age of your birth date. So, I was born on the 10th, ergo turning 10 was my golden birthday. A and E will have a few years before we get to theirs, and I'm just now realizing that G's slipped right by and I didn't really notice, so I guess it isn't that big of a deal. But when I was 10, it seemed like it was.For me, turning 10 was about becoming, in my mind, a teenager. I don't think the word "tween" was commonly used in the early 1980s, so I was still stuck in the realm of being a "kid." Having that second digit meant I was that much closer to teenage awesomeness and driving.In those days, you could apply for your permit when you were still 15 and actually get your license the day you turned 16. Unfortunately, a few days before my birthday, I witnessed a horrific traffic accident, and it put me off driving a little.So, I spent the next year awkwardly explaining that even though I was 16, no, I didn't drive yet.The summer that I turned 21 was by far one of the most memorable summers of my life. I got a job working for the university as a student adviser. This meant that I got to stay in Boston all summer, living with my 40 co-workers in the rattiest apartment building on campus. Between my advising responsibilities and my other lifeguarding jobs, I was busy, but I was young and had the entire city of Boston to explore, without any school work hanging over my head.With 40 "roommates," someone was always up to something, whether it was a group meal or a night out on the town, or twenty people squeezed in a common room to watch a movie. The scene was set for an absolutely awesome 21st birthday.So, I did what most red-blooded, All-American girls would do. I went home for my birthday to celebrate with my family. Snooze. Fest. On the train ride back to Boston, I elegantly walked into the club car and ordered myself a little bottle of wine. The server didn't even have the decency to card me.Upon my return to Boston, we all celebrated with a big dinner that was supposed to be finished off with a huge watermelon that we cut and soaked in vodka. We thought we were the height of cool. Maybe it was the cheap vodka, or a bad watermelon, but it tasted awful and we quickly scrapped it. So much for a wild 21st.Thirty changed everything. Being 29 and single is probably one of the worst things you can be in a large extended family that tends to pair off early and reproduce like rabbits. Shortly before I turned 30, the WH and I started dating, and by my actual birthday, I knew I had a permanent date for all future family functions. The future WH and I had a lovely dinner out and I turned 30 feeling like I might not completely stink at "adulting."The thirties went as they were supposed to: wedding planning, house buying, having kids, changing diapers, losing a lot of sleep and then BAM, I hit 40.I cried.A lot.The boys were both in school. E finished breast-feeding and diapers and was no longer being dependent on me for everything. We had decided that our family was complete and we closed that door. I had a "precancerous" spot removed and a serious ankle sprain that would have normally taken a few weeks to heal ended up taking up an entire summer of therapy.Bothered by my slow healing, I was informed "this is what happens when you get old." It all combined to make me feel really old and decrepit and ready to strangle the next person who told me that I was "only as old as I feel."If you mention my 40th to the WH, he will take on the look of a cornered animal. It wasn't pretty. It was the birthday that taught my kids that "we don't discuss Mommy's age."It's taken a few years, but I've come around. While I miss my original hair color, I've accepted that there have been some pretty amazing things about getting older.Seeing my children grow and turn into real people is something I enjoy every day. I still look behind me when someone calls me Ma'am, and I've been mistaken for E's grandmother on three different occasions, but age has given me the ability to laugh at the side eye that she gives the offenders, rather than take it too much to heart.