Ten years ago my 30th year of life started with the birth of my second child. She poked her little red head into this world four days after I officially left my 20s, and, with the help of her two–year–old sister, made it really hard for me to wallow in a giant pool of my own self–pity.

Instead of lamenting the fact I had left all semblance of youth behind with the start of my third decade on this planet, I was sucking down liters of Mountain Dew simply trying to stay awake.

The Columbia Star’s

editor, who also happened to be my very unsympathetic mother, suggested that “since I was going to be awake anyway,” I may as well make good use of my time and write a column… and so Thirty Something Speaks was born along with that little redhead.

When I started Thirty Something I was a clueless, sleep–deprived young father up to my eyeballs in diapers, A & D Ointment, and Similac. My home was Greenville, S.C., and my day job was civil engineering. In 2004, I had, what I like to call, my mid–mid–life crisis. I packed up the family, and we moved to Columbia. It was a sort of homecoming for me since I spent my formative years in a little condo off Decker Boulevard. The change came professionally. I left behind the world of calculators and contractors for a full–time gig in the newspaper industry with

The Columbia Star, but, as our former publisher once said, there’s not much difference between designing sewer systems and putting a newspaper together.

Five years later, I’m a newspaper guy with the ink–stained fingers to prove it. I’m also still a pretty clueless father. That’s the problem with parenting – just when you figure out how to change a diaper or potty–train a stubborn two–year–old, your kids grow up on you and present a whole new list of challenges.

I used to worry about smocked dresses, feather boas, and Barbie dolls – now, it’s sports bras, shin guards, and iPods. To make matters worse, my oldest daughter is on the cusp of that dreaded and most feared stage of life known as the teens.

I don’t think my intricate knowledge of a Pampers Baby Dry is going to help much when she asks for the keys to my car.

But that’s the least of my problems.

Thirty Something Speaks is no more as of October 24. In the last ten years, I’ve welcomed my third child on to this earth (and this time it came with a Y chromos moved back home, completely changed professions, and (as the father of two girls) attended more tea parties than the Queen of England. I’ve written about it all, but nothing could have prepared me for this next stage in life. Thirty Something is ending, because I’m turning 40.

Once again, my kids aren’t giving me much time to wallow, but this time I’m not a Mountain Dew swilling, zombie–like caregiver, but a chauffer, coach, and wallet. Still the hugeness of this birthday is settling in, and a true mid–life crisis can’t be far behind.

The thought of a Forty Something column brings up images of invasive medical procedures, male pattern baldness, and black socks with sandals, but I guess those are things I’m just going to have to get used to. I just hope you can.