And now we are three.

Hard to believe that Ellie's just had her third birthday. She starts preschool next week. She's so excited about it that I can't really freak out too much (and yet I am, of course, still freaking out).

When I asked her what kind of cake she wanted for her birthday, she immediately replied, "magic wonderland cake!" And so began my adventures in homemade fondant, which turned out reasonably well.

On Monday, I took both kids to the doctor for well visits - Ellie's three year and Irie's ten month. Ellie was 50th percentile for height and 90th for weight, which the doctor said was great. Irie was 80th percentile for weight (slowing down!), 90th for height, and 95th for head circumference. The kid still has an enormous noggin, which is just fine with me. All the better for holding that enormous brain...

Irie is weeks, if not days, from walking. She's now occasionally moving one of her feet sideways without holding on to anything, although actual movement forward or backwards has yet to occur. That's also just fine with me. Funny how one roots for the older child to gain mobility as fast as possible, then find oneself wishing the younger child would slow the heck down instead of growing up so astoundingly quickly.

On Ellie's third birthday, I was on my way to her party venue with two dozen rainbow balloons, just as happy and excited as could be. I'd gotten some big, fun toys, like a playhouse and a tunnel and so on, and we were setting them up at the venue to surprise her and give the kids at the party something to play with. All of a sudden, I found myself driving and crying, thinking of Abigail and how we might have celebrated her third and fourth birthdays, what themes they might have been, what present she would have picked out for Ellie, what she would look like now, all the rest of it. It's amazing how grief will just crop up out of nowhere and slap you in the face, how sometimes it seems most prone to arise when you're at your happiest, and you suddenly wish you could share this happiness with your child. It's brutal.

It passes, at least; it never goes away, but it comes and goes, ebbs and flows, nonetheless. My heart still aches, and the happiness is always bittersweet, but most of the time, at least, it is more sweet than bitter.