Baby

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George Year Twelve

There is something different about twelve. (Honestly, I probably think this about every birthday you have.)

Maybe it’s because you’re my oldest, and so much of this feels like uncharted territory. Maybe it’s because somewhere between the little boy you were and the young man you are becoming, I have started to realize that my job is changing, too.

This past year has been full of big conversations.

Conversations about friendships and what it means to be a good friend. About responsibility and learning that our choices have consequences. About peer pressure and the courage it takes to stand firm when doing the right thing isn’t necessarily the easy thing. About faith, and what it means to believe something for yourself rather than simply because your parents taught it to you.

And, perhaps most importantly, conversations about the kind of man you want to become.

I have watched you navigate things this year that little-boy-you never had to think about. You are beginning to notice the world in a different way. You are figuring out who you are, who you want beside you, what matters to you, and what kind of person you want to be when no one is watching.

And sometimes, if I’m being honest, I want to slow it all down.

I want to keep you little enough that I can fix everything. I want to protect you from the hard conversations, the disappointments, the mistakes and the moments when you have to figure things out for yourself.

But I know that isn’t my job anymore.

My job is slowly becoming less about holding your hand through every step and more about making sure you know where to turn when you need it. It’s about giving you a foundation strong enough to stand on when I’m not standing right beside you. It’s about reminding you who you are when the world tries to convince you to be someone else.

I don’t expect you to have it all figured out at 12. Goodness, I certainly don’t have it all figured out at 41.

But I hope you always know this: you are deeply loved. You are allowed to make mistakes. You can ask questions-all the questions. You can change your mind. You can walk away from things that don’t feel right. You can stand up for people who need someone in their corner. You can be kind without being weak and strong without being hard.

I see pieces of the man you are hoping to become.

I see him when you take care of your siblings. When you make me laugh. When you stand up for a friend. When you wrestle with a hard question instead of simply accepting an easy answer. When you show compassion. When you make a mistake, take accountability, and try again.

The little boy I once carried around is becoming someone I can have real conversations with. Someone whose opinions I genuinely want to hear.

And while a part of me will always wish I could keep you little and hear that sweet little voice, another part of me is incredibly excited to watch you become a new version of you.

Twelve is a strange and beautiful in-between.

You aren’t a little boy anymore.

But you aren’t a grown man either.

You’re somewhere in the middle, figuring it out one conversation, one mistake, one choice and one day at a time.

And buddy, I hope you know how proud I am to get a front-row seat to the man you’re becoming.

I don’t need you to be perfect.

I just hope you always choose to be good and be you.

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Daphne Turns Nine

Nine.

Somehow, impossibly, beautifully… nine.

There is something about this age that feels different from the years before it. It feels like the beginning of becoming. Like watching someone slowly unfold into who they were always meant to be. It’s a weird thing to be a mom where you are so proud of their growth and the person they are, but also realizing you never get to be with this age again. There is mourning and celebration with each passing year.

This year asked a lot of you, Daphie girl.

A new school. New experiences. New teachers. New friendships. New expectations. The year was packed full of things that kept you busy.

And yet, you kept going.

You walked into unfamiliar places and kept trying anyway. You raised your hand for things that would have felt scary to many people. You qualified for two academic competitions, and it was amazing to see you shine in those moments even when I know it was out of your comfort zone. You tried basketball for the first time. You stretched yourself in ways that would have been easy to avoid. And even when you doubted yourself, you kept showing up.

That quiet courage is one of the things I admire most about you.

Sometimes I wonder if being sandwiched between two brothers who naturally take up so much space has caused you to shrink yourself a little smaller than you should. The world around you can be loud. Fast. Busy. Full of people talking over one another.

But there is something powerful about people who observe first. Who think deeply. Who notice details others miss.

That’s you.

You have one of the most creative minds I have ever seen. Your brain is constantly moving, imagining, creating, experimenting. There are science experiments scattered across your room, drawings on notebooks and scraps of paper and sometimes things that probably were not intended to be drawn on at all. You are always building something, imagining something, wondering something.

You are endlessly full of ideas.

