My baby is six years old today. I am as madly in love with her today as the first day I laid eyes on her. She is beautiful, smart, funny and kind. She has a great spirit. That’s a word her dad used to describe me back in the day. He liked my spirit. And I know he would like hers.
I’ve been thinking a lot this week about what Mike would think of our girl. Julia was three years old when he died. She was heavily into Elmo and had just moved to a big-girl bed. She still had chubby little legs and cheeks. She was a baby.
She’s grown up so much since then. She’s in kindergarten. She’s had dance recitals and sleepovers. She’s made friends. She likes to pick out her own clothes.
I’ve also been wondering what she would be like, growing up with him in her life. She would know a lot more about sports, that’s for sure. She’d have a great sense of humor and a better appreciation for good music. (If he knew, she sang along to Taylor Swift… oh dear.) She’d be cool and laid back. Just like him.
I wonder too what he would think about me as a mother. I never wanted to do this alone. Julia and I are getting into a groove, but we still struggle. I question every decision I make and I don’t have him here to reassure me that everything is going to be ok.
Then I remembered the very last conversation we had, three days before he died. I had taken Julia to the hospital to see him. She was running around the room and getting into everything. I was losing patience. In what little voice he had left, he said to me, “It’s ok, Carrie. She’s a good girl. And you’re a good mom.”
And just like that. On Julia’s birthday. A gift for me.