The First Goodbye

In some ways I think I stopped maturing when my mother died. That's unfortunate considering that I was only 21 at the time, and the big thing in my life that year was that I could finally go to a bar. I tried to get in once with a fake i.d., but I'm so bad at lying the bouncer laughed at me and I never tried again. Having the emotional maturity of a 21 year old is fine if you're 21, but it doesn't necessarily help you handle some of the more complex phases in life, once you move beyond last call. When I first met Maury, I was approaching the perimeter of one of those phases: to baby or not to baby.

Maury and her husband moved to Vermont to teach at our school, and Sam and I were really excited about their arrival. We often found ourselves in sort of a social No Man's Land at work: not as old and as settled as the lifers, but not as young and unsettled as the post-college transients. When Kirk and Maury showed up, married and looking to settle in the Valley, and they brought their skis and their bikes, and Kirk's homebrewing equipment, we felt excited about our potential compatibility.

We had an easy time talking and hanging out with them right from the start. On one such occasion, they came up with some other friends for a moonlight cross-country ski. We were kid-less then and such things were easy. The dogs were happy in those days. We skied the upper loop and then came back to the house to sit by the fire and drink some wine. I think that was the first time I started to know Maury was pregnant because she respectfully declined: a dead give away for Baby on Board. On another occasion, after she was out of the closet, there was another bottle of wine for us, and another No Thank You for Maury.  That was when I was really wrestling with whether or not I wanted to have a baby. All I could think about at the time was how much I would have to give up. I remember saying to Maury, "I just don't think I could go 9 months without wine." She smiled, graciously, and explained that for her it was easy, a worthwhile sacrifice in exchange for a healthy babe.

That's what I'm talking about when I say I had the maturity of a 21 year old. It was like she was speaking a foreign language. Nine months…no wine? When the ladies at school had a baby shower for Maury, I had some other commitment and couldn't make it. I contributed to the group gift and that's about all I did. I didn't get it. I didn't get, at all, what I was supposed to do to be a friend in that process. Mentally, I was still at UVM my senior year trying to decide which bar to go to. I realize I'm starting to sound like a lush and I'm not. I just don't always understand the things I haven't experienced yet. And, as all my friends who had kids before me will attest, I really didn't understand the baby thing.

After Eliza was born, I was curious. I tried to hold her once or twice, but she screamed…and I mean screamed. If I so much as looked at her for more than a second or two, she panicked. It was payback, I knew. Babies, like dogs, have good instincts about people, and Eliza was right about me.

Eventually, as has been well established by now, Sam and I pulled the goalie and our own baby process was underway. I didn't tell anyone at work until I was halfway through. Sometime in there, I saw Eliza with Kirk. I looked at her, and she screamed. And Kirk, trying to make light of the situation, said, "You should probably just stay away from babies, Kerry!" Oh great, I thought, I'm screwed.

But, I wasn't because people like Maury helped me figure it out. And Maury, in particular, did more for me than I ever deserved. First of all, she never asked me any stupid questions about why I wasn't drinking, and she also didn't ask me any questions when I occasionally did. Maury actually made it to my shower and, in addition to contributing to the group effort, she gave me a little pumpkin hat that she had knit for Quinn. Most amazing of all, as my maternity leave was coming to an end, and I was literally sick about the notion of leaving my tiny, three month old baby with strangers, Maury offered to take care of her. Her own babe, another September girl born a year ahead of Quinn, was just big enough that she could do fun things and go places, and walk and talk. And yet, Maury was willing to rewind...she was willing to go back to being stuck in the house with an amoeba, in order for me to go back to work with peace of mind.

And I did have peace of mind. When I dropped Quinn off, I didn't worry…I knew she would be safer and better cared for with Maury than she was at home. And I'm not exaggerating…you've read the one about "noise in your britches," right?  In case you haven't, let me summarize: when I'd pick Quinn up, she was either sitting in a comfy chair with a blanket over her lap while Maury read to her, or she was sleeping peacefully in Maury and Kirk's room. (Quinn didn't nap for me until spring, after Maury taught me the value of white noise, and I remembered that Chelsey had given me one of those noisemakers and I pulled it out and tried it. Voila!) When it was time to go, I'd reach for Quinn and she'd cling to Maury. Maury calls her Peanut, in the sweetest, softest voice, with just a hint of Mississippi. She is pretty, and gentle, and very smart. Frankly, even I find her irresistible.

