Tag Archives: Dear Emily

Dear Emily June,


Before coffee, before the alarm even went off this morning we sat down and I read to you.  Letters from previous birthdays. You were sitting on the kitchen table behind me.  We got to the year you turned five when I turned around and you had tears rolling down your face. “Stop after this one.  I am going to be sobbing when the bus comes.” Oh, my dear, sweet girl, we are cut from the same sappy cloth.  xxoo


Dear Emily June,

Yesterday morning when you looked at me and said “Last morning of being eight” I think you were disappointed that I didn’t leap over the kitchen counter and scoop you up in my arms and tell you that you will always be my baby. The truth is that I couldn’t get it out of my mouth without crying.

This year I have shed more tears over your birthday than I usually do (and we both know that I get a little sappy around your birthday.) I have tried to figure out what it is that has me so verklempt.  And here it is, kiddo.  The good, the bad and the ugly.

Sometimes I write you letters and I give them to you. Sometimes I write you letters and I know that I won’t give them to you for many years to come.  This is one that I will hang onto for a awhile.  This has been a big, big year for us.  We have had lots of big, scary conversations. You pushed hard on me about the truth about my marriage to your father.  You were ready to ask me hard questions about divorce and love.  For the most part, I think I was ready to answer them.  I had planned on answering them someday.  And the someday just showed up and we ran with it.

We have talked about how sometimes two people just aren’t happy anymore and you have to let go. But here’s the thing – sometimes we were happy.  I don’t really talk about that part much because it opens the little girl door to “why didn’t you just try harder” or “see, maybe you could have stayed married.”   I know both of those doors because if I am honest with myself I still peek inside them from time to time. And one of those times is your birthday.

Because the truth is, Emily, that Jeremy and I let each other down.  We did.  But for at least a few incredible picture-perfect weeks we had it in the bag.  I was enormously pregnant and your dad was on stand-by.  Your dad, who is allergic to answering his cell phone, picked up in the middle of the first ring.  Every time.   The weeks surrounding your birth continue to be some of the best days of my life.  And whether I like to think about it or not, he was a huge part of that.  And that’s hard for me to think about.

It’s weird. I know exactly what to do with the feelings of resentment, anger, sadness and disappointment surrounding a divorce.  I am not really sure what I am supposed to do with the good memories, though.  They break my heart a bit, every year.  I have been struggling with all of these feelings, the good memories that surface surrounding your birthday, since 2011. You were turning six and you were seamlessly sliding into this new life, a new house, a new baby.  A few years later and I still can’t seem to figure out how to feel happy and sad all at once.

You are so much stronger and smarter than me.  You love and forgive and look forward.  I have so much to learn from you.  I am trying so hard not to lean on you, sweet girl.  It is hard enough to grow up, you don’t need to be worrying about me.  I will grow up, too, in my own time.

Last week I had a tantrum on a Sunday morning.  Your dad and your sister left for church and we stayed home for a few extra minutes.  Wordlessly, you just started helping me pick up toys and make order.  You know that I think more clearly when things aren’t a mess.  I was trying to clear the counters of your dad’s canning shenanigans and I might have been screaming about jalapenos and you said so quietly “But it makes him happy.” I just sat down on the floor in the kitchen and cried.  I wanted to have clean counters and you just wanted the people who you love to be happy.  See? You are smarter than me.


Every day I look at you and I am amazed that you are so big.  Your sister is just the same size as you when it was just you and me and our big, scary, new life. When she slides into the crook of my arm at night and I press my head against hers I can close my eyes and see your face.  It is almost impossible not to run up the stairs and climb into your bed.  You’re so smack dab in the middle of being little and big.  I wish you would climb in my bed and let me hold you while you sleep but I wish I could pour you a glass of wine and spill my guts, too.

This is the messiest, sloppiest birthday letter yet.  And I am afraid it is more about me than you.   I used to write you birthday letters that tried to sum up who you were that year so that we could look back and remember exactly who you were when you were two, three, four years old.  I guess nine is the magic age when I don’t feel like I can write that down for you. I know how you make me feel.  I know how I feel about your birthday.  But I don’t really know that I can say “This, this is who Emily is” anymore.  That’s on you.

Oh, Emily… there is nobody like you.  You are the sweetest, kindest person I have ever known.  I am smiling through my tears as I write this.  My 20th high school reunion is in a little over a week, and here I am writing a letter to my oldest daughter and I am tempted to sign it like a yearbook…. “Don’t ever change, LYLAS, Mom.”

