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Category: Milestones

This is Why Some People Make Fun of Religion

Quinlan walked into my office the day after Easter, pursing her lips like she does when she senses deep, deep injustice in her presence. “Mom,” she said. Her tone was accusatory. “The jelly beans that were in our Easter baskets were the same ones you had in the pantry.” She wouldn’t break eye contact with me. “Mom,” she repeated. “Why are the jelly beans the same?” The time had come. I gulped–actually made a gulp sound–and half-heartedly tried to cover my (er, the Easter Bunny’s) tracks: “Well, honey, jelly beans are the same all over the world. It’s not like there are a bunch of different versions of, you know…jelly beans. So it makes sense that I’d have the same ones that were in your Easter basket.” She looked at me, then sat down beside me in such a manner that I was pinned between her and the side of the couch. She didn’t say a word for a beat or two. Then: “I know about the bubbles.” “The what…

At Seven, A Name That Fits

She turned seven a couple of weeks ago, our Mighty, and I’ve been thinking about what I’d say about her ever since. Her interests haven’t changed all that much since last year. She still loves butterflies, and horses, and riding her bike. There’s some stuff that’s new: she started playing soccer this spring and was awesome to watch. She learned how to really read this year, and you know as well as I do there’s no better sight than seeing your own child curled up in a chair with a book. She isn’t as afraid anymore, and that’s the thing, I think. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Here’s what I find funny: Quinlan said earlier this year that she didn’t like her name, which isn’t funny at all, really, especially when you know that I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying that if she’d just stuck with Quinn like we’d wanted to call her, maybe she wouldn’t be complaining. Don’t worry. I…

But Not So Fast: The Oldest is Nine

Our Saoirse Kate turned nine a couple of weeks ago, and I’m still recovering. (Just kidding. I only cried twice.) (In one day, I mean. I only cried twice in one day.) She is now just a foot shorter than where I stand at five-nine, unless I’ve started to shrink already. She was measured for new shoes this month, and she and I are officially able to swap sneakers now. She went running with me the other day, and was able to match my pace  (which is probably a testament more to my current, er, athleticism than it is to her grown-upness, but never mind that). She is an arguer, a crier, a frustrated executive of her sibling squad. She is also: a talker. She shares, she elaborates, she has theories. She is tentatively confident: she played basketball for the CYO league this year, and she progressed from a girl who nervously adjusted her ponytail whenever she was unsure of what she was doing to becoming a player who wrested the ball from an opposing teammate’s hands in her last game, pivoted on one foot, and shot the ball without a moment…