Tag: birthdays

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 

Cian is Four

On the day Cian was born, he stayed awake until just before midnight, only to fall asleep and be woken in the same moment by the sounds of fireworks going off outside the window of our hospital room. It had been a hectic day with a 

It’s Quinlan

We named her Quinn because we wanted her to be Quinn. Intelligence, the name means. Isn’t that lovely? “Quinlan” was just what we gave her so she’d have something more formal to put on her diplomas (like how I put that in plural? Yeah, I did). She wasn’t supposed to actually use it. But from the time she could speak, our second-born has insisted on being called Quinlan. “What’s your name?” people ask. She breaks into a grin. “QUINLAN.” Queeeeeeen-lin, she pronounces it.

That’ll show us.

This child. Man, I can’t wait to see how her personality adapts when she’s fourteen, or twenty-four, or when she’s so old she can’t even remember how old she is. She’s so different. And dare I say it? Special. Because this girl is something else.

6.3.14. It's Quinlan. Q dancing balloons

She still sucks her thumb, always when tired, most of the time when she’s upset, and often when she’s bored. The doctors have told us to make her stop, and we halfheartedly try, but it’s her security blanket. But it’s also messing with her speech. All of the words in the English language that start with “st”? She can’t say them, so she uses a “d” sound. We secretly love it. I know, wrong.

(Ask her what a “stick” is sometime. You’ll see what I mean.)

She needs to be touching us at all times. An arm around the thigh. A mouth touching an arm. Fingers in our hair. Without the thumb, we become her security blanket. This usually drives me bonkers–she’s so often draped over me–but I know I’ll miss it when she grows out of it.

Ask her what ice cream she would like: chocolate, or anything that’s blue.

But she won’t finish the ice cream. She’s not a sweets girl (who’s child is she?). She wants fruit, yes, but also the chips. She wants a hot dog, leave the bun. She likes miso soup because of the tofu, pasta with her grandmother’s meatballs, granola in milk. Give the child a peanut butter sandwich and some carrots and she’ll act like you gave her the world.

6.3.14. It's Quinlan. Q hand balloons

She got her sister to start eating baby carrots by telling her they were Cheetos.

She cries at the drop of a hat–this child, she is so LOUD (just ask our new neighbors. Sorry, neighbors!)–then forgets what she was crying about and goes back to her play. She’s secretly violent, shoving her sister when she thinks no one’s looking. She’s smart enough to know that it’s wrong, but not mature enough to know how else to communicate. Yes, we need to work on this.

She runs like Phoebe on “Friends,” full of joy and abandon and life. She skips through the house, jumps in place. The child walks as if somebody presented the day to her as a gift and told her to just have fun with it.

She doesn’t know how to play without her sister. Working on this, too.

She’s as tiny as the spindle on a staircase railing, all bones and ribs and thin, thin feet, but when she stomps up the stairs you’d swear the zoo misplaced a couple of their elephants.

She has her own bedroom now, but shares the bunk bed with Saoirse anyway, sleeping on the full mattress that’s three sizes too big for her, curled up on the edge because that’s all the space she needs.

I asked her what she wanted as a gift for her birthday and she looked at me like I was speaking gibberish. She shrugged her shoulders, put her palms up to the sky, and walked away. The child asks for nothing. Ever.

6.3.14. It's Quinlan. Q knees

She likes being told what to do. Simple commands that clear the confusion. Cut and dry. Black and white. All of the characteristics of a lawyer or doctor, or career military, but I see her becoming a writer. Don’t ask me why. Just check back here in twenty years and we’ll see if I’m right.

She sleeps like a rock. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t budge. Just…still. Which is nice because all too often I wake up to find she’s crawled into our bed beside me. She is so different than what we expected.

She takes ten minutes to tell me at night what she plans to dream about. Worlds of baby dolphins and play and fantastic worlds set in the places she knows. All of her characters are named after us. They’re just a lot more magical.

She’s a miniature version of me. I see my nose, the dimple in the chin, the cheeks, and they’re all mine, down to the shape of her eyes. I hesitate to say she’s beautiful–I wouldn’t say that about me, but seeing a child, my child, is entirely a different story, and my Lord, is she beautiful–and also because I don’t want to focus my attention on the glorious mess of untamable light-red hair, or the freckles that have started to sprinkle themselves across the bridge of her nose, or the way her eyes are so often so bright I can’t quite believe I got so lucky to be this child’s mother. But I can’t help it. She is just precious. And I love her so much my heart swells up and I can’t keep it in. This child is just light, radiating from all over the place.

6.3.14. It's Quinlan. Q balloons

She turned four last week. Four. We took her to a children’s museum, and to Build-A-Bear, and out to dinner. We had a low-key party at a park for her and her preschool classmates, and another at home for family. David and I don’t spoil our children–we say we don’t, anyway, and try very hard not to–but birthdays are a different story. Birthdays are a celebration of the person, and this one, this Quinn, is somebody worth celebrating. She’s like a sequin sewed into the world’s bedazzled jacket. It wouldn’t look quite as fantastic without her in it, shining.

She’s four. And anyone who’s met her in the last couple of years only knows her as Quinlan. This name, the one we didn’t intend to use, means perfection.

6.3.14. It's Quinlan. Q at window

And yes, I think it suits her just fine.

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 

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 

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.

