Happy Birthday, sweet Katie. I can't really believe you're 25. That sounds so adult. And you can't possibly be an adult, can you? No, no, that seems impossible. You see, you are still just that little first grader who decided to go by Kathryn for a month, until you realized how much more work it was spelling that out on every school assignment. You are the 7 year old doing handsprings in the side yard under the willow tree, with a fake sprained ankle (a la Kerri Shrug) wrapped in ACE bandages. You are the brave 9 year old, the one who I send over to strangers in bookstore to ask what time it is or to other little girls on the beach to ask if they will be our friend. You are the ten year old who is draped in Mom's old bridesmaid dresses and shawls, clomping around in too-big heels with your Molly doll tucked under your arm. You are the middle schooler who is scared to be left home alone, who I discover hiding in the closet with your fist closed over a roll of quarters, ready to knock a burglar unconscious. You are the high school freshmen in too-tight black pants with a can of Orange Sunkist, sitting in the commons completely at ease with my friends. You are the twenty one year old, running alongside me at mile twelve and grabbing my hand as we both spot the finish line sign flapping in the Virginia Beach sunlight. You are the graduate with a Master's degree and a wardrobe of Ann Taylor skirts, ready to write lessons plans and give detention slips. And now somehow, you are the 25 year old, as confident and assured and gracious and gorgeous as any woman could be. I love you, little sister. Happy Birthday.
Once upon a time, I had a blog. I chronicled a life in Spain, a heartbreak, 4 moves, a chronic illness and relationship rekindled. It's been a few years and it turns out I missed broadcasting my personal life for all the internets to see. So I'm back and bloggier than ever.