And what I love most is how your mind works. You don’t just color outside the lines. Half the time you’re inventing an entirely different picture altogether. You see things differently, and I hope you never lose that. You are constantly teaching yourself new things whether it is the periodic table, random facts about space or penguins, how to shade in pencil drawings, or how to make your own slideshow in different apps.

This year I also watched you build your confidence in dance. There’s been something really special about seeing you settle into lyrical and tap, seeing moments where you stop overthinking and simply move. We really saw that come out when you did the stage show “High School Musical.” Those moments feel like little windows into who you really are underneath the uncertainty.

And I wish you could see what everyone else sees so clearly.

Because the truth is: there is so much greatness inside of you.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind that demands attention every time it enters a room. But the steady kind. The thoughtful kind. The creative kind. The kind that changes the people around it quietly and deeply.

You are constantly reading the room to fill in the holes. Whether that is something physical to brighten the room up, or emotionally telling when someone needs extra attention or care. You are the everlasting helper. Your empathy is one of my favorite qualities you have, and you are someone who is always making sure that those around you feel included and seen.

My biggest wish for you at nine is that you begin to believe in yourself the way the people who love you already do.

I hope you find your voice in all the noise.

I hope you learn that your thoughts are worth sharing, your ideas are worth hearing, and your presence is worth noticing.

And more than anything, I hope you continue leaning fully into the wonderfully out-of-the-box way you see the world. Because that part of you, the imaginative, curious, creative, beautifully kind part, is how you put your mark on this world.

The world does not need you to become more like everyone else.

It needs more of exactly who you already are.

Happy ninth birthday, sweet girl. I can’t wait to see what this year brings you.

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Walter Turns Five

My sweet Walter,
Today you turn five. Five feels big. Five feels like the official goodbye to babyhood, toddlerhood, and so many little moments I’ve held onto with both hands. You came into this world with a sweet simplicity, and you have been healing parts of me ever since. You’re our youngest of three — the grand finale — and somehow watching you turn five feels both impossibly fast and incredibly sacred.

I’ve known this day was coming, but there’s something about the youngest hitting this milestone that hits a little differently. You’re the last one who needed me for everything. And now here you are — tall, hilarious, opinionated, fiercely independent, and so wonderfully you.

You were born into a loud house with siblings who have wrapped you up into their chaos. You’ve grown up trying to keep up with the big kids — running a little faster, climbing a little higher, talking a little sooner and a whole lot more. You’ve taught us all how to laugh at the chaos and soften in the sweetness.

You are the perfect blend of tough and tender. You know how to hold your own, but you also know how to melt into us when you want to be little. I secretly love those moments — the ones where you curl up next to me and remind me that no matter how big you get, you’ll always be my baby. You did this last night as climbed up to me to snuggle after you had a scary dream, and I will hold those last moments of being four so dear.

What I want to remember about this age with you Wally:

  • The way you are always the last to wake up, and always with wild hair. You still have me carry you down to breakfast on school days, and I will keep doing it since I never know when the last time will be.
  • The sound of your footsteps running down the hallway because you have important things to tell us…or how you are sneaking down to get a late night milk.
  • Your obsession with chicken nuggets.
  • The way you throw yourself into things and teach yourself how to do something hard, like swinging on your own.
  • The way your body moves and dances anytime you hear music. Your movie credit dancing is my favorite.
  • The way you set your boundaries and stick to your strong will. You are firm when you don’t want to do something, and you cannot be swayed once you are convicted. This isn’t just about doing things like chores, but how you aren’t going to engage in activities that don’t bring you joy even if they seem fun to the rest of us.
  • The way your brother and sister light up when you do something funny. You bring out the kid in all of us. You are always trying to make everyone smile around you, and you bring levity into every situation.
  • You are wild beyond measure, but you still search for my hand to hold as we walk places which reminds me of your gentleness.

I want to remember how you look at the world with wide-open excitement, as if everything is an adventure waiting for you to join in.

You made our family feel complete. You taught me how to let go of perfection, how to savor the littlest moments, and how to find joy in the middle of messy days. You stretched my heart in ways I never expected.

As you step into five, into kindergarten this next year, into bigger shoes and braver steps, I hope you carry these things with you:

  • Keep your imagination big.
  • Keep your laugh loud.
  • Keep your kindness close.
  • Keep your dance moves coming.
  • And keep believing that the world is good, because you make it better just by being in it.