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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 world, and there was something about her that seemed so uniquely special. Many of you know that she was just two months old when my father passed away from pancreatic cancer, and I think that has so much to do with that feeling we had. Here was new life amidst death, something so pure and good and perfect juxtaposed with awful suffering. My father was dying, my daughter was born. It was a strange time, and she, this young person at the beginning of her life, was there for it all.

But now she’s five, and other than being twice as tall as other five-year-olds (not exaggerating. I didn’t realize it until we toured her kindergarten class and saw her with the other children. It was like the beanstalk hanging around with a bunch of Jacks), by all appearances she’s a typical five-year-old. She loves to play. She hates to share. She’s mostly even-tempered, but when those stages of temper tantrums hit, it’s like our house becomes Pearl Harbor for a week. But I don’t want to remember that. I want to remember this:

  • She refuses to let her hair be styled. No clips, no ponytails, nuthin’. Drives me nuts, and I’m convinced her preschool teachers think we pull her out of bed and just stick her in the car. I swear, we brush her hair, Mrs. S. It’s just…she’s five.
  • She chooses her own clothes. I approve the “going-out” clothes, but of course she has free reign over her play clothes. And every single time, she chooses an outfit that matches, but doesn’t. The child has incredible skills in selecting tops with the same colors as the bottoms, and vice versa–every. single. time, the colors all coordinate–but the outfits are always a glorious mess of clashing patterns and Jackson Pollock craziness. I’ve already filled out her application for design school.
  • We were at a party store Saturday picking up supplies for her family birthday party, and she selected the following: Jake and the Neverland Pirates tablecloths and decorations. Pink plates and utensils. Hello Kitty wrapping paper. A gigantic Mylar balloon shaped like a green race car. This is our child. Product manufacturers who insist on dividing their wares by gender, take a look: My kid wears princess dresses and races matchbox cars. And the cars aren’t pastel-colored.

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  • Speaking of toys, this child has more of them than we know what to do with it (not purchased by us, but by very well-meaning grandmothers and aunts and cousins and…), and we’re terrified of her growing spoiled. But last week, I told her that her family was asking what she’d like for her birthday, and if there were any specific toys she wanted. Her response? There was no list, no enthusiastic  I want, I want, I want. Just: “I don’t know. What anyone wants to give me.” Okay, then.
  • BUT. Two years ago we started what is apparently now a tradition of filling her bedroom floor with balloons as she sleeps the night before her birthday. And actually, we might’ve forgotten it this year if she hadn’t reminded me: “Mom, when are you going to give me my balloon surprise for my birthday?” Um, as soon as I just run out to the store really quickly, Saoirse, and buy them. And buy extra so we don’t forget to do the same for Quinn’s birthday…though SK will probably remind us.
  • She is SO EXCITED to start kindergarten. Every time we pass her future school, she gets super excited and announces it as we pass. Is it strange that we thinks it’s amazing that she can identify buildings, and knows directions, and could tell us how to get to certain places if we forgot? It’s amazing, right? How do their little brains sort all that stuff? But her school–she knows exactly how to get there, and so excited (I may have just mentioned this?). And all I can think is, You’re going to Catholic school, kid. Check in with me again after about 12 years of uniforms. Though the uniforms are stinking adorable.
  • She uses phrases like “not quite” and “actually” and “either or.” Correctly. In conversation.
  • She is so, so smart it actually kind of frightens me a little, because there’s going to come a day very soon where she starts to trump my caffeine- and lack-of-sleep-addled brain and both of us will irretrievably realize that she either is or has become smarter than her parents. I just pray she’s out of the house before that happens. Or the caffeine-addled brain is going to quickly become a vodka-addled one.
  • She is sensitive, and feels things so deeply, and I’m terrified for what this will mean for her adolescent years. Mean girls, I’m watching out for you. And by “watching out” I mean praying you stay on the other side of the classroom/hallway/locker room/bus from my daughter. Seriously, shoo.
  • She remembers everything. Should be good fodder for her own blog one day. One I might not read.
  • And finally, FINALLY. I was adamant in Saoirse’s earlier years about restricting her intake of meat and all sorts of gross animal products. I mean, the child was largely vegetarian for a long time because I certainly didn’t want to cook it inside the house (this is clearly before I re-discovered pepperoni and slid, stumbling, backward into the land of cheese steaks and bacon). You know what the child craves now? Shrimp. Chicken wings, preferably in a sweet-and-spicy sauce. Barbecue ribs. Where did I go wrong?

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I love her. I love her in a way that is guttural, and fierce, and from a place so deep inside me that every hurt of hers becomes mine a hundred times over. She is a child who misbehaves and hugs, who screams and sings, who pushes and insists on giving big fat kisses on the lips before bedtime. She is fiercely independent and needs order, but she’s incredibly messy and wants her sister around her at all times. She is so human, and so real, and so full of possibility and potential and excitement for what’s going to happen tomorrow that I sometimes feel jaded and crotchety in comparison. Is she the charmed creature that rose out of the loss that so marked her early months? Well, yes, but not because of that loss, or despite of it. She’s a child. She’s her own child, and that is reason enough to be cherished.

And Many More

It’s David’s birthday today, which means that he turns the same age I did three and a half years ago.  Sweet kid, my husband. I’ve told him before that I think he was insane for marrying me at the age he did–he was only 23 

We Gonna Party Like It’s Your Birthday

We had two birthday parties for Saoirse Sunday. Yes, that’s what I said. Two birthday parties, one right after the other.  Saturday, we were doing our “homework” around the house to prep it for listing, since we’re supposed to meet with our agent this week.