Evolution

If I look at a single year in my life, in any of a number of relatively recent years, it's hard to tell whether a lot happened or not much at all. Much of each year, for me, has in recent years been the same: the routines of work, and the routines of home, and the routines of my relationship have become fairly predictable. Somedays I find the patterns comforting. Other days, depressing. With the exception of an occasional trip or the birth of a child, my years, of late, have tended to blend together.

But watching Quinn's evolution in the course of a single year reminds me of what is possible: evolution itself. Human sea change.

I've been writing stories here since the beginning of 2011 and, to my great surprise, a number of friends and family (and even some people I don't know) have been reading them. Thank you for reading them. Having an audience has helped motivate me in this project to document, ultimately for Quinn, some of the stories that led to her existence, and some of the details of her coming to be.

What's becoming more clear to me every day is that Quinn is already doing a good job expressing herself, and little by little I am becoming an outside observer of her life, rather than the sole creator and voice for that life. And, little by little, as Quinn evolves, it is becoming clear to me that I must as well if I am to stand any chance of keeping up with her. As I look back on 2011, I am struck by the number of distinct phases we passed through together. This was not a year of mundane routines, or of one day blending seamlessly into another. This was a year of sea change.

Earlier this month, I found this quote in the back of The Sun magazine: 

"The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." -Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

And it seems to me that passing through a year, with a child, is an experience of each day also being absolutely new. I've been writing and planning stories for Quinn in hopes that someday she'd find some inspiration in them, or some insight into the world. What I realize now, at the end of this unbelievable year, is that I am gaining more insight than I have insight to give.

Don't Postpone Joy

Lately my mind has been doing laps around a friendship that went south this year. I'm embarrassed to admit this because, on a rational level, I know that a friendship that falls apart so easily is not one worth having in the first place. I know that. I also know that this minor change in my social landscape is insignificant in the broader expanse of things that matter. So why the mental gymnastics trying to make sense of something that is really better left alone?

It might be the Year in Review mentality that has me dwelling on the one thing that went wrong in my life this year. It might also be that in 2011, in my community, many things were lost by many people, and that general sense of loss has me thinking about this one thing that I lost. Just the other day, in the same neighboring town that is still rebuilding after the flood, many of the houses still dark and empty at night…in this same town, just the other day, a great grandmother veered across the center line with her two great grandbabies in tow. In that impossibly brief moment, a propane truck. All three are gone. And every time I drive by the spot, sand still thick on the road, absorbing all the things that were spilled, I start to cry. I think of the babies first. And then I think of the mother, who is also the granddaughter, and I cannot breathe.

In light of this, I feel particularly ridiculous for continuing to think about something that pales to invisibility in comparison. And yet thoughts of it lately fill into the space that empties, in brief moments, in my mind.

Gratitude and vulnerability are closely linked. 2011 has been an incredible year for me, for us. The joy of our healthy baby, the growing confidence in her steps, the increasing number she's willing to take, the words that are now starting to come—Hi. Uh-oh. Woof woof woof.—these things are gifts that are hard to express. And yet, in this place, at this time, in public, I temper my joy with a reverence for the hardships 2011 has wrought on so many others, so close by.

Perhaps my inability to move beyond this failed friendship is some form of survivor's guilt. I didn't have a break up. I didn't lose a home. Or a storage unit. Or a life that wasn't meant to be lost. I have everything I could possibly want and so much more and in my residual Catholicism, I feel like I can't possibly deserve it. And, worse yet, I worry that it can't possibly last.

Fortunately, right on the heels of the Year in Review, we tend to wipe the slate clean and decide our resolutions for the new year ahead. For me, more yoga, more water, more play, more guilt-free snuggly naps with my kid whenever possible, more love for Sam, and more time with friends.

For my birthday, Char gave me a Don't Postpone Joy bumper sticker from a friend's cafe in Asheville. It's a good reminder. Life is short…sometimes devastatingly so. Dwelling on the negatives fills up mental space that could be used to celebrate the positives. Admittedly, I'm entering here into some easier said than done territory, but I have to start somewhere.

My friend Jean sent me a birthday card for my fortieth in which she thanked me for being a loyal friend over the twenty years we've known each other. When I read her note, I couldn't believe she was thanking me…Jean taught at UVM and was the Director of the Writing Center when I was nominated to be a writing tutor. She taught me how to do that work: how to have something to say about writing, and how to help people improve their own writing. That's just the very beginning of what I've learned from her. On the surface, Jean is a petite, soft-spoken woman, but to know her is to know her clear voice and her ferocious dedication to the people and things she believes in. She lives more gently on this earth than anyone else I know. Over the course of these last two decades, I've been lucky to share countless afternoon teas with Jean, and to walk through her garden with her over and over again. I've received so many insights and inspirations and kindnesses that I can't enumerate them all. Inevitably, much of who I am is linked to the people I come from, but much of who I aim to be is linked to Jean.

It seems to me that there are few people you encounter in life who actually manage to influence the course your life takes. Jean and Char are two such people in mine. In the past month, I turned 40, Char turned 60, and Jean turned 70. Somehow I find that wonderfully symbolic.

A week-long canoe trip down the Raquette River in the Adirondacks,
in the spring of 1999. There is so much about this picture I love...
Char's expression...Jean's concentration...and the many other
hilarious memories it conjures from that trip.

...I made it to yoga today for the first time since August. It's hard to believe how quickly the time goes, and yet, that is the thing to believe: time goes quickly. Don't Postpone Joy. The yoga teacher closed with a mediation that seemed perfect for today, the winter solstice, the day after which the light of each other day grows and expands. "Body like a mountain," she said, "Breath like the wind. Mind like the sky."

Be steady and strong. Be light and free. Be limitless.

Always be grateful.

A Purse Full of Sugar Packets

Last night I drove to Massachusetts so I could attend my grandmother's funeral today. Anyone who knows me knows I'm no good at funerals, or goodbyes, or old people. But there were a number of wonderful things about the day.

For starters, I haven't done too much long distance driving without Quinn in the past fifteen months, and last night I headed south on my own. As you approach southern New Hampshire and Massachusetts the radio station choices start to multiply exponentially and, to my great joy, there are a disproportional number of "classic rock" stations. So, last night, driving into the chaos of Massachusetts drivers, after a long day at school that came after a long night with Quinn kneeling over my head in my bed (long story, don't ask) saying "Hi!" over and over again, I was pretty psyched to turn the volume up all the way and jam out to some excellent, loud, old school rock. That's one great thing about Massachusetts: the "Massholes" are not afraid to rock. Another thing is that they get seriously pumped about Christmas and they go balls-to the-walls with the Christmas decorations. So, that's pretty great (and hilarious) too.