Because I do, love you like a sister.  I never had one growing up, but I imagine this is what it might be like, growing up side by side with someone who understands parts of you that you can’t explain. Like it or not, I am still growing up, too, right along with you. And really, if I had one wish for you…. do not ever, ever change, Em.  You are unfuckingbelievably cool, just the way you are.  You are kind and funny.  And in my book, that’s pretty much where it’s at.

Emily - Day 3 009

I love you, baby girl.  Every day more than the day before. You turned everything I thought I knew inside out and I never looked back. Keep being awesome, Ems.  You got this.



Last day…


She sat down at the counter for breakfast and smirked.  “Last day of being eight.”

She was waiting for me to say something sappy.  “Get your backpack, babe, and get packed for school. Let’s get totally ready for the bus and then we can ruminate on the matter of your birth.” She rolled her eyes.

As she packed her stuff she said “I am going to be nine tomorrow but I am still very immature.” I looked up from making lunches. “We are studying the duties of local government and every time…” that’s as far as she got before I started laughing.  “I know, right?  Duties.  I am the only that laughs.  In my whole class.”

“Do you think you will still laugh when you’re nine?” I asked her.

“Yeah.  Because that is only one day from now and we have state duties and national duties to talk about still.  But I’ll laugh really quiet.”

I am not sure how to break it to her.  There is an incredibly good chance that she will not ever grow out of this potty humor phase.  At 38 years old I am still yukking it up over here.

Emily June,

You will get an appropriate birthday letter this week but for today – enjoy being eight. Maturity is overrated.  Pierced ears will surely fulfill your need to grow up a bit, no need to stop laughing at poop jokes abruptly.

Love you,


Unsolicited Parenting #2: Virginity

If you happen to listen to Madonna while you do the dishes and your 8-year-old daughter happens to ask you what a virgin is – be careful what you tell her.  Don’t tell her that a virgin is someone who has never done “something” before or else she will loudly announce “I am a virgin!” whenever you enter a store she has never been in or eat a meal she has never had before.

And maybe you’ve already anticipated this – but I was rather taken aback when my sweet 8-year-old daughter shouted “I’m not a virgin anymore!” after she left the store and after she set down her fork.

It’s my recommendation that you go with a more specific explanation of the word “virgin” when your child asks you.  And since I am no longer an “Explaining the word virgin to your sweet daughter” virgin – you should really take my advice.


Inherent Worth & Dignity

Unitarian Universalists promote seven principles.  The first principle is the inherent worth and dignity of every person.  This week I was reminded that my eight year old is a far superior Unitarian Universalist than I may ever be.  Because after she told me what happened to her on the school bus I was really struggling to see the inherent worth and dignity in one particular little girl.

She was crying when she came up to the front door so it took me a short while to get an answer.  “Did something happen at school, Em?”

“Mom, she said I am a bad person.  She said I can’t be a Girl Scout if I don’t believe in God. She said if I don’t have God in my heart than I have the devil in my heart.”

I wrapped my arms around her tightly while she caught her breath.  And the words, the words that came tumbling from her lips next made me more proud than I have perhaps ever been. “I told them that I am a Unitarian.  And that I do go to a church actually. And that my church says you can believe in whatever you want.  I am a good person.  I am.  How could that God want to punish me when I didn’t even say anything mean when they were telling me that I was a bad person?”

The part of me that wants to start talking and never stop when I don’t know what to say exactly worked hard to stay quiet.  The less I said the more she spoke and the more I realized I needed to say nothing.

“The Girl Scout pledge says God but so does the Pledge of Allegiance. You don’t have to believe in God to be an American so I don’t think you do to be a Girl Scout.”

I kept quiet.  I was waiting for the shame, for the doubt, for the “what if they are right, Mom?”

“There is only one thing that I wish was different about our church.  I wish it wasn’t in the woods.  It’s kind of hiding and if we were right next to the road more people would know about us and more people would come because I bet a lot of people actually think that it is okay to believe whatever you want and just be a good person.”

She knows.  She knows she is a good person.  And it doesn’t matter what the Girl Scouts think.  Or a kid on the bus.  Or God.  She just knows.