Once, in the middle of winter, I showed up to pick Quinn up with her new car seat. I thanked Maury and said goodbye. I shoved Quinn into the chair and wrestled for five or ten minutes trying to figure out how to buckle her in. Then I went back to the door and asked Maury for help. She brought Eliza out in the cold with us and showed me how the car seat worked. Once it was warm out, and it was time to take Quinn for her maiden voyage in the baby jogger, I brought it to Maury's so she could show me how it worked. These might seem like minor things to those of you who are mechanically inclined, or who have grown kids or no kids at all. But for someone like me, who has the emotional maturity of a college student, and whose only skill is spelling, Maury was, literally, a lifeline.

By the time I learned to really appreciate her and value her friendship, I found out she would be moving...to Tennessee. And she's moving soon, before I'll have a chance to repay some of the many kindnesses and long before I'm ready to lose her.

And Eliza, who used to scare me, is now one of my favorite people on the planet. She's probably the funniest kid I've ever met. When it was my turn to babysit her, and she just wanted to be with her mom, she'd go and find my keys and hand them to me. "Thank you!" she'd say as she patted me on the back. "Bye bye." Once, when I had both girls, Quinn sneezed. Eliza was cruising across the room to get something, but she glanced back over her shoulder at Quinn and, in this serious little voice, said "Salud, Quinn! Salud."

The thing I most appreciate about Eliza, of course, is that she loves Quinn. I'm talking Big...Enthusiastic...Love. While Quinn and Eliza probably won't remember each other, beyond the stories that Maury and I tell them from our far away homes, it's been an incredible experience to watch the girls become friends. And, for me, it's been an incredible gift to have a lovely and gracious friend of my own, with whom to share these early days of mothering.

I've never been good at goodbye, but I'm going to try to hold it together in front of the girls, because they won't understand, just yet, how incredibly important good friends are.

Good friends get down to your level when you don't yet know how to rise up to theirs.

And they support you, without passing judgment, while you try to figure things out.

Good friends spring into action to help you.

And they hold your hand if something manages to make you sad.

Good friends have the ability to pick you up when you're down.

And they're not afraid to show they care.

And that's what makes it so hard to say goodbye. Because with all the bad stuff in the world, you want to hold onto the good stuff. You want to keep those friends close by long enough to repay all their kindnesses, and show them how much you love them back.

Eliza, we're gonna miss you...a lot. Gobble Gobble Gobble.

And Maury, I'm not really sure how to say thank you for taking care of my new baby when she was so new. And, I'm also not sure how to put into words how much your friendship has come to mean to me.  I'll always be profoundly grateful...I miss you already.

And if, by chance, you don't want your kid's picture on the internet, just say so and I'll print this for you and take it down :) xo

A Tale of Two Fathers

"Congratulations," he said, "When did you get married?"

"Three and a half years ago."

"Oh! Well, better late than never, I guess."

That was the guy at the Social Security Office at 4:45pm on Friday. I don't know his first name or last, I just know his middle name: Francis. I know his middle name is Francis because, as I was explaining that I wanted to drop my middle name, make my last name my middle, and add on a new last name, he explained that he had always hated his middle name. Something about having met and fallen for a girl named Frances when he was in the fifth grade—that ruined it for him. He told me from that point on, whenever someone asked what his middle name was, he'd answered "Fester," as in Uncle Fester from the Addams Family. That was ironic, I thought, since I had always disliked my middle name, Beth, and had made a habit, when people asked me, of telling them my middle name was Bertha. I felt that I was meant to meet this guy. But this is not a story about the guy at the Social Security office.

Despite my aversion for "Beth," I've come to appreciate that my parents likely labored over finding my middle name, at least to some degree, as Sam and I labored over deciding on Quinn's names. For that reason, I felt a bit guilty just throwing it away. 

