My daughter is now ten

I can­not get my head around the idea that my daugh­ter is ten years old

Mal­lory turns 10 tomor­row. That sen­tence was writ­ten about five min­utes before this one. Not because I've been called away to help her with Adobe Illus­tra­tor, dis­cuss Sims 4 or wax her skis — some of the things we do together lately. Irene's read­ing her sto­ries and putting her to bed.

It's taken me five min­utes to process the idea that I've been a par­ent for ten years. And that my baby is now a decade old. What a long time that is.

But I don't feel tired or worn out or empty. Well, I do but it's more got to do with shov­el­ling snow and the bike trainer work­out.

No. When I think of ten years with Mal­lory I feel excited and ener­gized. I feel like my life has a mas­sive tail­wind and I'm just fly­ing along effort­lessly, my feet float­ing on the ped­als.

This child, who skis bet­ter than me, who makes her own break­fast and lunch, who plays piano (never could, myself) who cart­wheels, writes plays in french along with a myr­iad of other things that leave me in awe of her and unspeak­ably proud.

This child is enter­ing her sec­ond decade.

Happy birth­day dar­ling. I am, as I never tire of telling you, the luck­i­est dad in the world.