But those were minor sideshows to the main event of the trip. I don't want to sound crass, but the news of my grandmother's passing came as really good news last week. She lived a very long time in precisely the way she did not want to live: addled by Alzheimer's, her body deteriorating, in a nursing home. My grandmother was incredibly proud and, after watching her brother suffer that fate, she worried for a long time it would be hers too, and it was.

For a while, after college, I had the great privilege of weekly visits with my grandmother. I'd pick her up and take her to a movie, or sometimes go out to lunch. On many occasions, we'd just stay at her condo and have tea parties. She always let me set the table; we'd use the Belleek tea pot I bought her for one of her birthdays, and some intentionally mismatched pairs of bone china tea cups and saucers from her collection.

On those afternoons, my grandmother told me great stories--of her marriage with my grandfather, already long-deceased by then, and of her friendships with the women she called "The Birthday Group," ladies with whom she'd been friends since her childhood in South Boston, and of her annual trips with those friends. Some years they went abroad, and sometimes they stayed closer to home. When I was in graduate school, living in my own apartment in Vermont, she and some of the ladies came for tea in the midst of a fall foliage tour. I was always amazed by how much she got around, especially since she never had a driver's license.

My grandmother was both graceful and mischievous. One time I convinced her to hide in the shower with me when my aunt arrived in the middle of our tea; we giggled uncontrollably as my aunt ran around the house yelling, "Mum? Mum!" My grandmother had a wonderful sense of humor and an adventurous spirit that I always admired. She was independent and strong-willed. A dedicated Catholic, she tolerated my atheism and my constant teasing. And, she was a masterful gardener who taught me the basics of digging in the dirt.

When she started to lose her marbles, I started to lose my will. One year she forgot to call me on my birthday and I was heartbroken; my grandmother's call was a reliable ritual on that day. The next year, she did call—she called eight times, and each time, in her mind, it was the first time. By the end of the day, I could barely muster a thank you for her oblivious and enthusiastic Happy Birthday!

After I moved back to Vermont, and especially after she was moved to a "home," I didn't make it down to visit her nearly as often. By the time she no longer recognized me, my "visits" lasted only minutes before I was crying my way back out the door and headed north.

Last year, for her 95^th birthday, my aunt organized a birthday lunch at a restaurant near my grandmother's nursing home. I brought Quinn down with me; she was only two months old and I dressed her in one of the dresses my grandmother had bought for me when I was a baby, dresses my mother had saved in her hope chest. The old dresses are sweet, but they're not nearly as comfortable as they make them today. Poor Quinn was in tights and a scratchy yellow dress with lace and buttons around her neck and it didn't even matter--my grandmother barely looked up all day. Sitting in her wheelchair, uncomfortable and in unfamiliar space, with people she didn't recognize, she looked angry and confused. All she could say all day was, "Everyone pays for himself!" It was so out of character from the grandmother I knew, the one who was always stuffing twenty dollar bills in my hand or my pocket, here's a little walking-around money. This "Everyone pays for himself" woman was someone I didn't know.

For years, I've mourned the loss of my vibrant and playful grandmother, my favorite confidante. That's why today felt kind of wonderful: with her misery ended, I felt free to remember her in her better days. She was finally returned home, to her own church, with people who knew her. I felt like I was welcoming her back, rather than letting her go.

I'm sure this is why I generally managed not to cry. My grandmother was stoic…no tears! she'd say, whenever I started to lose it, we don't want any tears! Amazingly, today I had only a couple. They came at strange times—when kindnesses caught me off guard…kindnesses she would've appreciated.

The first was when the deacon at the mass, an old family friend, walked by my grandmother's casket when everyone in the church was singing a hymn or engaged in some other thing, and he tapped his closed hand on it a couple of times—as if to say hello Mill, or good work, or something like that. It was a personal and private exchange, between two old friends with history…a history, presumably, they could both remember.

The other time I got teary was driving home. I found myself in a long line of cash-only cars at the NH tollbooth, with the EZ-passers racing by. As I inched my way forward, a beat up Volvo passed on my left. I glanced into the car and saw a woman driving with a young girl in the backseat. I had just been thinking about Quinn--thinking how fun it will be when she's old enough to talk, and to go on road trips together, just the two of us. The woman in the Volvo was ahead of me, trying to find a way into the lane but no one would budge…each car pulled in close to the one in front of it, intentionally ignoring her dilemma.

It took her a minute to notice that I wasn't moving forward, and had created a big space for her to pull into. I watched her as I waited. She had both hands open, palms up in an unmistakable gesture of WTF?!? I imagined she must've been having a bad day. When she saw the space I'd made for her, she waved back at me, a surprised and relieved thank you. Then she leaned out her car door and looked back and gestured that she was going to pay the toll for me. I shook my head and waved my hands, trying to say no! you don't have to do that! She nodded back, an emphatic Yes, I’m doing this! I don't know why, but this made me cry. It was only a dollar, but it was an unnecessary kindness, one with a beautiful and timely irony: everyone doesn't always pay for himself.

Driving home tonight, I felt like the world was righting itself. I made it to my favorite curve in the road, where the first panoramic view opens up on 89 North, in time to see the alpenglow silhouette the mountains. Alone in the car, the music nice and loud, singing at the top of my lungs, I felt liberated…just a little adrenaline rush on my grandmother's behalf. I'm so glad she's finally free.

Giving Thanks

The bird is in the oven, stuffed with sausage, apples, some rosemary, a squeeze of fresh orange, onions, celery, some pepper and salt. The kitchen is clean, Quinn is napping and the Jacksons are likely all to be reading downstairs. I'm here, in my room, my treehouse with a view of mountains near and far, spruce trees heavy with snow, reflecting briefly on all there is…

I'm still coming down from the high of this past weekend: my fortieth birthday, spent with some of my dearest friends at Topnotch Spa. My sister and brother-in-law arrived Friday to take care of Quinn and set me free. Saturday, Sam and I checked into our room by one o'clock. I was in my swimsuit by two. Jerry and Rebecca had arrived. Corey and Kellam had arrived. Kim and Justin were on their way. Some went off for massage appointments. Rebecca took a yoga class. Sam read magazines by the pool, uninterrupted…his particular version of bliss. I found my way to the lap lane, put on my cap and goggles, and started to swim. Heaven.

