A Teenager Among Us.

Dear Aidan,

Happy birthday! Hard to believe you’re a teenager today. Though now that you are taller than me, maybe it shouldn’t be that hard to believe. As I look back on your life so far, I am filled with immense pride and joy. After all, it is somewhat ironic. For the first part of our marriage, Mom and I never really considered having kids. It wasn’t for us. Or so we thought. Thankfully, over time, our opinions changed. And, while there was definitely a time when we couldn’t imagine ourselves as parents, it’s certainly safe to say now that we couldn’t imagine ourselves not as parents. We are so thankful and blessed for the joy you and Erin have brought into our lives.

And it’s those moments, Aidan, or at least some of them, that I’d like to share with you for your birthday. For the next few minutes, I want you to read about moments in your life that I remember well — for whatever reason. And, I’ll try to tell you what those reasons are as we go through the list. Sometimes the reasons are obvious. Sometimes not so much. In honor of you reaching the teenage years, I’ve got 13 things to share with you. It certainly could have been a longer list. So many options! But, alas, because you turn 13 today, I thought that was a good number to start with. Here goes!

  1. I saw an ad in the paper today for the “Day out with Thomas” event down in Essex. It brought me back to your early years so quickly! How you loved Thomas the Tank Engine! We watched the show all the time! We took you to Essex to see Thomas years ago. And, Aidan, you loved to build tracks. We had so many of the engines and so much track. (We still have them, in fact, because Mom refuses to let them go!) You would take such good care of those engines, lining them all up in so many different ways. Just like you would build tracks. You would always try to use all the pieces we have (and you usually did!). There was a period of time where track was set up in our living room for months on end. And, to be honest, sometimes I wish we could take out the track and build one — just like we used to do all the time.
  2. When you weren’t building tracks and running engines, you were working on puzzles. If the floor wasn’t covered with track, it was covered with puzzles (and sometimes both!). Sometimes you would have 10 or 12 puzzles out, completed and decorating the floor. The ones I remember vividly were the state puzzles. You learned your states by doing puzzles. That was always fun to watch. Even now, when you work on a puzzle, your brain just works differently than mine (in a good way!) You may not know this, but I’ve always been envious of your ability to solve puzzles.
  3. I love the holidays with you. And one of the main reasons why is our manger set. You know the significance of that in our family, the fact that it’s more than 50 years old. You know how much it meant to me when I would work with my Dad on putting it together every Christmas. For the past few years, you’ve always been a great helper — especially bringing the wise men closer each day. However, this year, you really took to it in your own way, setting up so much of it with me just watching. You knew what you wanted to do, and it looked great. How could I complain? You never met your Papa O. That frustrates me so much. But, what makes me happy are little things like working on the manger that help to establish that family connection.
  4. Speaking of family connections….I’ll never forget how much you used to protect your sister when she was a newborn. No matter where we went, you had your big brother radar on — in a big way. You’d be walking with Mom and me and someone would come up to the stroller to get a peak at your sister. You had other plans for those people. That’s because you would cover Erin in the stroller and not let anyone see her. Yes, it was rude, and we had to work around that, much to your chagrin. But, despite that, as I think back on it, those moments, for me, really show how much you cared about your sister then — and still care for her now. I know you don’t like to show emotion (if at all), but you have started to show her more respect and love through your actions. And for that, we are grateful.
  5. Staying with the family connections theme for a bit, I used to smile so much when you’d come to the cemetery with me when you were younger. You were so good there. Not only would you help me set up baskets at family graves, but you would also often fix the flags on the graves of veterans. And, you would also straighten up memorial baskets on other graves, too. I think you know the importance of the cemetery to me, so it gives me great pride when you help now, and when I think back of you fixing flags and baskets when you were much younger.
  6. Music has become such a part of your life. In fact, I think it’s appropriate that you’re playing in a concert tonight on your birthday. That trumpet is such a part of you, and I so love to hear you play. It’s been a pretty amazing journey to watch you progress so quickly in such a short period of time. I’ll never forget your first solo, Aidan. It was during the Christmas concert held at St. Pat’s. You performed When the Saints Go Marching In. And you were flawless. What you don’t know about that night is how much stress I was under — first of all because of the strike situation at work and secondly because my godfather was dying. It was a very hard time for me. But in that moment, at St. Pat’s, I was beaming with absolute pride and could forget about all the negative going on around me when you stood up and absolutely nailed your first solo!
