Over the Hill.

Reflections on turning 40

When I was 10, my mom died from breast cancer. A few years before that, my dad turned 40. We threw a party for him at our ranch-style suburban house. It’s one of the strongest memories I have of us as a nuclear family.

I remember the sunny day at our beige and brick home in Bayside, Wisconsin, 15 minutes north of Milwaukee. I remember the plates and cups. They read “Over the Hill.”

A photo from one of my early birthday parties at the same beige, ranch-style house. I’m still good friends with a number of the kids in this photo, including Kurlo laughing in the foreground, and Carl with his bright blond poof of hair in the back. But for me, my mom steals the photo.

I remember my mom in a wheelchair. I remember my brother in his Umbros. I remember Sasha, our black lab, hoping people would drop food in the freshly mowed grass. I remember my dad looking good as he mingled, sporting a full head of dark hair. He could have been an extra in a mafia movie — a muscular 5 foot 7 with a thick dark mane combed backward. My mom had no hair left after many rounds of chemo, but her head was wrapped beautifully in a blue silk scarf that had swans on it.

I’m 40 now.

It’s hard to believe. Especially when I think of that boy watching my dad celebrate his 40th. I remember eating cake from those “Over the Hill” plates with their wacky, celebratory font. If I close my eyes, I’m there.

Now I’m Over the Hill? Okay.

I’ve often reminded him over the past decade that I’m almost 40 as an explanation of why I don’t want his advice…