Thirty pieces of silver.
Thirtysomething.
Thirty-minute meals.
Thirty Years War.
Thirty days hath September.
Thirty Eighth Parallel.
Thirty years ago today my mother died. Most years on this anniversary I think about that day and the days after and the long period of healing which is still going on. This year, there is an inclination to think about what thirty years signifies. My age when I lost a baby to miscarriage, bore a child, and lost my father. Two and a half dozen trips around the sun. Twelve more years than I had with my mother. The number of years since I was eighteen and passed from the summerland of childhood into the grey skies of grown-upness. Thirty birthdays of being a motherless daughter. Thirty-three birthdays of their own that I’ve celebrated with my children (who are now – eerily – at the same ages my sister and I were when our mother died).

But after this much time, it takes evermore effort to wallow in maudlin sentiment and easier/saner to move on with this day and the next and the next. So I’ll share the first thought I had as I was coming up with my list of thirties:

The number of times I’ve (very politely) suggested “Get me the fuck off your fucking phone list you fucking fuckwad!” when confronted with yet another political scam/poll/survey. And that was just today.