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Browsing Tag: birthdays

I Really, Really Like Her

She’s leaned out, you know. My Saoirse–she got out of bed one morning and she was a rail. Just, a rail–tall and thin and lanky, all lines, no swells–all of a sudden a kid, a big kid, I mean, like the ones I see in the parks and at the mall and going into school. She’s one of them now. My Saoirse Kate. And I’m so excited for her. She bears the weight of the firstborn personality, my Saoirse. She’s sensitive, so sensitive, quick to cry, first to identify something as unfair. But she’s also the child who so very much wanted a guitar for Christmas, and when she noticed none under the tree that morning (her godmother was bringing one later), turned to me and quietly said, “I guess Santa didn’t think I needed a guitar,” and went back to the gifts in front of her. I hope this helps her become an empathetic adult. She has a sense of self that is strong. She knows what she likes, and she likes: pink, yellow and black. Airplanes, cars, and…

My Mighty Grows

My sweet Quinn turns three today. I truly can’t comprehend where these past years have gone, because I could swear to you I was just admiring the appearance of her first tooth. But I see her now and know that toddler is long gone. The little girl standing before me is tall and lanky, like a bean sprout that just continues to stretch from seed to sun. She’s peaches-and-cream complexion, hazel-green eyes, a mop of crazy-curly burnt-orange hair that draws comments from strangers we pass in the grocery aisle, in the bank, on the sidewalk. She sucks her thumb when she’s tired. It took months for her to potty-train, but I’ll find her in the bathroom now, washing her hands, already finished without us realizing she’d gone upstairs in the first place. She refuses to nap, appearing at the top of the stairs, clutching her stuffed dolphin in bleary-eyed defiance, but other days will simply announce that she’s tired and march to her room, insisting that she will tuck herself into bed. She is an imp who knows that a smile…

No Need for a Baby Book Anymore, Anyway. She’s Five

My friend Molly mentioned to me in a text today something about keeping a baby book, whereupon I blushed, swallowed hard, and was really, really glad she couldn’t see my expression. Baby book? Do a lot of you guys keep baby books for your children? No, wait. Don’t tell me if you do. You know the guilt a lot of women get when they spend too much time on Pinterest (“Oh no, I don’t keep color-coordinated drawer dividers for my daughter’s hand-stamped polka-dotted monogrammed socks! I have FAILED as a HUMAN!”)? That’s how I feel when people mention baby books. Why do you think I started a blog? It’s all of the memories with none of the guilt. Our Saoirse turned five this weekend. I look at Cian, propped up beside me now, cooing away each time we make eye contact (which is a lot. He’s cuter than most puppies), and remember very clearly when she was that small, smiling and cooing, breaking out into a four-limbed stationary dance whenever we talked to her. She was the center of our…