In Memory of Phoenix: Support for Jaime and Weston

Thank you to everyone who has reached out to the Phippen and Robinson families during this unbearable time. Donations will go directly to Jaime and Weston, helping to relieve some of the financial stress as they navigate their loss of sweet Phoenix.

Phoenix McKay Phippen passed away on September 14, 2024, as he ran in the outdoors he loved so much, and with dirt beneath his fingernails. He was surrounded by friends and his parents, who loved him to the moon. He was 3-years-old.

Three years, three months, and seven days is too short a time for anyone to live. But Phoenix knew how to squeeze joy from every minute. There was not a puddle within eyesight that he did not splash, often against his parents’ advice. There was not a beetle in his Glorieta, New Mexico, yard that he did not touch as he admiringly cooed, “Oh, he’s so cute. I love him.” Phoenix was magic because he saw magic in the mundane. Bandits lurked behind each tree, and he vowed to take them all to jail. A rock, be it driveway gravel or a polished stone, held supernatural potential. “Look! A dinosaur egg,” he’d yell with excitement and in total belief that it would, if placed on the table beside the front door, someday hatch.

He was a nature child, often naked outdoors save for his blue and green crocs as he ran through the tall grass. He loved to poop in the yard. He admired wildflowers, and he’d present them to his mother as he gently rubbed the purple or yellow petals against his face, saying, “Look, mommy, it’s so pretty.” He was also a wonderful helper. He picked groceries from the aisle with his mom, and when dad needed to dig a hole, Phoenix shouted, “Oh, I need to get my tools. Be right back!” And he’d grunt as he dug beside his father with a plastic shovel, pressing one foot against the blade like dad showed him.

For such a young boy, Phoenix held an astounding vocabulary. He taught his parents the difference between a Brachiosaurus and a Dilophosaurus, speaking each syllable clearly, and he warned of the dishonest nature of the Velocisaurus. He especially loved adjectives. An earth worm was incredible. When he wore his “lightning shoes” he could run super, super fast, and indeed he could. The monster truck or backhoe toys he slept beside were huge or enormous, even though they fit in his tiny hand.

His mother and father will miss filling his mouth with whipped cream. They will miss reading him three books every night, and how he had often memorized and would finish the last words of each page. They will miss the dance parties, so many dance parties, to the Talking Heads, to Rage Against the Machine, to the Monster Truck Song, to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck”—or, as Phoenix would say, “The Thunder Song.” They will miss his sweet calls to build a “compy” nest, to play race cars in Car City, or to help dig sand with his many, many construction vehicles. He was a connoisseur of heavy machinery.

His mother, most of all, will miss his cuddles. She will miss the nights she rubbed his brows as he looked into her eyes, repeating, “I love you, mom.” He was her rainbow child.