this is a page for

Category: Milestones

Missing Dad: Ten Years

Yesterday marked the 10th anniversary of the day pancreatic cancer took my dad. It’s a marker I’ve thought about since the very beginning: where would we be at ten years? What would he have missed in that much time? What would we have missed? My dad is as real to me today as he was then. In all unembarrassed honesty, I miss him so much my chest aches. The death of a parent before anybody is ready creates this weird sort of outline where the person should be standing in your life. The outline of that lost person never goes away: it might fade, it might lose its edges a bit now and again, but it’s always there. Every dinner, every holiday, every milestone: the outline, standing there, empty where it should’ve been whole. I missed David’s dad’s anniversary a couple weeks ago (Yes, I just switched gears and mentioned David’s dad. April is a FUN month for our household). His was 9 years, and I hadn’t updated my calendar yet, and the day came and went until the evening, when David mentioned it…

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…