this is a page for

Category: Milestones

Because Seasons Change

David and Cian and I just dropped the girls off for their first day of the new school year. First and second grade. Tiny plaid uniforms. Backpacks that still look a bit too big for their little bodies. Saoirse told me last night that she wasn’t ready for the year to start–this summer had been too nice. Too much fun. “Relaxing,” she said. You know already that I felt the same way. I wasn’t the Author this summer, or really even the Author Mom. I really didn’t have a choice to be anything other than Regular Mom once vacation started, and while I’m not so sure I want to know what that means for a burgeoning writing career, these past weeks were some of the best that I can remember. Maybe it’s because I didn’t have a choice: I had to be in the mix with these three kiddos whether I wanted to be working or not, so I just gave myself over to it. It was the first time since I started writing toward publication that I didn’t feel utterly guilty…

In the Aftermath

When you send your kiddos to Catholic school, and one of your children is in 2nd grade (first communion time is INTENSE, y’all), you find yourself at church a lot once spring rolls around. A LOT. I mean, a lot a lot. On Facebook I jokingly called the month of May Faithapalooza–sooooo many church visits–and I wasn’t really kidding. Life around here has been in Catholic Overtime. I keep looking at David out of the corner of my eye to see if he’s freaked out yet, but so far he’s staying strong. He even made it through one church visit where there was unexpected rosary time (unexpected by me, I mean. Everybody else was prepared, well-used prayer beads in hand, while I looked like the dunce who mistook the church for a coffee shop and was wondering where my latte was. I said I was Catholic. I didn’t say I was, like, Best Catholic Ever). He only gave me an incredulous look once. Or twice. I can’t remember. I was still waiting for my coffee. In the middle of Faithapalooza, I went to…

Eight Years

Last Saturday, the 16th, marked eight years since my dad died, and as is now typical each spring, April always makes me feel a bit…strangled. I can’t see the blossoms open on the pear trees in this valley where we live without thinking of walking out of the hospital that day, after a week of watching and waiting and crying and waiting some more, to see that spring had happened while we were in the otherworld of the ICU. As most of you already know, it was almost exactly a year later that David’s dad died after another battle with disease, after a car accident. April? Not the best memories lately. I’d wanted to go to Arlington with my mom to visit my dad’s grave this year. But life, or really, a kids’ soccer game, and the dog, and all the other tiny details of a Saturday in the suburbs got in the way, and we ended up walking around the grotto of Mt. St. Mary’s University instead, quietly talking our way along the mountainside, stepping in between shadows and sunshine as we slowly moved under the…