August 26, 2026 by Stephanie

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.

March 2, 2026 by Stephanie

Coaching Her First Season

Basketball has always been my favorite sport. Growing up, I spent so much of my time in the gym as my dad coached at our high school so we were often around to see the game. Then I spent years on my own teams learning the positions and the ups and downs of the sport. Hearing the bounce of the ball, the squeak of shoes, the rhythm of the game, it was something I loved and brought me so much.

When Daphne signed up for her first season this year, a part of me was so excited for her to experience that joy too. But another part of me didn’t want her to feel like she had to love it just because it was mine. I wanted to share something I love without making it feel like an obligation. I didn’t want my passion to accidentally become pressure.

I had to find the balance between my own excitement and giving her the space to love the game in her own way. That meant reminding myself not to immediately point out what she could get better at and sometimes she just needed to hear, “That was awesome.”

Watching her try something new is always such a gift. Some days were beautiful and light where she smiled, she hustled, she had fun. Other days were harder. She saw other kids who were more confident, more skilled, more sure of themselves, and she compared herself to them. She wondered why they “never” passed to her. And as her coach (and her mom), that part was tough to watch.

But those moments became opportunities, not to correct her, but to encourage her. To help her see that trying something new isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up, challenging yourself, and learning as you go.

As a coach, it’s easy to see mechanics and missed opportunities. As a mom, I had to make sure to see her first. I had to practice pausing. I had to ask myself, “Is this about her growth or my expectations?”

I know from experience how early comparison creeps in. It is part of the reason I stopped playing after my sophomore year. How quickly kids can measure themselves against someone else’s strengths can be something. And I learned that my job wasn’t to eliminate that feeling, it was to help her build the resilience to move through it.

What made me the proudest wasn’t how she dribbled down the court or her stats, it was her heart.

She was always the first one down the court when possessions changed over. She hustled. She encouraged her teammates. Even on the tough days, the ones where she felt discouraged or compared herself, she came back the next practice ready to try again. She didn’t give up. She listened. She worked. She grew.

And watching her grow forced me to grow too.

I learned (again) that my role isn’t to smooth every hard moment for her. It’s to sit beside her in it. To remind her who she is when the scoreboard feels louder than her confidence. To model steadiness. To cheer effort. To let her story be hers.

She learned so much this season, about basketball, and about herself. She learned that hard things are worth trying, that effort counts, and that being a teammate is about more than making baskets.

And I learned (again) that success looks different when you’re a parent. It’s quieter. It’s deeper. It’s less about outcomes and more about character.

This might be the only season she and I do together. Right now she says she wants to come back, but we’ll see what the year brings. And that’s okay if not because this season was a dream in itself.

When I was in middle school, my dad coached my basketball team. (See below, I am number 6, and my dad is the tall one.) It was the only team that he was officially my coach, but he was always supportive of the sport he loved as well. I didn’t fully appreciate it then, but now I look back and see what a gift it was, the time, the encouragement, the belief he had in me. Standing on the sideline with Daphne this season, I finally understand that dream in a whole new way.

Maybe she’ll keep playing. Maybe her path will lead somewhere else. Either way, what we gained this season was so much more than wins or losses.

It was connection. It was courage. It was growth.

And if this was our only season together, it was awesome.

November 30, 2025 by Stephanie

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.

August 26, 2025 by Stephanie

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

May 18, 2025 by Stephanie

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.