There are very few full-length pools nearby; if I had access to one, I would swim every day. In the water, I am somehow lithe and strong. My mind wanders at will, until I find my rhythm. Eventually I am counting breaths, stretching out my glide, savoring the sound of water flowing past my ears, the silk of it on my skin, the strength that is still there in my arms. Once the initial tightness is stretched out, I feel as if I can swim forever…5 hours, 20 minutes is my longest go yet.

On Saturday, at Topnotch, with my friends dispersed in steam rooms, and saunas, and hot tubs, and outdoor heated pools, and on lounge chairs, and massage tables, all of them nearby and no one needing anything of me, I could just keep swimming. Every now and then, I'd stop and look at the clock, feeling as if I should do something else, but really there was nothing else I needed to do, and nothing I would have preferred to do; there were no demands on my time. I swam and swam, gliding away from accumulated stresses, mental checklists, and voices…gliding back into my own body, my muscles, my breath.

By late afternoon, we found ourselves all in a row by the pool in our white spa bathrobes. Each of us had achieved a state of relaxation by some means or other. We ordered drinks. We smiled a lot. Eventually we dressed for dinner, had some champagne, drove to the restaurant. By the end of dinner I was losing my voice. The restaurant was loud and I was hoarse from squealing with delight for so many hours.

I had big plans to sleep late the next morning. Instead I called my sister around seven, knowing she'd be up with Quinn. I missed them. Sam stayed in bed to read some more. I returned to the pool to swim some more. Everyone convened at breakfast. We talked and laughed some more. What more could I ask for…friends, rest, peace of mind…nothing was missing.

When my mother and father had their fortieth birthdays, I was fifteen years old. Each one threw a surprise party for the other. There were gag gifts, jokes about being Over The Hill, lots of laughter. I remember it distinctly and feel somewhat strange that my own daughter is so young…but I feel young too. I've realized that I mind the 9's a lot more than the 0's…thirty-nine felt a bit desperate, like I was running out of time. But, forty feels exhilarating: a new beginning.

I keep thinking about what that means.

To start, I've decided to put an end to the era of leaving my wallet on the roof of my car and driving away; I bought myself a "purse," though I'm calling it a satchel for now because I've always hated "purses." And I replaced the weed colored wallet with a bright red one…something I'll more easily be able to find on the roadside, should I have a relapse.

I've also decided that I need to work on staying young…I need to stop prioritizing work over exercise, over rest, over good meals. I need to enjoy the many fruits of my labor from the past decade. When I turned thirty, I was in a van full of stinky teenage boys driving back to Vermont from Utah, after a semester on the road. I had a backpack and a storage unit and a boyfriend named Sam. Now, at forty, I have a house, a daughter, two dogs, six acres, and a husband named Sam. I have muscles that still work. A mind that still works…These are things I'm thankful for.

My primary goal for my forties is to make it past forty-six, the age my mother was when she died. I also aim to get in better shape, so I'll be ready to take Quinn backpacking, and teach her to climb, and show her how to roll her kayak when it's time to do those things. I'm going to swim more. I'm going to love my dogs more. Garden more…I'm going to take more deep breaths between strokes, stretch out, reach further, glide longer. I'm going to count my breaths, with gratitude.

When we sit down for dinner later today, and we make a toast and wish each other a Happy Thanksgiving, I'm going to be thinking of my sister who has two little cousins for Quinn in her "oven" right now. I'm going to be thinking of my dad who is a really good cook and an excellent late night turkey sandwich maker, and I'll be thinking of Louise who loves him and keeps him company. I’m going to be thinking of Char whose presence at my table will be sorely missed.  And, I'll be thinking of my grandmother who died last night at the very same time I went to bed.

I hope my grandmother was right: I hope there really is a heaven. I hope she feels lithe and strong, and beautiful as she once was. I hope she is, at this moment, gliding back into her own body, her muscles, her breath. I hope her mind is working again. And her memory. And I hope she remembers all the fun she and I used to have together, every Sunday when I went to visit her and have tea. And I hope she forgives me for not being capable of visiting her much since then. I hope she knows how thankful I am to have had her in my life while I did.

And I hope in heaven you get to have your teeth back...so she can eat a really big turkey dinner this afternoon. And I sure hope she gets to pass the stuffing to my mom, and make eyes at her handsome boyfriend across the table.

Nana and Bup  -   Lake Winnepesauke  -   Summer of 1982

On Marriage

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned here already my mantra from my younger years: "For as long as possible, stay free and uncommitted." 

That was the live-in-the-moment me, who had just given away most of my material possessions, had the rest in a small storage unit, and had just started a job teaching for a tiny private high school that shaped its curriculum around two ideas: outdoor adventure and international travel. There were six teachers and a small bunch of kids and each semester we'd pack our backpacks with books and sleeping bags and gear and we'd head off for somewhere. We'd conduct classes wherever we found ourselves, at whatever time of the day would best work with our adventures. In the two and a half years that I was happily homeless, I was sea kayaking and surfing in Mexico, mountain biking and canyoneering in Utah (the semester of 9/11 we stayed in the US), rock climbing, "tramping" and white water boating in New Zealand, back to Mexico for some big wall climbing, then more surfing and boating in Costa Rica, and still more climbing and hiking in Greece.

In the early days of that adventure, I met Sam. And that was both fortuitous and wonderful, and also a bit of bad timing. I met him at the end of my first semester of travel, and I had no desire to stop traveling. I also had no desire to let the man I instantly wanted to marry slip away. What's a girl to do? Well, I kept traveling, for two more years, and I kept hoping that Sam might still be around when I stopped. And he was.

Sam and I are both basically agreed that if we had started our relationship like normal people hovering on either side of 30, and we had lived in the same place, we probably wouldn't have lasted very long. It turns out Sam and I get frustrated with each other pretty easily. I don't think this means that our relationship is bad; I think instead it's a reflection of the fact that we both have strong personalities. (That's probably very generous). I mention this here only because we might have taken those differences as an early sign that we were not a perfect match.