  7. The next two memories are about music, too. That’s what happens when it takes up so much of your life. The next solo you conquered was at the school Flag Day ceremony later that year. Sister Regina asked you to play during the ceremony organized by your fourth grade class. And play you did! You did five songs, all while being the center of attention as the entire school population stood around you. It was an absolutely amazing moment for you, Aidan, one I still think about quite a bit as you continue this journey with band.
  8. Fast forward to seventh grade, and we are absolutely amazed (and proud!) when you are asked to join the high school marching band. Mom and I didn’t know what to expect, and we’re not sure you did either. This was new to all of us, but you took it and made it such an important part of your life. You practiced so hard, and we were introduced to an amazing new culture, so much so that I can’t imagine not having band in our lives. I remember the moment from this year that made me the most proud. I bet it will surprise you because, in fact, it was a time when you weren’t even playing your instrument. At your home competition, you were chosen, as a seventh grader, to be one of the escorts for a visiting band. You did so with such pride and confidence. I know, I got to see you up close when I was working the gate and you brought the band to the field area. Nobody would have known you were in seventh grade. That’s part of what I’ll always remember, that and how you carried yourself that night. So impressed.
  9. And while you are already getting yourself familiar with life in high school, you know how important your time is at Sacred Heart School. When I think of you at SHS, I often think of Sister Regina. I know how special you were to her — and I know how special she was to you. She relied on your help so much. And you were always there to help her in any way possible. That’s such a commendable thing. When she needed something done, she came to you, just as many still do, but it was Sister Regina who first, I think, really got you focused on school pride. I know it was sad for you when she died, but I also know she made such an impression on you. I have no doubt you will always carry a part of her legacy with you.
  10. Because of all the work you did for Sister Regina, it has led me to jokingly refer to you as the Mayor of Sacred Heart from time to time. Obviously our whole family is involved with the school, but it’s clear how much the teachers rely on you for help. Mom and I hear this all the time, but we also see it when we are at events and you are always one of the last kids there. You are always focused on finding a way to help clean up or do something to make the school a better place. St. Michael’s was such an important part of my life, Aidan, that it gives me great pleasure to know you care so much for Sacred Heart. Sending you there was probably one of the best decisions Mom and I have ever made.
  11. Speaking of Sacred Heart, it’s been fun to see you involved as an altar server at church. You have become the go to man when it comes to this! You seem to serve all the school masses, and you always do such a great job at regular Sunday masses. It’s clear to Mom and me that you take great pride in your work. You’ve trained your sister and helped others learn more about it, too. We love hearing your interest in serving special masses like First Communion and Graduation. And your knowledge has paid off a few times when you’ve known where some things are at church that Mom and I didn’t even know existed! You are valued and respected there, and it makes us very proud.
  12. Things haven’t always been easy for you when it comes to health stuff. While you have been blessed with overall good health, you’ve endured so many appointments surrounding your allergies and asthma. You’ve had more ear infections and cases of bronchitis than anyone should ever have. You’ve had two sets of stitches and an operation that you don’t remember. And, a few years ago, you were incredibly sick during the Easter season that required a not so pleasant trip to the ER and your first experience with a suppository. Through all of that, no tears. Just one tough kid.
  13. Tears, however, are the focus of this last memory, Aidan. You probably are thinking I’m crazy to end this with a memory of you crying. But, I can’t help it. I have never been as proud of you as I was during that moment. It was just about a year ago. Mimi O passed away. She had been sick for a while. You knew that, and I think you understood it. I can remember you sitting next to her on her couch and helping her with iPad. She loved you so much. I’ll never forget, before you were born, Mimi O and Aunt Lynn drove to Backus in the middle of the night because they were so excited for your impending arrival. They ended up going home for the night and then coming back the next morning. Mimi O was so excited to meet you. And, when she passed, you were strong — until the funeral. As you know, I was a mess, crying virtually all the way through the service. I was so thankful that you cried. I felt you had been holding things in. You weren’t letting go any of your emotions in any way. And then, at the funeral, you were overcome. I was so proud of you. That took great strength to show that side of you. To show that your feelings were real. We tried to talk to you a few times about how you felt. You were never interested. But, at that moment, you showed us. And I’m so glad you did. Don’t ever shy from your emotions, Aidan. They help determine who you are.