That leads me to Guilt #2: Litchfield. While this one didn't get dropped, it is now tucked away in the middle, essentially hidden from view. Ironically, I was never particularly fond of that name either, at least when I was growing up. Litch, as you might have noticed, rhymes with bitch, and when kids wanted to be mean they called me Kerry Bitchfield. At the time, that bothered me; I wanted to be liked. In my later years, I've never really felt bad about my occasional bitchiness; in fact, sometimes it's been a point of pride. People usually call you a bitch when you're speaking your mind or asserting yourself in some way. These are not things I hesitate to do. In fact, these are things that I've come to associate with my Litchfield-ness, especially in contrast to the Jackson-ness (keeping thoughts to one's self, choosing not to acknowledge matters that are uncomfortable) with which I cohabit.

So, three and half years ago, when I married a Jackson and it was time to change my name, well, I simply could not do it. I felt that keeping my name was the only way to show the world that I was keeping my sense of self. That by remaining a Litchfield, I was making a clear statement of my non-Jackson-ness. And, with my friend Henry Thoreau always echoing in my head ("For as long as possible stay free and uncommitted"), I chose not to change my name as a final holdout against the patriarchal system.

To my great surprise, no one really cared that I didn't change my name; they still addressed my mail to Mrs. Samuel Jackson. Even my dearest aunts—all of them strong willed, independent and vivacious. What the heck!?!?

In the few years since, I haven't thought much about it. I usually have only thought about it when Sam and I have had big fights. "I am SO not a Jackson!" I've thought to myself. Or, "Well, if we get divorced, at least I won't have to change my name!" These are not exactly my "Best Self" thoughts, but they have existed, I will admit. And, when I was pregnant and Sam and I would fight, I'd get in the bathtub and read to the baby…people tell you to do that—start reading to them early, even in the womb. Well, the only thing I ever read to Quinn when she was in the womb, was Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own." In my mind, I was growing an ally.

What has also happened though, when Sam and I are not fighting, which is really most of the time, is that I've observed the way the Jacksons are unfailingly loving toward one another. From the top down and out to the side branches, my husband's is a family that loves unconditionally, welcomes openly, shares freely, and gives generously. They are gentle people who live gently on this earth. They are intelligent people who share their knowledge and inspire thoughtfulness. Perhaps most appealing to me is that they are happy and they are healthy—mind, body and soul.

So, when my bull in a china shop, take the bull by the horns approach to life exhausts me, and my husband is there to pick me up and calm me down, I sometimes think, it might do me good to be a bit more Jacksonian in my approach to life.

But then, when I have those thoughts, that's when the guilt creeps in…as if being a Jackson would mean abandoning the Litchfields. I love the Litchfields. All of them. They are a strong and lively bunch—top down and all the branches! And, I love my dad. I'm proud of him. And I'm proud of the person he's taught me to be. I have a clear sense of right and wrong, and that is because of him. I know how to work hard, and that too is because of him. I know how to express myself—verbally and on the page—and that is also because of him. I am grateful that he taught me to believe I could do anything I set my mind to. I am grateful that he taught me I should expect people to treat me kindly in life and, in return, I should also treat people kindly. And, for those times that I fail to do so, I am grateful that my dad helped teach me the importance of saying I'm sorry. We were never allowed to go to bed without giving our parents a kiss goodnight—problems had to be addressed and they had to be resolved. My father's model, of hard work, sacrifice, and reward, is what has allowed me to become the independent person I pride myself on being.

So, how could I drop Litchfield? I recently mentioned to him that I was considering changing my name. I approached the topic gingerly. "It's about time!" he said; I'm not the only bull in this family.

I recently mentioned it to Sam as well, since his name would be the one I was taking on. He's told me in the past that he likes the idea of us sharing a name--a family name. In fact, he's surprised me a bit with his sentimentality about it. So, both of the fathers in my life are okay with it.

That leaves me: Am I okay with it?