In the last year I have thought frequently about our first principle as it applies to others.  I think about it in the moments that I try to apply my reality to another person and I see them coming up short.  I remind myself that they are their own person, they live their own reality, they have their own inherent worth and dignity.  It never dawned on me that if you believe in your heart of hearts in your own worth, in your own dignity, if you do not have self-doubt – it is so much easier not to condemn others.

My sweet Emily June, you have taught me more in your eight years than I may ever teach you.  This can’t be your first rodeo, kid.


Bikini Body?

Ordering a bathing suit online is a ridiculous idea.  But when the company that makes the running shorts that make me feel hot, not just athletic, had a sale – I took the bait.

It is the time of the year that I have the Great Bikini Debate.  Last summer I tried to embrace the stretch marks. I gave it a solid effort.  I even tried to tan those mofos.  If I am 100% honest – the red bikini took a backseat to the trusty one piece the great majority of the time. And now here I am again, another year older, another year closer to the Year I Should Really Stop Wearing A Two Piece.  (I am not sure when that is, exactly, but I am certain it exists.)

Standing in my bathroom in the new two piece I could acknowledge that this summer’s bikini body is slightly more toned than last year’s.  I have run my ass off this year and it is starting to show.  Deep breath in.  Deep breath out.  Bend over.  Sit down.  Eh.  It is what it is but it is unlikely that it is gonna get better than it is right now, right? The fit is ok.  But the color?

Brown. The brown bikini was the only sale suit in my size.  I just don’t know about brown.

I called to Emily.  “Come here.  What do you think?”

She just stood there with her hand on her tiny little hip.   “Hmmm.  That’s a tricky question. I’m trying to decide what you want me to say.” Damn kid.

“The truth,” I answer.

“Well, you have really big boobs and that top is really big like a lot of fabric but weirdly it makes your boobs look not as noticeable. And I think it’s ok that your stomach is like, well, you know like that because you had two babies and you’re a great mom and you look pretty.” She paused to take a breath.  “Do you like it?”

I love her. I do.  I should have been more clear, I suppose.  “Do you like this color brown?” Sigh.

Back tattoo teapot

If the bikini makes its presence known this summer than the excitement will be two-fold.  My stomach and the stretch marks there really get all the press.  But it is high time that the wreckage on my hips and lower back get a little face time.  The 2014 new ink highlights them nicely.  Last summer’s motto seemed to be “if you can’t tone it, tan it.” This summer it is looking like I am embracing the “if you can’t tone it, tattoo it” philosophy.  Someday perhaps I will get to that level of peace where I don’t even have this conversation with myself. Maybe next spring when I am trying on bathing suits for my 39th summer I will only ask myself the question that my sweet Emily June asked me –  “Do I like it?” Maybe.  Someday.


In February of 2010 Emily was little.  She was unabashed.  She danced in the driveway and she didn’t take long to get dressed.  She had bangs.  She liked zip-up hoodies and sunglasses and the more accessories, the better.  The Universe was all Emily’s.  She wasn’t selfish but the only life she had ever known was one that was all about her.  Today she went to a book fair at school and came home with several books for Lucy. “Because just because she is too little for school doesn’t mean she doesn’t get books, right?” 


I don’t know exactly why I went digging through old pictures. Emily said something hilarious and followed it up with “Don’t put that on the Internet.” And I tried to remember when she became self aware.  Was it last year?  The year before? The year before that?  She has changed more in the years since Lucy was born than she did in her entire life prior.  She became something new.  She is a Big Sister now.

Maybe that is what is different.

I tell her she is still my little girl.  I tell her that she is lucky that she had me all to herself for so many years.  I tell her that I love her.  But sometimes I fear she will read through these posts someday and wonder where she is…. all this schmaltz about Lucy, what about me?

Emily June,

I am writing my story so I don’t forget.  And when you looked at me on New Year’s Eve after I took a perfectly hilarious video of you and said “Don’t put that on the Internet” it crushed me a little bit.  Not because I wanted to show the whole damn world how hilarious you are (well, maybe a little) but because I am afraid that as you get bigger and your story becomes yours to tell and I write less of it down… I will forget.  I will forget the moments, the details, perhaps, but I won’t forget the Big Stuff.  I promise.