One day, you’ll be too big for my lap and too cool for my hugs. But I hope you’ll still read these words and know how fiercely loved you’ve always been.
You are my last baby, but you’re also the one who taught me that endings can be beautiful — because they’re really just beginnings in disguise.

We love you more every single day Wally, and we can’t wait to see you grow this year.

Here’s to five — to the magic, the mischief, and the memories ahead.

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George Year Eleven

Dear George,

Today you turn eleven and start middle school. I cannot believe that we are at this stage, but welcome to this adventure called middle school! You are about to grow, stretch, stumble, laugh, learn, and change more in the next few years than you may even realize. And that’s okay—middle school is meant to be a little messy.

Here are a few things I want you to know:

  • It’s okay not to have it all figured out. You’re still learning who you are, what you like, and what matters most to you.
  • Mistakes are proof that you’re trying. Some of your biggest lessons won’t come from getting things right the first time, but from trying again.
  • Kindness matters. The way you treat others (and yourself!) will always matter more than grades, clothes, or being “cool.”
  • You are not alone. Even when it feels like no one understands, I promise there are people cheering you on—teachers, friends, family, and more.
  • You are enough. Exactly as you are today, you are worthy of love, respect, and joy.

Middle school is just one chapter in your story, but it’s an important one. Take chances, work hard, be curious, laugh often, and remember—who you are becoming matters more than who you’ve been.

So this is a very special birthday for you, you not only began a brand-new school year but also stepped into middle school today. Eleven is such a special age—you’re right in between being a kid and becoming a teenager. What I love most is how you get the best of both worlds: you still have that playful, silly side that makes life fun, and you’re also starting to see the world in deeper ways, asking big questions and sharing your thoughtful ideas.

I am so proud of you—of your positive attitude, your courage, and most of all, the way you are freely and unapologetically yourself. What a gift to walk into this new chapter on such a meaningful day.

You’ve got this.

Love,

Mom

Daphne Year Eight
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Daphne Year Eight

This year Daphne has been insistent that she is going to space one day, and that she will be one of the first people to Mars. She is inquisitive about what it will take to get there, and from those details, she has created a plan. And if space doesn’t work she wants to be a Air Force pilot; and if that doesn’t work she will be an actress. It is precise and big, and entirely her.

Today is Daphne’s birthday. She is eight, and thinking about all the things. Another year older, a little taller, and somehow even more full of wonder than the year before.

She’s always been a big dreamer — the kind who sees possibilities in places most of us overlook. But here’s something else I deeply admire about her: she gets scared. She worries about trying new things. Whether it’s speaking up in class, learning to climb a rope, or joining a new activity like trying out for a musical— the fear is real. I see it in her eyes.

But then… she tries anyway.

And that’s what makes her brave. Not the absence of fear, but her choice to move forward in spite of it. Her dreams aren’t just floating ideas — they’re fuel. They carry her over the bumps, push her past the nerves, and inspire her to step into the unknown with wide eyes and a steady heart. Watching her dream and be determined to chase them is one of my favorite things.

As adults, we often fall into the trap of practicality. We trade wonder for what’s “realistic,” and over time, the dreams we once had quietly shrink. We have been talking a lot about dreams in our house, and I have to thank Daph for some of the reflection I have been doing lately. Watching her, especially today, reminds me how vital dreaming is — not just for children, but for all of us.

Dreaming gives us vision. It gives us hope. It sparks creativity, innovation, and joy. Daphne doesn’t yet know what’s impossible — and honestly, I hope she never fully believes anything is. Even when she is scared or doubts her ability, she still goes out on a limb and tries. She is shooting for the stars in so much of what she does. While her astronaut dreams may be cute memory in a decade, I hope she never loses this sense of dreaming and trying.

So this is a little birthday love letter to her — and to every child (and adult) who still dares to dream big. Let’s not quiet that voice. Let’s fan the flame. Let’s encourage curiosity, imagination, and the wild kind of belief that makes going to Mars feel absolutely possible.

Here’s to the dreamers — may we raise them, may we nurture them, and may we remember that we are them too.

Happy birthday to my BIG dreamer! Daphne, you are a wonder.