That’s the thing about this, Aidan. You aren’t a kid any more. You are an incredible young man that gives us great pride every day. Sure, you give us frustration, too. That’s part of being a teenager. We understand that. You’ve asked a lot lately why Mom and I are interested in certain aspects of your life, and why we care about certain things. As we’ve told you, it’s because we care about you and we love you. All of these moments, all of these experiences, help build not just who you are, but who you will be. So much is ahead of you. So many experiences await you. So many opportunities. I can’t help but be excited for you and whatever adventure lies ahead.

Until then, Mom and I will be right here. Always ready to help you, support you and love you. Happy birthday, buddy!

Love,

Dad

 

 

 

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Mom.

It’s been three weeks since “the real Jackie O” died. I knew I would get here eventually. Heck, based on some of the comments I’ve had from a few of you, you knew I’d get her eventually. I just didn’t think it would take this long.

And, now that I’m here, I’m not sure I know exactly what to say. So for those of you looking forward to reading this, I hope I’m not going to disappoint you. But then again, this isn’t about you. Or about me. In this case, it’s about her. And that’s what matters most.

So that’s what I’ll talk about — at least for now. There will be plenty of time in the future for me to talk about other things. Stuff like, you know, how I’m now a member of the “no living parent” club. Trust me, it’s not a club you want to join. I’m not sure there’s one person who is happy to be a member of that club.

I suppose you expected me to be here sooner because of all my previous writings about death. Afterall, I’ve gotten to be pretty good at it. Again, not something I’m proud of or something I’m excited to be good at. It just means I’ve had my fair share (well, clearly fair isn’t the right word here) of it to deal with. And this is how I’ve dealt with it. Here. In this space. So why change now?

I guess that’s my point. Maybe I thought things had changed when Mom died. Maybe I didn’t need to be in this space. Well, doesn’t matter. Because here I am. And, well, here you are, too. And, by the way, thanks for that.

Some of you know this, some of you don’t. Bear with me if you’ve heard some of it before.

When my Dad died 16 years ago, I wasn’t there. Renee and I were living in Vermont at the time. It was Super Bowl Sunday when my brother Tom called and said things “didn’t look good” and that we “should come home” as soon as possible. Dad had been sick. Hospice was involved. We knew we were getting close, but this happened fast. I had planned to go home that weekend, but he actually told me not to. So much for listening to your parents. We got things together as quickly as we could and got in the car for the drive home.

We didn’t make it in time. Rather than be home with everyone else, I found out that my Dad died while in a phone booth in Greenfield, MA. We stopped for gas, and I called home to let them know our status. It was too late, my brother Tim said.

Not being there floored me. Catholic guilt to the hilt. It took a long, long time for me to get over that. Therapy played a big part in that, too. It just really affected me — more than I would let on or acknowledge.

The other thing that really bothered me — and had my head spinning for years — was something we learned after Dad died. One of the nurses told us that Dad wanted to write letters to each of us. Again, floored. I wish I hadn’t heard that. Because then I wouldn’t have spent so much time wondering what would have been in that letter. Never have I wanted so desperately to receive a letter. I wish, in hindsight, that I never knew he wanted to do that.

So, what does this have to do with Mom? After all, I did say this was going to be about her.

Well, two things.