You and I have butt heads this week. Big time.  We had the first of many screaming matches that ended with us both in tears and me saying “Listen, Em, I’m not your friend, I am your mother.  I know you are mad, and I am sorry.  If I knew a way to be your mother without making you mad I’d do it.  I am making this up as I go along, kid, and I don’t know much but I know I am supposed to be your mom first.  I can be your friend in between the cracks, but my first job is to be your mom.”  And you hugged me and you cried and you told me that it is so confusing.  You told me that you do respect me and you’re sorry that you get so mouthy but sometimes it just feels like you are with your friend when we are together.

I held you tight and I cried a little louder.  Because when you said I feel like your friend I felt like I was failing you as your mother.  But succeeding as a person.

I don’t know what I am doing exactly, Em.  You might as well know that. It is easy to teach Lucy the colors and the alphabet song. I have no idea how to teach you when it is hilarious to mock me openly and when it is disrespectful to even sort of roll your eyes.  It is confusing.  You’re right.   But I am doing the best I can.  And so far it has been good enough.

When you read all this some day and you wonder why I spilled my guts (and maybe a little of yours no matter how hard I try to protect your privacy) I hope you just ask me.  Maybe I will be able to give you an answer by then.  Because today?  Today I can’t explain why.  Writing it down makes things make more sense.  And sharing it makes it all less lonely.  Maybe you will understand that.  Weird that in this time of my life when I am never, ever, ever alone – well, it is the loneliest damn time.

I am watching you play with your sister right now.  You just looked up at me and said “Are you crying because of those old pictures? Don’t cry, Mom. I’m still little!” And you shook your tiny little butt and you smiled.

Yes.  You are.  For today.  But you are bigger than you were yesterday and you don’t show signs of slowing down.



Dear Emily June, on your 8th Birthday

Dear Emily June,

I have been writing you letters on your birthday since you were very small.  But this year seems different. I usually write a letter that will help me to remember what it was like the year you were five or the year were two.  But this year, the year you were seven, I don’t think it will take any remembering.  Not because it was unforgettable or because I took a million pictures.  It is simpler than that.

I don’t think I will struggle to remember the year that you turned eight because I think you have become the person that you’ll be for good.  Things will change.  You will grow up and fall in love and drive a car and flunk a test and get a job and make mistakes.  Things will happen to you.  Layers will form on top of this person that you are right now.  But who you are – Emily June.  I know her.  She’s here to stay.


You will be eight tomorrow.  And some day you will be nine and then ten.  But you will always be Emily June.  You will always have a little dimple in your cheek.  You will always have a little sister that adores you.  You will always make me laugh like no one else. You will always know just exactly what to say when I am blue.  You will probably always obsessively organize your shoes before you clean up anything else when you pick up your room.  You will always love crunchy peanut butter.


All week you have asked me if I am sad that you are turning eight.  “Do you think I look a little bit old in these pants?” You shake that tiny heiny in front of your mirror and I watch you watch yourself.  “Nope, I think you look a lot bit crazy.”

I like to give you a little piece of motherly advice on your birthday.  It seems like the thing to do.  Through the years I have told you to dream big and love fiercely.  I have praised your strength and your kindness.  I have told you time and again that you are funny because good god almighty, kid, you are a riot.  This year I am at a loss.  Not because I think my advice would fall on deaf ears, quite the opposite. You want so desperately to please.  You’d move mountains if you thought it was expected of you.  This year I just want you to be you.

I want to tell you to just keep on keeping on, kiddo.  You are better at being Emily June than I could ever be.  I’m going to do my damnedest to keep my mouth shut through the next decade.  But if you are trying to make a decision and you need need to be reminded what Emily June would have done that summer right before she was eight – you just ask me, ok?  Because I will never forget.

Happy birthday, sweet girl.  I love you.

Keep it up, kid.



Back to School Squash

At seven-going-on-seventeen it is so easy to be mortified.  With the start of a new year of school I am watchful for the subtle shifts in behavior.  Do I get a kiss when the school bus pulls up?  Am I woefully out of touch as I suggest outfits for the first week of school?

So far it seems my sweet, big girl is still my funny, little girl underneath it all.   The first day of school outfit was a smashing success and I got a kiss AND a hug in front of the school bus.  There was no additional waving once the bus was boarded but the tinted windows on the bus let me believe that perhaps I just missed it.


Obligatory First Day of School Pic

Day one was a win all the way around.

Day two started smoothly.  And then every parent’s favorite – “Oh, wait. I did have homework” – moments before the bus is to arrive.  Ever dramatic (where does she get that from?) she clarified that actually she just had to think about something that makes her unique and be prepared to talk about it in class.  Seizing an opportunity to make her roll her eyes, I made several suggestions.  “You could tell them about how everyone in your family is criminally insane.”