But, we didn't live in the same place and, the way it happened, we met and it was amazing and then I promptly left for Utah. Then I came back and it was amazing again, at first. It was Christmastime so we spent even more time together and suddenly it was a little less than amazing. When I was staying with him, at the school where he was teaching outside of D.C., I decided that he probably didn't really love me, the way I had started to love him, so I woke him up one morning, after checking the train schedule, and asked him to bring me to the station. Okay, I demanded that he take me to the train station.

"What?" he asked, rubbing his eyes to wake up. He was a bit flabbergasted, but I was in "flight" mode and there was no changing my mind. As we unloaded my bag from the back of his truck, in the early morning city traffic, he asked me again why I was leaving. "Because you're not in love with me," I cried, tears pouring down my face.

"Can't I decide that?"

"No," I said, "I don't trust you to make the right decision!"

I sat in the train station balling all morning. I was so pathetic some guy came over and handed me a rose. (I think I might still have that thing somewhere!?) All day on the train I couldn't wait to get home to my dad. I couldn't wait for him to hug me and tell me it would all be okay. My dad and mom had a storybook marriage, or at least that's what it looked like from my young point of view, and I knew that was part of my problem: nothing could ever live up to what they had.

When the train pulled into South Station in Boston, I was still crying. I found my dad in the crowd and hurried toward him. He hugged me, as I knew he would, and I blurted out, in one of the most melodramatic moments of my life: "Dad, he doesn't love me!" My dad's whole temperament changed. "You don't know anything about love," he said and turned to walk to the car.

I hate to admit it, but he was totally right. I had no idea how much work was involved. And how much sacrifice. And I had no idea at that time how good it could actually be. My dad made me call Sam as soon as we got to the house. Sam and I regrouped over New Year's in Vermont, but we each had some doubts after feeling that first burn. Soon after, I left for another semester, but we kept in touch and I saw him again.

Early the following summer, Sam was passing through the northeast on a paddling trip with his friend Andy. He had quit his job and was thinking about moving to Vermont. When people ask him why he moved up here, he always launches into this long story about how he had always loved Vermont (which may be true) and how he had friends who lived up here (which is true), yadda yadda yadda…but I know he really moved up here because he wanted to be with me, and I've gotten him to admit to this in his weaker moments.

Anyway, he showed up and said, "I want to be with you," and he needed to know if I wanted to be with him too. It was all very scary, for both of us. He didn't have a job, and I had a great job that I didn't want to give up…Thoreau was still there in my head...It was all fairly tense. So, Sam said he would let me think it over; he was going to Maine to run a few rivers, and he'd be back. I thought about all the pros and cons, I thought about everything, and when it came down to it, I still felt a bit nervous. It was one thing to try a long distance relationship with someone who had a job and was settled into a life; it seemed like an entirely different responsibility to try that with someone who was willing to move to Vermont so he'd be closer when you came home, and to know that he would be here without his great job and all of his friends. But, what I felt for Sam was undeniable really; I couldn't keep track of all the pros and cons, but I knew I didn't want to never see him again. My doubts weren't so much doubts as they were fears.

I went to Montpelier to surprise him on his first morning back in town. I was ready, I thought. I went to his brother's apartment where he and Andy were staying. It was early, but I knocked. Then I knocked again. He wasn't there, but his truck was, so I figured they had probably walked into town for coffee. I had a little bit longer to think about it. I was nervous all over again. I walked from coffee place to coffee place and couldn't find him. Maybe it was a sign? Maybe it wasn't meant to be?

As I was walking toward the Coffee Corner, I saw this exceptionally handsome guy and thought, "See, there are lots of fish in the sea! This guy is a hottie!" What was I doing worrying about Sam and this BIG decision when I wasn't 100% sure? Then I realized...the hottie was Sam, unrecognizable at first because of his tan, his unwashed hair and his new beard. No, I definitely didn't want to lose this man.

My favorite part of that story is that when I told it to Sam, he told me what happened to him: He was inside, finishing his breakfast, and he looked out the window to the strangers walking by, and he had his moment of doubt too…lots of fish in the sea. Then he saw a girl in red shorts, and he thought, see…lots of fish! But, of course, those were my red shorts.

Unfortunately all of this killed my dream job; whenever I was away I missed him desperately and wanted to come home. I lasted one more year and then gave it up, and came home to Vermont. Sam and I maintained separate apartments for a couple of years, and we had some blow out fights during that period of getting to know each other's day-to-day habits for the first time. But, at that point, we had already invested years into the relationship (2.5 years spent largely apart), and so we kept trying to figure it out. We kept not giving up on it. And in that time, somewhere along the line, I learned something about love.

Recently, a friend shared a quote with me that made me think back to that time, and all that I've learned since that time. It said this: "Apologizing does not always mean that you're wrong and the other person is right. It just means that you value your relationship more than your ego."

By now I value my relationship more than most things. Still, marriage is a crazy concept: forsaking all of those fish for one fish, living together in close quarters when you might actually prefer living in your own space, sharing daily stresses, sharing finances, trying to maintain some of the magic of your initial attractions even as time and age and gravity work against you. But I've come to believe that one of the keys to making all that work is the ability to say I'm sorry when it's necessary to do so. That and trusting each other to make good decisions. (Good thing we don't have a train station nearby!)

I've always believed that an ideal marriage would involve being married to my neighbor. At the end of the day, I could go home to my own space, sleep in quiet and have some room to miss him. I wouldn't have to look at my spouse's stuff, put down where I don’t want it to be. My stove would never have grease on it. The dirty silverware would never get neatly stacked in the side of the sink, with the excuse "I'm not done yet." I would be able, in other words, to control my little piece of the world.

Somedays I wonder whether or not ideal marriage is an oxymoron. But whenever I have a day like that, soon after I have a day when my husband does something like send me a link to an article about a married couple in Shelburne, VT that live in two separate houses, joined by a light-filled breezeway.

Sam gets me, and even if he can't be all things to me at all times, he wants to be and I love him for that. And fortunately I've grown up some and I know that I'm not all things either, and really no one is. The trick is finding someone who is at least close to perfect in all the ways that really matter.

For now I'm going to keep doing what I promised to do four years ago today: I'm going to try, in some way every day, to honor this truly wonderful man and this especially wonderful relationship. And I'm going to reflect some more, on another writer's insights; from Joan Didion's memoir The Year of Magical Thinking: "Marriage is memory. Marriage is time."