First, I wasn’t there when Mom died. And I’m OK with it. Honest. Here’s the thing. My sister and brother weren’t there either. Once we got hospice involved, we started a basically round-the-clock watch in her room. We had great support of family and friends, but of the three of us, we tried to be there as often as possible — ‘just in case.’ In fact, in her last few days, those of us not there got the call to come down twice as ‘things were close.’ But, the real Jackie O had other ideas. Despite there being times when I sat and prayed in her room and told her it was OK to go, that we were going to be OK, nothing. In fact, the last time I told her that was on Monday, June 13, just before I left after covering the overnight shift.

A few hours later, I was at work when my sister called. “It’s over,” she said. And three minutes later I was in the car en route to the nursing home. Even though my sister called me from there, she wasn’t there when Mom passed. And either was my brother. Mom had a plan. And it was clearly for none of us to be present when she passed. She wasn’t alone. She was with her best friend, who said the end was simple and peaceful. But after hearing stories and talking to people about these moments, I am absolutely convinced this was my Mom’s plan. My sister was en route. But she passed right before she got there. She spent her whole life trying never to burden her children with anything. And this was the last example of that. Not burdening us with being there in her final moments. Not having one of us there or two of us there. She did it her way. And would you really expect any different?

The other thing….and this is what completely slayed me. The real Jackie O had everything set and ready for us. We knew what songs she wanted at the funeral. We knew if there was a wake (“you can have one, but nobody will come,” she wrote), what she wanted. We knew so much because she left a book for us. A book filled with logistical things about the arrangements, but also a book filled with memories, important moments and a host of other things she wanted to share with us. It was an absolute treasure and unbelievable gift for her to leave us. The cover had a note on it that said, “To be opened immediately upon my demise……Mumsie.” Can’t make this up.

But here’s where it gets incredible. Remember the letters my father wanted to write? Well, guess what? Yup, Jackie O wrote them. One for Tom. One for Lynn. One for me. What a gift. Part of me wanted to open it right away. But I waited. I waited until we were home later that night. The kids were in bed. Renee was doing some work. I just took the letter into the living room, opened it up, and was immediately overcome with emotion reading her words.

We have never been a verbal family. We just weren’t. So this was perfect. So very perfect. In three pages of her best handwriting, she praised me, scolded me, apologized to me and taught me. It was an unbelievable act of parenting. One last time. In her words. In her voice. I’ve read that letter no less than 25 times now. I hear her voice as I read along. I suppose that will always be the case.

Renee has read it. And that’ll be it. I won’t share it with my siblings. We’ve shared themes and what not, but we won’t share the letters. Far too personal. We don’t know when she wrote them. She referenced Timmy dying, so they had to be done in the last nine years. And her writing is pristine, so I’m thinking they were written at least four to five years ago. There’s no date or any other indicator of timing. Not that that matters. It’s just curiosity.

I’m guessing she wrote them shortly after  Timmy’s death. Again, we weren’t a very verbal family. I’m guessing there were things she wanted to say to each of us and wanted to make sure we knew certain things, and, well, rather than tell us directly (so not her style), she left us the letters to leave no mistake. There’s a part of me that is hugely frustrated that there are some things in the letter that were never said to me in person. However, there’s a hugely satisfied part of me that knows I have this letter for good. And I can open it anytime I want and not just read her words — but hear her words. It is quite simply my most treasured possession. You know, I’m not sure I knew what that was before Mom died. Probably some piece of sports memorabilia. But now, it’s the letter and nothing else comes close.

Mom was a teacher by trade. And she lived that all the way til the end — leaving us — or at least me — with one last lesson. I hope I can complete it. It’s not an easy one for me. And, it’s even a struggle I have in my own way of parenting. Is it earth shattering? No, it’s not. But if I follow through, it’ll make me a better person, and be it as a teacher or as a parent, isn’t that really what Mom always tried to do — make me/us better?

While you think about that, I’m out of here. I’ve got a letter to read. Again.

 


Eleven Years

Dear Dad,

It’s not that I don’t have anything to say, because I do.

But, usually, when I sit down to write this letter, everything just flows so easily — not because things have been building up, per se. Mostly because, in the past, I’ve been consumed with certain days and events that spark key reminders of your death, which happened 11 years ago today.

This time, it’s different.