“I try and appear totally normal at school.” Good luck with that, kid.

“Umm, you could talk about what it is like to live in a house with a mother that is so incredibly beautiful?” This is funnier if said mother is wearing a nightgown and half a ponytail and her pink fuzzy slippers.

Eye roll number two. And a smile.  The eye roll/smile combo is essential to my parenting.  If I can get her to be annoyed and find it all at once unavoidable to reveal the fact that she shares my sense of warped humor I know I am doing something right.  We all need our own parenting yardstick and this is mine. This sense of humor has served me well and it is all I hope to pass down.

I was hula-hooping in the driveway with Lucy when the bus arrived in the afternoon.  (Testimony to her still being a little more kid than pre-teen, this is not embarrassing at all.) Em hopped off the bus as she always does, mid-sentence.  She had a smirk on her face.  “How was your day?” I called to her.

“Well… it was embarrassing.”

Uh-oh. “Look what someone put in my backpack!”

It could have been so much worse.  We were in the front yard after school on Monday and Lucy was picking vegetables.  It seems she thought she would pack Em a snack. In the greater scheme of things, of all the things she could have slipped in her backpack a squash isn’t so bad.

Traditions are born in funny ways.  I am tempted.  The Second Day of School Squash might elicit the eye roll/smile for many years to come.  Or at least I hope it does.  I have made a note in my calendar.  Late August, 2014.  “Stick squash in Em’s backpack.”


Lucy NEEDS that squash. It’s as if she has been wondering for an entire day where in the hell she stashed it.

37th Birthday: Part 2

The late morning became the afternoon quickly.  Birthday number 37 was shaping up nicely. Em came home from school and she set to work preparing for dinner.

She practiced waiting tables.  20130508-080023.jpgShe offered to make me a “fancy drink” but I did some soul searching and decided that even if the baby is asleep in your lap that is not a good enough reason to teach your 7-year-old how to make a gin and tonic.  20130508-080012.jpgMQD came home and brought sushi from him (who knew there is a Kelly roll?) and we opted to play outside for a bit before we ate dinner. 

I had some time with my mini-me – 20130508-080053.jpgAnd MQD spent some time with his. 20130508-080033.jpgEm sweetly offered to chase Lucy around for a bit so MQD could make faces at me while I tried to take a picture of him.20130508-080046.jpgEventually it was time for dinner.  I put my phone away (gasp) so my last picture for a while was a quick snap of our menus. (On the inside they said only: sushi. Em came to the table and asked us what we would like and rolled her eyes as we opened the menu and hemmed and hawed before selecting “the sushi.” Note the custom menus – “Mom likes the beach and Dad likes monsters.”)20130508-080059.jpgWe had sushi and red velvet cake from the little bakery in town. We had sushi on our honeymoon for my birthday.  We had red velvet cupcakes at our wedding and MQD sweetly ordered a small one to be delivered to our room as we celebrated my birthday with champagne in the middle of the afternoon.   I felt special the entire time MQD and I were on our honeymoon.  The intoxicating combination of the “just married” glow and the chance to spend time just the two of us for the very first time created an atmosphere that we might never truly recreate.  But for me, on my birthday, MQD tries.

When I was a little girl your birthday was really special.  There was the dinner that you selected and at least one small gift that surprised you.  It wasn’t surprising because you didn’t know about it  in advance, it was surprising because you couldn’t believe that anyone even knew you wanted it.  I guess I thought that once I was a “grown up” I’d never feel like that again.  I have had awesome birthdays.  I have been to concerts and bars and parties and dinners.  I have been in love, on dates, with my girlfriends.  But not since I left my nuclear family home did I have a birthday like last night.

Last night I had that feeling again (even though I forgot to eat dinner off of the “You are Special today” red plate!) This feeling started while we were playing out in the yard.  But when we sat down to open presents – that’s when this feeling overwhelmed me.

Months ago I was rummaging around in the closet after a couple of glasses of wine.  “What are you looking for?” MQD asked.  “My slippers!!  I can’t relax without my slippers!!!” It was one of those moments that as soon as it happens you know it will become part of your family lore.  MQD has since suggested to me that I “go put on [my] slippers.”  I know what he means.  It has given him a way to suggest to me that I chill the fuck out without making me mad.  Now, that’s something.  As the weather has warmed up and my precious slippers have moved further to the back of the closet in favor of flip-flops I have started to eye the fuzzy flip-flop slipper.

