At Seventeen

Happy, happy birthday to our daughter, Catherine, who turns 17 today.

Blowing out the candles with Grandpa in 2000.

As I watched her walk to the bus stop this morning (yes, I still watch out the kitchen window, every morning), I couldn’t help but remember her first steps, those chunky-monkey thighs wobbling under the effort.

Her first  words (Da-Da, naturally. Sigh. But many, many more soon followed. We used to joke that her vocal cords were connected to her eyelids. If she was awake, she was talking. That hasn’t changed.)

Her first fingerpaint masterpiece, first day of school, first effort at tying her shoes, riding a tricycle, mastering the monkey bars, diving off the diving board, making cookies all by herself, serving the volleyball, getting behind the wheel of the car.

And just as when she was about 9 months old and every day seemed to bring a new word or skill mastered, we’re here at warp speed again — finishing the driving lessons, looking at colleges where she’ll major in early childhood ed, planning for the future she holds in the palms of her hands.

Already she has more going for her than I did at her age.

Her life will be great — I just know it.

And ours? Amazing thanks to the joy and love she brings us.

Still you know I can’t resist embarrassing her at least once today:

Happy birthday, Pookie!

Catherine and me on Sunday. I was allowed a rare interloper’s moment in a selfie — as long as I promised not to be weird or creepy. I think I did OK, don’t you?