And that’s a good thing.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten about today. Oh, no. On the contrary. I can still recall every detail like it was yesterday.

It’s just that I haven’t been as pre-occupied in my thoughts as I have in the past. You know, where I’d start thinking in December how miserable January is going to be. Little (er, no) things like that.

Now, I try to just keep going — remembering milestones, but not dwelling on them and not being consumed by them. And in those milestones become tributes — which is why I share this with others. Yes, this is your day. Our day. But this is also a day that I can remind others about you. Because, well, you had an impact on a number of folks, but they probably aren’t waking up today realizing what happened 11 years ago.

That’s the other part of this, Dad. While I highlight the milestones, I’m doing it because I’ve become even more comfortable with the everday remembrances — like prayers with the kids, thoughts throughout the day, wondering to myself how you would handle a situation.

That comes up a lot more now. And that’s such a good thing.

Oh, I still get sad — and a little of that will even happen today. But, the good news, Dad?

Overall, there is more happiness than sadness. Maybe happiness isn’t the right word. Maybe it’s awareness. No, that’s not it. I’ve always been aware.

What I’m trying to say, Dad, is that I’m trying to live more day-to-day with you. That if in a situation a thought of you comes up, I roll with it. I smile. I laugh. I respond. Somehow — and almost always to myself.

And, well, if a day or two — or a week — goes by and I don’t think of you, it doesn’t mean I care less or that I’ve forgotten.

I promise you that, Dad.

Because I will never forget.

What it means is that you are with me. I know that. And, even though I’ve always known that, it’s like sometimes I’ve felt I’ve had to prove it to others — and even to myself.

There’s nothing to prove, Dad.

In fact, it’s really pretty simple.

You’re my Dad. You always will be.

And while you may not be physically with me anymore, your presence in — and impact on — my life is probably greater now than it ever was.

And, I don’t know about you, Dad, but I like that.

Love,

Mike


One Proud Parent

There are times, let’s just say, when this parenting thing is hard. Very hard.

Then there are times, let’s just say, when this parenting thing is cool. Very cool.

This post is about one of the cool times. It’s about a five-year-old who did something so cool (at least to me) that I’m not even sure he understands just how cool of a thing he did.

Aidan has always been fascinated by cemeteries — not really sure why. He just has. Knowing that his Uncle Tim and his Papa O are in a cemetery has no doubt given him a better understanding of the entire death ‘process.’ And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s a good thing.

He came with me to the cemetery on my father’s anniversary. It was freezing cold, so he stayed in the car while I went out and said a quick prayer. I didn’t want to bring him, but he asked some great questions and it was a way for us to connect. So I’m glad I did.

One of the things he asked was who else I knew in the cemetery. I told him I knew a lot of people. He pressed for more information. I told him that the next time we were over at Mimi’s house and it was warm enough, that I’d take him back up and walk through with him and point out the families that I did know.

Sunday, we were over in that area and as we were driving away, he said, “Dad, is it warm enough for the cemetery today?”

Not really wanting to go at that moment, I said, “It’s not that warm, buddy. Why don’t we go another day?”

“But, Dad,” he said, “I want to go now.”

And here’s where he got me.

“I want to meet all the people you know.”

Gulp.

So, to the cemetery we went.

We spent an hour there. He knows my dad and brother’s stones. But I showed him my grandparents’ stone. I showed him the resting spot of a childhood friend who died at age 20. I showed him stones that were ready for the people who haven’t died yet, including my aunt and uncle.

I showed him stones of neighborhood families that I’ve known for more than 30 years.

And then he showed me something. He showed me how much he understands. He showed me how much he gets it. He showed me how much he understands this stuff — even at age five.

How?

Well, even though it was the last day of February, there were still quite a few Christmas baskets out adorning a number of graves. Because of the wind, many had blown over or been blown away from the stones.

Aidan went around the cemetery and fixed more than 50 of these baskets. He made it his mission to make sure each basket was placed properly — and with respect — in front of its respective grave.

I couldn’t believe it as he went from stone to stone, row to row — literally spending 30 minutes fixing these baskets.