Fuzzy, flip-flop slippers.  Why would you wear flip-flop slippers?  What exactly is the point?  I used to think this.  But a few weeks ago I took a second look at them. 20130508-080018.jpg And last night I reached in to a gift bag and pulled out a pink pair.  Em picked them out herself.  X-large.  Dearfoam, pink and fuzzy.  “How did you know I wanted these?  Now I can relax all summer!!”

There were other things.  My favorite gum.  A Snoopy figurine.  Sunglasses.  Deodorizing shoe balls (Very funny, MQD.  Not the most romantic gift but the poor man does have to share a closet with me.) A perfect birthday card, made just for me!20130508-080105.jpg

But it wasn’t the cake or the sushi or the slippers or the birthday card.  It was that feeling. It was my birthday yesterday.  And I was special all day.


Emily June,

Someday you will read all of this. Some of it will horrify you, I am certain.  Some of it will make you laugh.  But I hope these words make you pause.  You and your dad made me feel so special yesterday.  Thank you. Your kindness does not go unnoticed.  In my wedding vows to your dad I said that I knew he was “the one” our first Christmas together.  His gifts to me reflected his efforts at listening, at getting to know me.  And you, my sweet girl, you gave me pink fuzzy flip-flop slippers and all I can do now while I sit back and drink coffee and enjoy their fuzzy pinkness is think “Man, this kid gets me.”  You are growing up.  And I love it. Keep being you.  Because you, you are special every single day.  

xo, Mom 

Join me on Facebook for a few ridiculous videos of the birthday shenanigans!



Little bitty kids have little bitty problems. It stands to reason that the bigger a kid gets the bigger their problems get.

The cooties a kid catches in elementary school become broken hearts. The tricycle wrecks become fender benders. The lunches eaten at the silent table in the cafeteria become detention if you don’t watch your smart mouth.


Em was fearless as a little girl. She would walk across the back of the couch and race her trike as fast as its teeny wheels would go. There were scrapes and bumps and bruises along the way. But she was never one to cry for terribly long. Her big blue eyes were steely when she was hurt. She was a tough little kid.

She still is.

I rounded the corner of the hallway near the Nurse’s office in school and my heart sank when I heard her crying. Minutes earlier MQD had called and said “Didn’t you see the missed call? Em is hurt. They want you to come and get her. She hit her head on the playground.” I started to fire questions at him and stopped myself. I knew better. He had told me everything he knew.

We live close to the elementary school. It had been fourteen minutes since my missed call. Two minutes to park and walk inside. My baby girl had been crying for sixteen minutes.

I was expecting them to say “It’s protocol that we call a parent when there has been a head injury, we need you to sign this form.” I’d be back at school with Lucy in tow in less than an hour for the Holiday Party.

But she was crying.

I saw her and I dropped to my knees and wiped her hair from her face. She put her arms around my neck like a child of preschool age. I stood and she clung to me, her long legs wrapping around me like they did when she was young. I was lucky that a friend had popped by when I got the call that I needed to go to school. I had run out the door without Lucy. So, for the first time in a long time my big girl was my baby and it was just the two of us. With her head on my shoulder she wept.

A lot of bandaids and ice packs and tears later we were home. A little bit of nausea later we were at the pediatrician. And not long after that we were at the Emergency Room. Somewhere between the doctor’s office and the triage room of the hospital my sleepy, weepy, nauseous big girl turned back in to the stone cold little bruiser she had been as a little, bitty girl.

Big Girl

She hadn’t said much of anything to me in hours. Suddenly she was chatting away to the nurse and the doctor at the ER. She was tired. Rattled. But she was smiling. She looked from left to right, she followed the doc’s finger. She walked up and down the hall and might have even rolled her eyes when they asked her what year it was.

We aren’t out of the woods. I will continue to watch her for worrisome signs. Incidentally if you have never monitored a child for “strange behavior,” it is rather maddening. Small people are weird. They do strange things.

Kids get bigger and their thumps and bumps get bigger, too. I knew this before today. Intellectually, anyway. I can’t yet say I am grateful for the object lesson, Universe. Fingers crossed for an uneventful tomorrow.