I am in Cambridge, MA, a place rich in personal history.
Today, I am thinking a lot about my youngest daughter, whom, despite the fact that she is considerably younger than me, we all call Robin, Sr.
That’s because her mother and I named her Robin at her birth, December 28, 1982 (in Boston). We named her after me, but at that time Robin was only my nickname, to differentiate me from my father; we were both named Robert Howard Gorsline.
In the early 1990s, I decided that I wanted to claim “Robin” legally. I was tired of having to remember my legal name when signing a check or filling out official papers. Besides, I felt more like a Robin than a Robert. But that’s another story.
Today, Robin, Sr. is on my mind. This is where her life began. I am so glad it did.
She was born into a troubled household–her mother and I were preparing for divorce–and she could so easily have grown up bitter and angry.
Instead, she is a beautiful, positive, loving young woman with a thriving career and a ton of friends–not to mention an adoring father. It seems right, after my visit to her birthplace, that Jonathan and I will spend this weekend with her in Chicago.
Here’s to ya, Robin, Sr.! The old man is proud of you.