I was completely touched watching him do this with such interest and — more importantly — such care and respect.

“Aidan,” I asked, “why do you think people put these baskets here?”

“To remember their friends?”, he asked.

It was good enough for me.

So later in the day when he was running like mad all over the house and pushing his sister around and testing our patience with every word out of his mouth, it was hard to believe that he was the same kid who did something so respectful, so special and so appropriate just a few hours ago.

But, he was. And during that moment in the cemetery, I was, well, incredibly proud.

Making dad proud.


What Moves Me?

So in one of my last posts, I put the question to you — what would you like me to write about? What would you like to know?

Well, a new reader asked a pretty amazing question. She challenged me to share something I haven’t shared. Or, she said, ‘tell me what moves you.’

What moves me? Heck, I’m not even sure what that means exactly. So, in order to answer it I suppose I first need to be able to define it.

To me, something ‘moves me’ if there’s an emotional reaction or deep feeling associated with someone or something.

The ‘movement,’ of course, can be for the emotional good or bad. It just, I suppose, depends on the situation.

So, with that loosely described definition, let’s take a look at some of the things (in no particular order) that do, in fact, move me:

Music. I simply can’t imagine a life without music. I’m not a singer — or at least not a public one. I can’t play an instrument, but the impact music has on me is sometimes even hard for me to explain. I associate songs with people, moments and just about anything. Certain songs spark certain emotions. And that will never change. Yes, I love Bon Jovi. But it’s so far beyond that. I love just about any kind of music. I have ‘high school’ songs, ‘college’ songs, people songs, driving songs, thinking songs. I love songs that mean something — for whatever reason. It could be a classical piece, it could be a country song, it could be a commercial jingle. It doesn’t matter. If it impacts me in any way, it becomes a part of the soundtrack of my life.

Words. More specifically, well thought out emotional and honest words. Written or spoken. Either way. Doesn’t matter. Fact is, words are powerful. For some, it’s easier to write than it is to speak. So what. Fact is, emotions are coming across — regardless of how they are delivered. Is it easier to hide behind the keyboard? Maybe. Heck, I’m even guilty of that at times. Is it ideal? No. But, if that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes. Good writing is such an art. An under appreciated art. You don’t always know good when you see it, but you certainly know bad — and that can move me, too — but for all the wrong reasons.

Friends. Can’t live without the support of my friends. I mean, how else do I say it? I’m not one for a huge group of friends. I’m much more of the get close to a smaller number and, well, let them in as far as they want. Those that want in, well, those are the ones I hold close. Those are the ones who let me in in return and the give and take is just fabulous. Friends that I’ve known since first grade. Friends that I’ve known since college. Friends that I’ve known for only a few years. It’s not how long you’ve been friends. It’s about what you’ve experienced. And with mine, well, I’ve experienced a lot — and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I just hope some feel the same about me as I feel about them.

Water. Not the drinking kind. The ocean/river/lake kind — with preference given to the ocean. I’ve been around water my entire life. Growing up by the ocean, going to college on a river, working by a lake. Now working on a river and back by the ocean. So much comfort in the water. A place to go when quiet is needed and thinking needs to be done. I can still see the exact spot I used to go to in college when I needed to be myself. Forget the iPod, didn’t exist then. I’d take the walkman with an Elton John tape(!) and just go sit by the river and think. I got engaged by the ocean for a reason. There’s just something mysterious and comforting about the water. And the best time of year to go to the beach? Now. Haven’t been in a while. Time to go explore.

Family. Be it my kids, my wife, my mom, my siblings, my relatives. Doesn’t matter. Family is important. Don’t forget that. It’s easy to do sometimes. Think of the holidays and what do you remember? Family. The best part of a holiday meal isn’t the turkey or the dessert. No, it’s the rehashing of the same family stories you’ve heard over and over. Stories that have shaped your life. It’s the kids — when after a long day of battles, a simple exchange of please and thank you can do wonders.

So, there are five things that move me — in one way or another. Mostly for the good. This isn’t as easy as it seems. It challenges your own emotions to think of important things that can have an impact on your life — and why. I’m sure more will come up, and, if they do, perhaps I’ll add them here at some point.

