Happy, healthy, and much wiser than I’d been that age, the Little One turned thirty this week. Time to reflect.
She was born, that sprite, in a year of change. It’s been three decades, two lifetimes ago: hers and mine.
We opened ’82 on Wrenford, long field goal range from the school of my youth. Michael was four, Jamie but two, and between playgroups and naps, we schlepped with Elaine Walter looking for houses. Stacy was coming and there was, (per The Jersey Girl), no room at the inn.
It would be a year of change, both on and off the court. Downtown that spring, my partnership ended. Uptown that summer, we moved onto Maidstone. Down south that March, a grandmother perished; up here in August, our step-dad cashed in. In a lot of ways, it all fell on me.
And in the midst of it all….
Stacy Celia Bogart arrived three weeks past-due on August 27. It would not, by the way, be the last time she was late. Named for our Grandmother Cele and Mom’s husband Sam (if you’re following along in your scorecard, this is Husband 2 in the series of 3), Rooney proved to be a hybrid. Autonomous, loyal (and stubborn) like our grandma, she is at once soothing and excitable like Sam.
And likeable. Everybody likes Stacy. To this day she walks with a child-like insouciance intoxicating all she touches. Rooney is one of those people, dare I say, that even as she frustrates you…even as she momentarily pisses you off…you can’t help but love her. Better yet, you can’t help but smile.
(At least I can’t).
I’ve heard it said that God has a great sense of humor. Consider:
The household split in ’93, Stacy being ten at the time. Last of the littler, she had yet neither the independence of Michael nor the soft guile of Jamie. That pair found ways to see me. Rooney just couldn’t; she was young, and I got it. Times together were, to be sure, jagged.
Ironic, (is it not?), that the lass I’d plot to see now calls up daily! Funny (is it not?), how it all works out.
Just thoughts worth sharing on this her birthday week…
Love and wings, we give our kids. Unconditionally. Just love and wings. I say it often—at least when asked. ‘Tis easier sometimes, though, to talk the talk rather than walk the walk. I miss her.
I miss all my kids. They’re out there, all three, sharing their love and spreading their wings.
On her thirtieth birthday I called my daughter: The Little One. Her voice mail—what a shock!—was full.
I didn’t get mad—even the second time, hours later. This was, after all, Stacy.
To Jason she’s a wife; to Lucy she’s a mother; and to many she’s a loyal friend.
To me, though, and to those who saw her all those years ago either laying in the kennel with Rocky or standing in a Tower City window with manikins, she’s still Punky Brewster. She is smiling, radiant, and warm enough to always melt a frustrated father.
(If only she would clear out her voice mail)!