I'm grateful for whatever time we've got. I love you Sam.

Too Many People, Not Enough Bees

As of today there are now 7 billion people on this planet.

I can still remember the news that the Earth's population had grown to 6 billion—it was October of 1999 (don't worry, I had to look that up). That's 1 billion additional people on the planet in the span of just twelve years. In the United States alone there are an estimated 484 births per hour, and only 288 deaths—an additional 196 people every sixty minutes, or 1.6+ million per year. And in the US the rate of growth is considered slow.  (check out "The World at Seven Billion" by the BBC)

When I was pregnant, Sam and I actually talked about over population. We talked about the fact that our plan to have only one child would make a positive difference. We wouldn't be adding to the problem by having many babies; we wouldn't even be maintaining the status quo by leaving two new bodies in the space we will someday vacate. We would be providing a solution: one small step for humankind.

We also talked about plenty of other reasons that having only one made sense. Starting this baby process as late as we did, with our modest financial reality and our tiny house, one baby fits. We don't want to be under diaperland house arrest forever. We want to resume the more social and active lives we used to have and we really want to travel with our kid. In our estimation, these things will be easier to do with just one. And, our limited resources will be dedicated to her, not spread thin among many. With more than one kid, we don't think we'd ever be able to afford to go anywhere as a family, or do anything, and no one would ever be able to go to college, that's for damn sure.

When we really started to formulate our argument, we addressed the inevitable opposition by anticipating The Sibling argument: I have one and she's incredibly important in my life, but when we were kids she was kind of a pain in my neck (Amy, you'll forgive me, right?). She wanted to sleep in my bed all the time and she made funny noises with her mouth when she slept. When she got older I told her no one would ever want to sleep with her because of those crazy lip-smacking sounds (Then I married someone who does the same thing. It's karma, I know). Sam has siblings too—a bunch of them! He's the youngest of four and he has wonderful relationships with his brother and two sisters. But, Sam and I also both grew up loving our family dogs, so we agreed that it would be feasible to have only one kid if we made sure she would always have a dog.

So we had our one baby. And we were ready to feel satisfied, like we reached our destination: good jobs, nice house, dogs, and baby. Family? Check!

But then, the world started crowding in again: When are you going to have another? Have you started trying yet? You are going to make sure she has a sibling, right? Of course you'll have a second! You have to have another one! Let me tell you about my kids…I just couldn't imagine life without #2!

Well, of course you can't imagine life without #2 because #2 has a name and a personality. And #2 exists and talks and hopefully now and then says or does something that makes you love him or her. But, that doesn't mean it makes any sense for me to have another one, just because your #2 is right for you.

I get frustrated when people ask me questions that are based on their own assumptions, because whether I care about their opinions or not, sometimes I find it's impossible not to doubt myself. And even though I don't like it when people do that to me, sometimes I too get so caught up in my own point of view that I ask stupid questions as well : Recently I tracked down two moms I know who are mothers of "onlies." Both have daughters--very hip, very smart, very lovely daughters. I went to them feeling vulnerable and asked each one for a pep talk: "Please tell me all of the reasons that you think having only one kid makes sense. I need some ammo so I can fight back." Of course, I don't know their stories either…maybe these two moms wanted more than one and couldn't? I'm genuinely sorry to those two moms for my own insensitivity! And I'm genuinely grateful that they didn't tell me I was an insensitive moron, and instead they told me things like this: having one is wonderful, it's just us, we're a team, the bond we each have with our child is a gift.

Sam was in on the conversation too, as were their husbands. The husbands were a bit more direct: "Tell people to mind their own damn business!" Maybe they were trying to tell me that? I admit, I was caught up in my own concerns at that moment. Nevertheless, their advice was good, for me and for lots of other people who ask too many questions.

As the talk about babies continued, one of the moms said this: "If having a baby doesn't change you, nothing will."

I've been thinking about that ever since. And I often find myself taking stock of the many ways I've changed. When I try to explain it, all I can come up with is this: I feel like a kinder, gentler me. I feel like a better human being. I feel, well, softer, less edgy. I could be kidding myself, of course, but either way, I like the new me better. If having a baby doesn't change you, nothing will. Wouldn't it be sad to never change? Thank god for Quinn! She's the only thing in my almost-forty years that has truly, in one definitive move, changed me.

And so here's the problem: if having her in my life is this good and this important and makes me this happy, wouldn't having two or three or seven of her just multiply my happiness accordingly?

I used to have very clear ideas about things--about myself, and other people, and the world in general. And while some things are a lot more clear than they ever were before, some things are less clear, like the plan to have only one. I'm not saying we're pulling the goalie because we're not. It's just that some days it is a struggle for me to be rational, and to hold onto the many good reasons our original plan makes sense. I want to do what's smart and responsible and right for us. But right feels a bit nebulous on the days when I'm laughing out loud because I taught Quinn how to touch her nose and now she anticipates my question by the time I get to "where's your..."...and she jams her finger into a nostril, or sometimes in her eye. 

Still, at 7 billion and counting, I'm afraid to think of what the world could be like when Quinn's trying to make these decisions for herself. I hope there's enough food to feed her, and fuel to keep her warm, if in fact there is still such a thing as winter. And I also hope she'll have found things to do in life that make her feel useful, and I hope she'll live somewhere she feels safe and happy, and that she'll have the company of someone who is kind and loving. I hope I'll have the intelligence and the restraint to let her interpret those things as she will when the time comes. And I hope I won't muddle her thoughts with pressure to do things the way I've chosen to do them. 

And I really hope someday I'll stop looking for the next thing I'm supposed to do and just be happy where I am…someday I hope my brain will stop buzzing and I'll know how to just be.

Humpty Dumpty

Soon after Quinn's first birthday, something bad happened. Our sweet daughter--who 95% of the time during the first year of her life, went to sleep quietly each night in her crib, after a warm bottle and a brief snuggle in the rocking chair--was kidnapped. In her place, someone left another baby who looked a lot like her…but this baby cried, a lot. And this baby did not sleep.

The timing of this exchange was uncanny for a few reasons.

The first reason is that I had just been spending a lot of time marking her first birthday by thinking about just how totally perfect and wonderful she was, and how I was completely in love.