I know that what I'm not okay with is when I make an appointment for Quinn and someone asks me our last name and I have to say, "Her last name is Jackson." I'm not okay with the idea that when we finally get on a plane together, as a family, and we fill out the immigration papers to some far away country we're about to explore, that Sam and Quinn will clearly be together and I will be someone else. I'm not okay with having her future teachers wonder if her parents are divorced, even though I have plenty of students whose parents have different last names and I understand their shared connection. I just simply have a profound aversion to being left out, even if only in name. And so, the issue has been on my mind more and more lately. Because, if I'm going to do it, I feel I should do it before Quinn is aware, so she won't have to struggle with the awkwardness of the transition as I will have to do. When she starts to talk about her family, she will be able to say We Are The Jacksons. Hopefully, by then, I will be able to say that comfortably too.

It still makes my heart race anxiously as I contemplate surrendering that visibly indentifiable sense of myself. Driving to the DMV on Friday, I called my sister. "What are you doing today?" she asked.

"I might be going to change my name."

"You might be?"

"Well, yeah, I’m driving to the DMV right now, but I haven't fully decided yet. I should do this right? I mean, everybody does this!"

Oh My God, I thought to myself. Just days ago I had read Shirley Jackson's story, "The Lottery," about what happens when everyone does what everyone else is doing…people get stoned to death for god's sake! And Shirley Jackson! Jesus, it was a sign…I should not be doing this! I got off the phone and parked my car, and I sat there.

But, with a few deep breaths, I remembered: tradition is not necessarily the problem, it's when people accept traditions without questioning them. I think it's fair to say I've sufficiently questioned this tradition. And in asking those questions, here are some of the answers I've come up with:

1. I love my husband. He has many admirable qualities, and his Jackson-ness has been a wonderful addition to my life for almost ten years now.

2. I love my kid, and I want her to grow up with the clear sense of family identity that I enjoyed growing up. (Obviously I've enjoyed it, given how reluctant I have been to give it up).

3. I love team sports and team spirit. My best friendships in life have been formed in the context of team sports (rowing crew at UVM). Parenting, if you're lucky, is a team sport.

4. And, I love my dad…who is very traditional and has probably been puzzled, rather than flattered, by my reluctance to take my husband's name as my own.

The other thing I take from Shirley Jackson's story is that people's refusal to change is what gets them in trouble. I have a hard time with change, even though every change in my life (with the exception of losing my mother), has brought incredibly good things. I am often reluctant to take a leap, but each time I have (getting married and having Quinn as major examples), the quality of my life has improved and my capacity for joy has expanded exponentially. And in these two cases in particular, I have Sam to thank. He has an impressive ability to project happiness into an unknown future, and approach that future calmly and with confidence.

So, when my number finally showed up in the queue at the DMV on Friday, and I found myself standing in front of a man named Roger, I thought, "Yes, roger-that: I'd like to change my name."

It will be awkward for me for a while. I was laughing when they snapped my photo for the license, and I was paralyzed briefly when they asked for my signature…I don't have one yet, I realized. But, nevertheless, now seems as good a time as any to take this leap. Quinn knows she is Quinn, but she doesn't yet know she is Jackson. By the time she does, I will be Jackson too. And, at school, I've already started preparing the kids: I told them that since the boys lacrosse team recently made it to the State Championship, I wanted everyone to know I was married to the coach! That's actually true, and besides, it will likely stave off most of the students' questions.

Furthermore, it's Father's Day and this is about patriarchy after all. I sent a Father's Day card to my dad, thanking him for preparing me to be a parent. I put my new name, Kerry L. Jackson, on the return address. And, I've made a photocopy of my new driver's license to give to my husband, when I thank him for convincing me to become a mother, and for showing me, in some way every day, what it means to be part of a team.

Sam Jackson: I love you and I'm grateful for your patience. I hope your first Father's Day is a proud one. And, I have a confession to make: the other day I gave you a really hard time for letting Quinn topple over and hit her check on that table at school, but this morning, she practically gave herself a lobotomy when she was sitting in my lap and I let her whack her head in our dining room. You are doing a great job.

Quinn will grow up believing she has an amazing dad…and she'll be right. And when it's her turn to decide whether or not to change her name, I suspect it will not be an easy choice for her either. Because, if not in name, genetically she'll have at least a little bit of stubborn and independent Litchfield in her too.