This past week I turned 33. Some people my age wouldn’t admit that; they think 33 is old. Other already older, and much wiser, individuals will tell you it’s still very young. Truthfully, it’s sort of an in-between age. I was reminded of this recently on a rare night out with friends. We had a lovely meal and then hit the bars in town. The first pub had a decidedly youthful vibe – perhaps too youthful to even be fully legal. There were beautiful girls wearing too much makeup and strapping young men in skinny jeans. As a mother of three, I felt out of place and vaguely uncomfortable.

We moved on to the next pub, located in one of the town’s hotels. This place was less rowdy. In fact, it felt… well, old. The youngest patrons were middle-aged, there was a country band playing all the social dancing favourites and once again I felt out of place – this time, because of my ripped jeans and high heels.

My friends and I had a great time catching up sans children, but at the end of the night I was left wondering if there was a pub in town for in-betweeners like me. A place where 30-somethings go to have a few quiet drinks, with the option of dancing on top of the bar, much later, when feeling especially silly. This is 33 my friends.

Before you think I’m feeling sorry for myself, I know I’m lucky. I live in a beautiful place; on an idyllic farm. My husband and I still like each other, even after three babies in short succession. We’re happy our kids will grow up in the countryside; that we made that “mad-at-the-time” decision to leave our lives and careers in Toronto when the first pregnancy test came back positive. We were told going back to Ireland, not yet recovered from the recession, would be financial suicide for us. We knew better.

Some things are more important than financial suicide. We thought about the tiny, utterly dependent baby that would soon be in our arms and we just knew that we could never raise our kids in a city. In a high-rise apartment. Among other kids who have never climbed a tree, caught a fish or played hide-and-go-seek outside at night with their cousins.

It doesn’t matter where life takes you; you can’t escape a country upbringing. My career in Toronto was fast-paced and challenging. I took to it easily, but was still considered a country bumpkin by my co-workers. They weren’t wrong; after six years of city life I tired of so many things – staying on top of trends, wearing black all the time, the “amazing” new restaurants where the music was always too loud and the portions way too small – I missed country living a lot.

So, from the girl who at 18 told her parents she would “never, ever live on a farm ever again”, this 33-year-old is quite content in her ramshackle farmhouse. Three funny, smart, little girls, a few border collies, a stripy cat and a handsome husband add plenty of zest to what, as a teenager, I probably would have considered a very boring lifestyle.

What will 33 bring? It’s been nearly five years since we made the decision to move back to the country. I’m a different person now – having children irrevocably changes you. Not so long ago I would have enjoyed that pub full of crazy 20-somethings, but these days I crave connections over libations.

When we moved to my husband’s farm I had plenty of expectations. I knew there would be some hard times, hopefully combined with a lot of happiness. And, truly, there’s been more happiness than I could have ever imagined. The other things I didn’t anticipate? The loneliness, mind-numbing boredom and the awful sense of mammy-guilt I often feel while staying home with my kids.

I don’t regret our decision to move to the country, but I do miss feeling important to people other than family members. I miss being talented at something other than changing nappies and making endless snacks. I sometimes look at myself in the mirror and wonder – do I still have that spark that makes me special? Have I spent my last ounce of energy (willingly, always willingly, but still) loving and nurturing my kids? They are definitely the best thing I have ever done – my greatest accomplishment – but does that mean I’ve peaked at 33?

Often, if you say these things out loud, people will tell you to cop on. And, again, I know I’m lucky. I also know that, before long, I’ll have a brood of cranky teenagers telling me they will “never, ever live on a farm ever again” (because… karma) and I’ll miss these baby days.

For now, I’ll keep my head above water and hope for a second wind down the road.