The second reason is that it was at the beginning of a two-week vacation that we were very much looking forward to, and during which we had imagined we would accomplish many great things.

The third reason is that she timed this metamorphosis to take place on a night when we had friends over for dinner. When I put her to bed and she started crying, I returned to the table, apologized, and hoped she'd sort it out. Five minutes turned into ten which turned into forty-five. Our friends said things like, "Don't worry! It's not bothering us." That's nice, I first thought to myself and then said out loud, but it is bothering me! Sure I felt bad that the background music to our meal was screaming, but also I felt bad that Quinn was so upset.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a little tough love now and then. I've been practicing it on Sam for years. I was happy to let her "cry it out" because in doing so I would be able to demonstrate, to myself and Sam and our friends, that I am still very much in control in my relationship with Quinn. That it's my way or the highway, you know? Well, that's all a lie. All I wanted to do was go up there and hold her. But, I waited. I gave it what I thought was a valiant effort: I let her cry for four solid hours. The problem was that she didn't get it out. She cried, but she never quit. I quit. I quit dinner, I quit pretending, I quit dishes, I quit trying to be a good host. I just left the table, went upstairs, picked her up and felt very very bad for having made her go through such an ordeal. She feel asleep instantly on my shoulder. A little while later, when I made it to my own bed to lie down, I knew why she had been screaming: nasal drip, an angry sore throat, a pounding head. I was sick and so was she. She had passed her first birthday without ever getting sick…ever as in not once, but this was the onset of her first cold.

That was the beginning of what felt like a very long road. Keep in mind that Sam and I had no experience dealing with a bad sleeper. We had no solutions and no stamina. All we had was each other: to yell at, snap at, insult…two stuffed dolls just waiting for the pins.

Each night we'd try to soothe Quinn into a happy place so she'd go to bed. Each night as soon as we approached the crib, she'd start screaming and holding on for dear life. Some nights we just admitted defeat from the start and one of us would set up in the chair, prepared to hold her until she was asleep. If she was deeply asleep, we might be able to sneak her into the crib and tiptoe out. To be sure, we'd sit in the chair for an hour or more, listening to her snore. The chair squeaked when you tried to get out of it, but if you froze halfway up, and tried not to move, she might stir and then settle again. Or, she might not. And then you'd start over again. The worst torture was on the nights when you'd successfully get her up out of the chair, over the side of the crib, down out of your arms, and onto the mattress still asleep...only to have her scream the moment you slipped silently out of the room.

Other nights, when no one was here to witness it, we tried the cry-it-out routine again. I've read some books about this. I've read about how the first night or two can be really hard on the parents. I've read about how some babies will even cry for an hour or, would you believe it, two!?! I've never read about any babies who cried for ten hours straight and only quit then because their parents had already caved…but that's what my baby did, more than once. I'm worried about the future, I'm not going to lie; we're about 0-5 against her—things don't look good.

At some point in that sleepless blur I read something about a period of separation anxiety that generally happens right around the first birthday, a time when the baby realizes for real who her parents are and who her parents are not. And, if you're doing things right, the baby insists on you and rejects those who are not you. As I thought about it, I realized she was doing that more and more. The book said that this phase can also interrupt a baby's sleep—babies who once went to bed willingly might resist, and babies who could put themselves back to sleep when they woke up in the night no longer could. The book said the sleep interruption might last up to three weeks.

For three weeks, Sam and I learned to dread Quinn's bedtime. The closer we got to having to put her to bed, the closer we got to the torturous screams. The evening hours, which used to be ours, were gone. We either took turns staying awake to hold her so she could sleep, or we both writhed in misery listening to her scream. A couple of times, out of total desperation, we just brought her to our bed where she'd sleep peacefully and we wouldn't sleep much at all for fear of suffocating her. I would have gladly done that every night if someone could have told me that it was, in fact, just a phase and it would end. We wrestled nightly with whether to hold her and comfort her and let her sleep close by, or whether in doing so we were turning our once good and independent sleeper into a bad one who would never again sleep without our help. The evening hours were confusing and interminable. The daytime hours…well, I don't know what the daytime hours were like because I don't remember them…except for the bickering, I remember that.

We started to think we'd never get our baby back. And that we'd never be able to go out again, because how could we possibly leave her with a babysitter or, for that matter, leave a babysitter with her? We worried our friends would no longer want to be friends…no one would ever come over again. We started to worry that our marriage wouldn't survive…okay, I started to worry about that; Sam's not quite so dramatic. But for sure we started to think we couldn't handle it. And then it stopped—right at the end of three weeks.

By then, of course, all of our immune systems were shot and so we've spent this last week taking turns going to the doctor's office. Three weeks after Quinn had her first cold, she had her first fever. It was horrifying—she was hot to the touch all over—hot like a right out of the oven baked potato. And she was lethargic. I started to believe there could be nothing worse than a lethargic, feverish baby, until I woke up one day to a lethargic, feverish baby with hives all over her legs. The doctor said she had "a raging and inflamed ear infection." I've got a sinus infection and a rash on my neck where a new necklace used to be. Sam's got symptoms too: when he tried my new Neti Pot to flush out his nose, the water went in one nostril and came shooting out his mouth. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure your plumbing is not supposed to work that way.

It's all okay…I'm starting to feel sure we're going to make it because we're sleeping again and frankly, right now, that's all that matters…that and the fact that she's not lethargic anymore. Tonight I watched her figure out how to put one of her small stacking cups inside a larger one. She's mastered disassembling things, but until now hasn't put them back together again. Tonight she put the small green cup inside the larger yellow one, and she swirled it around so it would make noise. And, when the small cup flew out of the larger one, she doubled over laughing…and then she did it again and again. Now, two hours after I put her to bed, she's still sleeping and I'm still smiling with the sound of her laughter in my ears, thankful it's all been put back together.

Quinn Turns One

Stress happens when your expectations don't match your reality. I heard someone say that years ago and it was an epiphany. "Exactly," I thought, "that's exactly when I feel stressed!"

Despite understanding this rationally, I'm still prone to having unwieldy and unrealistic expectations around certain events. When I couple this with my chronic and often debilitating sentimentality, I become the emotional equivalent of a Perfect Storm.

