Sometimes, when we are just sitting around, my mom will burst into tears and tell me what a good father my kids have. I nod. “I know, Mom. I know.” And, I do.

I think part of the reason she cries is because she had a good relationship with her father and she misses him. He’s been gone since I was a child, but she still talks about him a lot. I think there is also something to be said for the fact that my mom is 78 years old and has known a lot of people who didn’t have close relationships with their dads. My grandparent’s generation wasn’t exactly known for wearing their emotions on their sleeves.

Actually, some members of my generation aren’t known for it either. There is no denying that my husband is a curmudgeon (seriously, he won’t even deny it), but he loves his kids, does all kinds of activities with them that I probably never would, instills in them a sense of responsibility, shares his faith and his dreams with them, and even though he is one of the biggest sports fans I’ve ever known, he doesn’t blink an eye at the fact that our special needs son will never be a star athlete.

Of course, my husband gets all of his parenting skills naturally because he has a great dad. As do I. Our fathers are both funny, kind, generous and loving.

Way back in 1997 I spent an amazing August afternoon dancing with all of these men. I happened to be wearing a wedding dress and at one point or another was twirled around the dance floor by my brand-new husband, my dad, and my father-in-law.

The other night my daughter’s dance club threw an event for the parents. It was held in the same hall where my husband and I had our wedding reception, and when my groom and our daughter took to the dance floor – the same dance floor where I had danced with my dad – I was the one doing the crying.

I have been so lucky to have these dads in my life and I wish the same thing for my girl.

So far, so good.

Speaking of dads, I’ll be on a panel at the Dad 2.0 Summit in Houston this weekend where some of the best parents in social media will be gathering to declare, “Parenting isn’t just for moms, and neither is blogging!” I just made that quote up, but I’m pretty sure they’ll want to to put it on a bumper sticker.

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For the last two years, I have done year-end recaps. I like traditions, so here you go.

January – It took me 11 days into the new year before I got my mind right.

February – St. Valentine’s Day Catholic Cliff Notes taught my readers so much. And by so much, I mean nothing at all.

March – My little boy got to meet his favorite big star when Ree came to town.

April – I came out of the vegan closet then I went to the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop in Dayton and left with cheeks that were cramped and sore from laughing so much. We also said goodbye to our sweet dog, Blue and my husband fixed the microwave.

May – I responded to the numerous people who ask me for blogging advice. It’s cute how they think I know what I’m doing! And, I can’t forget the milestone my son hit.

June – I traveled to Seattle for BlogHer Food and I looked back at the days when my kids loved each other.

July – Things were exposed. I’ll leave it at that.

August – I got addicted to a new app and took a trip to NYC for BlogHer ’12.

September – We found out what my son would say if his dad died.

October – I rambled, and I reflected.

November – I attempted to blog every day, but failed. We lost my cousin and that was really the only thing that mattered.

December – I ended the year like I started it, by getting my mind right.

Bring it, 2013. I’m ready for you.

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This morning, the young, English-Irish boy-band, One Direction was on the Today Show. This is why I sang, “What Makes You Beautiful” roughly 5,000 times today. Send help.

I’m not necessarily a big fan, but they have catchy tunes and I had the show on behind me as I worked. I couldn’t help but hear the screaming. Their demographic is decidedly high-pitched.

I don’t know why young girls make shrill sounds to prove their affection, but it’s certainly nothing new. I did the same thing for Rick Springfield, Jack Wagner, and later John Stamos; which says more about General Hospital’s casting than it does about music.

Girls scream, weep, and reach their arms out to the performer and, if touched, vow not to wash their hand forever. Have you ever seen me with soap on my left hand? That’s because I’ve been Jessie’s Girl since 1982.

Of course, the yelling isn’t just limited to the fans of male singers. I once took my daughter to a Hannah Montana concert (this was before anyone knew her as Miley) and after listening to 18,000 fans greet the band, my ears rang for days. I’m pretty sure Taylor Swift wears her hair long to hide her earplugs.

So, what say you? Is this a right-of-passage for all young girls or should we be telling our daughters that screaming and crying over someone you don’t know is kind of ridiculous – because it is, you know?

But, for the record, screaming on a roller coaster is TOTALLY legit.

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Saturday was your birthday. I thought about you all day in between cutting dead branches off of the twisted dogwood tree behind our garage. It felt good to break sticks and tear off limbs; it even seemed right when I broke the saw blade. I did a lot of sweating, burning wood, raking and…living. I breathed big and deep and thought of you.

I can’t believe it’s been 21 years since I walked off the elevator at the hospital and those same lungs had the air sucked from them like the hallway was an enormous vacuum; my vision and the air swirling around me and wooshing down the corridor past the rooms with beeping machines and nurses going about their business. And, you were gone.

There was death before that, but there was no death like that until that moment. I don’t know what I was thinking. That a grown man with Muscular Dystrophy would live forever? Yes, I think that’s what I believed. You were bigger than any disease. In this universe, among billions of people and planets and stars, you were a giant and as strong as any force I had ever known.

I think of you so often; when the house is quiet except for the buzz of a Reds game on TV, when I look at the closed end of Ohio Stadium and spy the spot where you used to sit behind the scoreboard and watch the Buckeyes, when I see someone in a wheelchair and know there is a human being – not a disabled person – sitting in the seat.

A couple of months ago I asked your sister if I could borrow a pen and she handed me this…

I remember this pen cradled in your hand as you wrote. I wish I had saved every scrap of paper that touched it and that I still had your words to read. You and I were kindred spirits with our writing, though as with everything, you were better at it. You would have been a great sports blogger, what with your knowledge and snark. I’ll do my best to post enough of the latter for both of us.

It didn’t really surprise me to know that this pen has never run out of ink; that your sister has carried it in her purse for more than two decades and it’s still working without ever having been refilled. You have ways of making sure we remember you.

Though, I can assure you, we wouldn’t ever forget.

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