In the meantime, thanks to my new reader for asking the question.

And now I ask the same question to all of you.

You now know some of the things that move me. So tell me, what moves you?


Don’t Block the Light

So yesterday had the makings of a really great day.

I know, listen to me! But it’s true.

Remember the crying at work episode? Well, while you don’t know the whole story, isn’t that enough? The good news is that the people that were upset with me had a meeting with my bosses. Things were smoothed over. Enough to the point that they called me immediately after that meeting and invited me to lunch to “mend fences and clear the air.”

I was nervous. But it went well. Very well. So much that the relationship is still alive and has a chance to grow. The keys? Honesty and humility. And no defensiveness. That last part is the trickiest for me.

And, someone I work with actually commented that I seemed to be in a much better mood lately. Wow. That was both a good thing and a bad thing. I guess I have been showing some signs…but I guess I also have started to turn it around.

I feel like I have. I feel like looking through that long, dark tunnel that there’s a speck of light there that I haven’t seen in a long time.

At least until last night. And this morning.

Had the worst night sleep I’ve had in a really long time. Why? Not totally sure, but it had something to do with an absolutely ridiculous dream that actually made me get up and go check something in our basement (don’t ask).

Then, Aidan was off the wall this morning — making our hour together a complete and utter challenge. When you’re in the midst of that, it’s hard to focus on that he’s probably tired, still fighting some sick stuff and probably nervous about school today. It’s easy to think about after the fact, but not always during the process.

And, have a meeting in just a bit with someone that I have a very hard time communicating with — and that’s something I need to work on. Thankfully, have a colleague in the meeting with me who can read me and will give a sign if I’m heading down a wrong path. Good to have a battle buddy with you.

A little nervous about later today. Appointment with a different counselor (easier to say this time!). Remember the new therapy thing I mentioned last time? Well, first session today to see if it’s going to be a good option — and I believe it is. I want it to be.

And tonight, well, I step back to 1876 to do something I absolutely love. It’s a time for a 100 percent escape from modern day and focus on some simpler things.

Sounds like a great concept, doesn’t it?


The Birthday Girl

Fun on the swing!

Fun on the swing!

Dear Erin,

It’s hard to believe you are two years old today. Sometimes you seem so grown up! I know that’s happening every day. And I know I can’t stop it (as often as I wish that I sometimes could).

But, the fact is, no matter how fast you do grow up, you will always be Daddy’s little girl. Always. Even the day — especially the day — when I get to walk you down the aisle on your wedding day. Yes, Erin, I do think about that. About ‘giving you away’…which is hard to think of already. Especially a girl who has given me so much — in just two years.

Your eyes, Erin, continue to captivate me each and every time I look at you. Your voice and your growing vocabulary impress me so much. You communicate so well. So easily.

Your sense of adventure. No fear. I’m so admirable and envious of your spirit. Your laughter — contagious — or at least it should be. Everything about you, Erin, speaks of joy. Because that is what you bring to all who love you.

Sure, you’ve grown a little more toddler like with your new bedtime behavior, but, overall, you are an angel. A sweet little angel.

And, Erin, while this day is always about you and always your day alone. Please know, too, what gift you bring me — every day.

Each time I look at you, Erin, your uncle Tim is there. You were such a gift at such a horrible time. A time, quite honestly, I still struggle with a lot (more than people think — at least until now). So on a day that should be totally yours, I thank you for sharing it with the uncle you’ve never met. There will be enough sorrow to share in the next few days about that. But on this day, your day, you share in all the good of not just yourself, but your uncle, too.

And for that, Erin, I thank you.

I do get frustrated, Erin. And I apologize for that. I try and do the best I can every day. Some days are much harder for me — and that’s my own patience level I have to deal with. But just please know that Daddy loves you so much, and you truly bring joy every single day.

Happy Birthday, Erin.

Love,

Daddy

Getting ready to slide!

Getting ready to slide!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What happens when your kid is alone with the sitter! :)

What happens when your kid is alone with the sitter! 🙂