I started planning for Quinn's first birthday a couple of months ago. I wanted to find the perfect gift for her. Not because she currently has any sense of what a birthday present is, but because later when she looks back at the photos and the video and the letter I wrote her in her book of letters, she'll think I did a good job and she'll have some fragment of an idea how much I love her. If you think this sounds a bit crazy, I'm sure Sam will tell you you're right. And if I hear you and Sam having that conversation, I'll have a few choice things to add, but for now I'll try to get on with this story.

Around the time that we took Quinn camping for the first (and to date only) time, we are pretty sure we had a bear come into our driveway. We think this because we had left a big stinkin' bag of garbage in the back of Sam's very tall truck when we went out for a few hours. When we came home, we followed a trail of garbage up our road, down our driveway and all the way back to the back of Sam's truck. Something or someone had pulled it out of the truck and dragged it down the road. Squirrels can't do that, I don't think skunks or raccoons can do that, and I know dogs wouldn't bother—they'd just tear it apart right in the truck bed and eat all the nasty stuff they wanted and then probably hop down and pretend they had no idea what you were so mad about. We're pretty sure a black bear is the only animal living in our midst that would bother to take the bounty with him.

These things: camping, neighbors that are bears, and one of my favorite books in Quinn's collection--Eric Carle's Brown Bear Brown Bear What Do You See?…these things led me to Quinn's first birthday present. When I saw a sleeping bag with the Brown Bear on it, and the option to have her name embroidered on it, I knew I would buy it…even though she currently hates camping. I'm confident she'll someday like her first sleeping bag and she'll associate it with big adventures and then she'll want to have big adventures, all the time, with me. (Notice some of those stress factors starting to align themselves here. Maybe I don't have to point that out.) 

That was going to be her only present, until one day when I was in a kitchen store buying my friend Julie (who reads my blog and who is forty, even though I am only thirty-nine) a birthday present, and I saw a sweet cotton apron with owls on it. I have been wanting an apron—one of those around the neck tie behind the back ones—because I love baking and I'm always covering myself in goo and because secretly I love playing house and kind of imagine myself as Leave It to Beaver's mom, even though she is not sexy (I'm sorry Sam). Anyway, I also have a sentimental attachment to owls because the night my water broke I thought I peed myself. Bare with me here…It was 3:30 a.m. and I rolled over in my sleep and I woke up with wet pajamas. And in that moment I thought, "Oh great. Yet another indignity. Now I pee myself." But, when I got up to go to the bathroom and sort myself out, and I stepped out of the room where the fan was providing white noise to help me block out Darth Vader's sleeping sounds, I heard a barred owl in our backyard. And when I heard that owl calling, I thought, "Oh my. I did not just pee myself. That owl is calling to this baby and this baby is on her way." 


This too might sound crazy, but that owl, or maybe those owls were going to town out there in my woods and that baby was also making some very big moves. I woke Sam up and said, "if you hear me talking downstairs, it's because I'm going to call the doctor. I think my water just broke." Sam woke up right away. "Oh! Oh my god! Okay!" That's what he said. He was smiling and clearly excited. When I got off the phone, I went back upstairs to tell him what she said and he was sound asleep…I'll just let that speak for itself.

Anyway, what the doctor did when I told her is she asked me what I wanted to do. Because denial is a proud family tradition, I said, "I want to go back to bed." Not surprisingly, the doctor did too. So, she warned me that contractions usually start within an hour and she told me to come in to the hospital if I got uncomfortable or nervous, or  to come in by 8 a.m., whichever came first. Well, at exactly 4:30 a.m. I had my first contraction and it was no big deal. I'd met menstrual cramps that had more teeth than that—so, no problem, I thought. I stayed in bed until 5:30 a.m. when I could no longer breathe. At that point, I woke Sam up again and told him we should get ready. What that meant was that we needed to reinstall the shower doors on the newly caulked shower, then I should have a long shower because, well, who knew? Then I had to decide what to bring to the hospital because I hadn't done that yet. And then we should probably call Corey to ask him to come take care of the dogs because we hadn't done that yet either. And for the record, no, Quinn was not early…she arrived essentially on her due date. 

I'll spare you the rest of the "getting to the hospital" story, except this one visual: We are driving the hour-long drive to the hospital. I am so uncomfortable (this is a massive understatement) that I am kneeling on the back seat of Sam's Subaru, facing out the back window. My eyes are clenched shut because the light hurts so bad, and I'm gripping the head rest in a two-armed death squeeze. And I am groaning in pain with every contraction which seems to be all one long continuous contraction. And I am pleading (this word choice is also inaccurate) with Sam to please go a bit faster (now I'm just laughing because I for sure never said please) when suddenly I feel the car come to a stop. I am stunned, and desperate, so I open one eye and what I see is this: I see someone in a nice outfit sitting in his or her car right next to me and that person is looking at me with utter horror and confusion, and I realize we are stuck in commuter traffic and I am making one-eyed eye contact with a total stranger while my body tries to heave out a baby...Marlow's Heart of Darkness horror couldn't compare to mine in that moment (this time I'm using overstatement…but that's how I felt, I swear!). 

Anyway, fast forward a bit and I'm in a room. Some resident or medical newbie of some sort comes in and asks me if she can check to see if my cervix is dilated and I say yes, like I really have a choice. And this woman actually says to me, "Congratulations! You're at 6 cm." And in that moment I look away from her and I look at Sam and I say, "No f'ing way is this 6 cm, because if this is 6 cm that means I'm only a little more than halfway and if this is going to get twice as bad, I'm going to kill somebody." 

It was crazy math, especially considering I had no idea what 6 cm or any other centimeters was supposed to feel like. But, I've got good instincts about my body and so did Betsy, my nurse, thank god. She had a real doctor come in and check me again and that doctor said two things I very much wanted to hear: 1. "Wow! You're already at 9cm!" and 2. "Your epidural should kick in soon."

By 9:30 a.m. the epidural was in and the whole experience took on a much different feel. If you are reading this and you've had a baby too and you had a bad time, please skip the rest of this paragraph. Or, if you haven't had a baby and you (like me, before Quinn) don't understand why women insist on telling their birthing stories, please also feel free to skip ahead...Trust me. Last chance. Here goes: The rest of the morning was peaceful and relaxing. I napped. Sam read a magazine. We talked quietly. The overhead lights were out because it was the middle of a nice September day and we had a wall of glass to look out at our view north from Burlington. At 11:45 a.m. the nurse and doctor came in and woke me up. They asked me if I wanted to start pushing. I asked them, "do I have to?" They said that "she" had done all she could do on her own at that point. I told them they'd have to give us instructions because in keeping with the denial theme, Sam and I had not taken a birthing class and we had no idea what came next. Turns out, not too much. We watched for a contraction on the monitor, when it came I pushed, when it left I stopped and Sam and Betsy and our doctor, Rosa, and I resumed our quiet conversation. It all took less than an hour before "she" was there and Betsy asked us whether we'd picked out a name and Sam and I looked at each other to be sure and I said, "Quinn. Her name is Quinn."

The first word that always comes to mind when I describe the experience of Quinn's birth is blissful. I laugh at myself whenever I admit that because going into the birth I described how I felt as being something along the lines of knowing I was about to get into a car accident; what I didn't know was whether it was going to be a fender-bender or total devastation. Amazing. Magical. Blissful…these words were not even in the remotest possibilities in my mind. And I guess that's where it all began…all the things that have happened that I didn't expect to happen, and all the things that have changed (thankfully) that I didn't expect to change.

Anyway, I saw the owl apron and I had to have it so I carried it up to the register wishing I could put it on right then. Quinn's birthday was only a couple of weeks away and I was finding myself more and more sentimental about it all by the minute…sentimental about my pregnancy, about the owl calling to her in the backyard, about the birth and every single thing that has happened since. So, when the lady at the register said, "Oh, this is sweet. Did you see the little  owl aprons right behind you?" Well, then Quinn had two birthday presents that she can't yet use or appreciate. But, like the sleeping bag, I immediately envisioned Quinn and I in our owl aprons working side by side at our butcher block counter, mixing cookie batter or rolling out pie dough or sampling the churning ice cream. And I imagined that she would love wearing it and love being with me in the kitchen and we would have great talks and be great friends and she'd think I made The Best cookies and pie and ice cream ever made. (Here again we see evidence of my original theme, but again, maybe you noticed that already).

So, I bought the presents, baked a chocolate cake and put a giant Q on it (because I have no artistic ability and couldn't do any of that crazy frosting sculpture or painting that other moms (including my own) could do). 

And I made a batch of maple ice cream not because maple goes well with chocolate but because my baby is a Vermont baby and maple is the flavor of this state. And I made pesto from the basil in the garden, and gathered whatever tomatoes Boone had left on the vine for me, and I cleaned the house to get ready for the birthday party.

We wanted to share the day to make it feel more festive, so we invited Jerry who came to see Quinn in the hospital the day she was born and who brought her a star quilt from South Dakota and a piece of sage. He took this photo for us when Quinn was about five hours old:

And we invited Corey who took care of the dogs and was waiting for us when we brought her home the next day. He had hung pink balloons on the front porch and brought her a hat to keep her warm. He took this photo for us when she weighed only six and a half pounds:

And last but not least we invited Char who is more than words can say and who once shared the wisdom that "friends are the family we choose."

So, we assembled our chosen family so we could call it a party and also so Sam and I could say thank you to these three people whose friendship has, literally, gotten us through this first, wonderful-but-not-easy year. 

And we opened presents…

thanks for the photo Corey Hendrickson

thanks for the photo Corey Hendrickson

And we ate cake…

thanks for the photo Corey Hendrickson

thanks for the photo Corey Hendrickson

And after Quinn went to bed we had dinner and conversation and a lot of laughter. And eventually everyone had to go home because it was a Wednesday after all and because it was late. And after everyone went home, and the dishes were done, I laid down on the couch eager to see the footage of the whole event that Sam took because I asked him too. I couldn't wait to see her crawling back and forth next to Corey's present because she was, for some reason, afraid to open it (how did she know it was an Ugly Doll?). And I couldn't wait to see her sitting in her high chair rocking out with her head-bob and arm pumping routine when Jerry Garcia came through the speakers singing, "the way you do the things you do." Basically it was all so sweet and wonderful that I just didn't want it to be over and I wanted to see it all again…

But there was no footage. Well, there was audio, but no video. And I don't know why exactly and I can't even really think about it, but I can tell you that my expectations did not match my reality and what happened next was like a rogue wave. And when Sam insinuated that something was wrong with me to be so upset that there was no video footage, as if I was one of those crazy mothers, well then I got really crazy…and I went to bed heartbroken. Actually, I think devastated was the word I used.

So, wonderful evening, wonderful friends, wonderful year, wonderful memories…what's to be devastated about? It's a fair question. It's the question. And I've been asking it of myself ever since. And this is all that I've been able to come up with: Loving this kid is so much bigger than I ever thought it would be, than I ever thought anything would be, and while sometimes I feel very at ease with it all…like today when she was sinking her hands into the dirt in my garden and lifting it up and watching it rain down all over herself, and she was licking the muddy rocks she pulled out of the soil trying to decide whether she was going to eat them…in that moment, lying in the grass with both dogs lying next to me, looking up at Quinn kneeling next to the garden box with sun spots all around her…in that moment I was very at ease. But, in other moments, I am fighting off panic, terrified of all the horrible things that could happen to her, of all the ways I could lose her, of the fact that all of this perfectness could somehow just come to an end and vaporize. And in those moments I clutch onto every detail and start trying to record it all—every sight, sound, sensation, expression, gesture—everything. Because everything could turn into nothing and if that happened I too would turn into nothing…I would, I'm quite sure, cease to be.

Approaching Quinn's first birthday, I felt very celebratory and proud, like we had accomplished something really amazing. I grew her, she arrived, she is perfect, we survived. This is amazing, every time it happens, and I'm so grateful to have experienced it, to have been included in the unbelievable privilege of giving life. And because Quinn is the source of this divine experience for me, I wanted her birthday to be perfect. And when it wasn't perfect (i.e. we don't have the video footage to prove it), the collision of expectations and reality happened. And when that happened I was forced to look at my expectations and that's the part that has me feeling particularly frightened right now because I am always going to want things to be perfect for her, and happy, and fun, and safe, and on and on and on…and how terrifying that I can't actually ensure these things for her…How terrifying this particular kind of love is...

Five days old. September 2010

October 2010

November 2010

December 2010

January 2011

February 2011

March 2011

April 2011

May 2011

June 2011

July 2011

August 2011

One Year Old. September 2011

How terrifying and magical indeed.

(I love you Quinn. Happy Birthday.)