Integration

At the end of each of my Kripalu yoga classes this week, each teacher encouraged people to stay for the full shavasana, and to stay beyond that for a silent meditation. They talked about “integration,” about allowing the benefits of the yoga practice to integrate fully into the mind, body and spirit and, in so doing, to allow those parts of one’s self to become more integrated with each other. But when I tried to rest and be still, my mind was at its most active. One teacher asked, over and over again, “What has changed? What is true?” He asked it after each short series of poses, as if some transformation could come from a couple of downward dogs--some sort of truth or new observation. I thought it was kind of funny, but I also found myself wondering about an answer. What has changed? What is true?

I was encouraged to enjoy my breath, enjoy the quiet time that I was given for myself, and I did, but I did so with a divided mind. Part of me was glad and relieved to be with my dear friend Char on a yoga retreat. Part of me was still home reveling in the joys of this recent holiday. Running off to Kripalu as I had, cut it short in a way I hadn’t imagined. Seated on my yoga mat, again and again, I circled around trying to find an entry point into what I could write about this December, this Christmas, the end of this year. As much as I tried to settle into the present moment of my days there, and to stay disconnected from the internet, news, superficial voices, work, I still kept thinking about finding time to write, as that has become my best form of integration--my best way to process what is going on in my life and put myself at ease. “Writing is the process of figuring out what it is that you have to say,” wrote one of my college professors, and so it is true for me. What is it I want to say? What do I want to preserve for Quinn? What has changed? What is true?

Last year as Christmas approached I wondered whether or not I wanted to tell Quinn about Santa Claus. She had a loose idea of what Santa was all about and we kept it kind of loose. This year, her sense of Santa was much better defined and she had specific questions she wanted answers to, primarily: “How will he fit in our chimney?” This is especially challenging since our “chimney” is really a stove pipe, and "magic" proved my only answer. We read The Polar Express and went, with friends, on the Polar Express train in Burlington. Quinn seemed confused, if not skeptical, much of the way, and she wanted nothing to do with the “elves” who were all dressed in red calling out her name and yelling hello as we “arrived” at “the North Pole.” What kept her going through it all was her single-minded desire to get a silver bell from Santa, just as the boy had in the story. That and she said she was going to steal his hat. She trudged around in her boots and pajamas, waiting patiently for the whole affair to play out and she was rewarded at the end by seeing “the real Santa” and getting her silver bell. 

At home, as Christmas approached, I found Santa incredibly useful as well. All I had to do, when Quinn's behavior started to spin a bit toward out-of-control, was ask, “Naughty or nice? Which list are you going to be on?” She snapped back to nice without much hesitation and I found myself hoping that Santa would last for many years to come. 

On Christmas Eve we hosted the extended Jackson clan for dinner and had a lovely time. Sam’s dad wearing Quinn’s Mardi Gras beads, Quinn and Olivier playing together happily, Alden’s brother and sister-in-law visiting from England, Sam and his siblings all in one place for the first time in a long time, and the lasagna not too dry. When Quinn resisted going to bed, I told her the rules of Christmas Eve, that Santa can’t come until you’re asleep. “That’s okay,” she said, in the midst of the party, “he can just come to me last.” I thought I had her, but didn’t. “What if he doesn’t have any presents left?” She had still another answer: “Oh, Santa would just make more, Mom, that’s what he does!” Eventually  the house started to quiet down and Quinn’s exhaustion caught up with her. I read Twas the Night Before Christmas and kissed her goodnight and then didn’t see her again until 6:30 Christmas morning when she appeared urgently at the side of my bed. “Mom! I think Santa was here! I think I saw some presents when I went to make the coffee!”

The rest of the day was perfect and joyful. We opened presents, slowly--Quinn’s pace, not mine. We played with new blocks, shoveled the rain-heavy snow off the back porch with her new “shobel,” and Quinn did “some work” at her beautiful new roll-top desk from Nonna and Papa. The hat Santa left behind for her might have been her favorite thing…she laughed out loud when she found it by his note, and she wore it with a bit of proud mischief all day.

It was a lazy morning and soon it was afternoon and we all went to Josh and G’s this time for Christmas dinner. At eight months pregnant, cooking a lamb feast for seventeen in her tiny kitchen, Geraldine earned my genuine admiration. We all had another lovely evening, with a successful Secret Santa experiment in which no one, miraculously, was left out. 

When we eventually made it home, Quinn was full of gratitude for her day. She thanked me for all of her presents and I reminded her most of them were from Santa, but she seemed to need to express her thanks somehow. She loved Christmas this year and therefore so did I. 

The next day Becs and the nephews headed south and we three were left to what now felt like an empty house. It was almost noon and we were all exhausted so we hurried up to the big bed with Quinn’s now most-treasured blanket--her big fleece owl blanket, made for her and sent in time for Christmas by Julie and Eloise in Wyoming. We rested warmly and happily with nothing else that needed to be done. We closed our eyes, took deep breaths, let our minds and bodies relax in the comfort of each other. We were, I realize now, integrating...allowing the feelings of love and joy and gratitude to wash over us. That is a worthwhile practice. 

Today, on this last day of 2014, as I look forward to the arrival of friends and family to celebrate the arrival of a new year, I know I will carry this question with me into the months ahead: What is true? This year, the magic of Christmas was true. My love of family and friends was true. And my complete joy in sharing Quinn’s journey was my greatest truth of all. 

When I walked the halls at Kripalu, or sat in the dining hall with hundreds of other people during silent breakfast, I kept thinking that what has changed for me in this life, in these past four years, is that my locus of “home” is no longer centered entirely within myself. I feel most centered, most at home in the part of my existence that is connected to the small powerful being who squealed MOM! from the front porch yesterday afternoon knowing I had returned home and was inside waiting for her on the other side of the door.

“If I know what love is, it is because of you.” 

-Herman Hesse

Big Questions

It was a crystal clear kind of day today. Cold air. Bright blue sky. It was early, and we had just finished breakfast when Quinn said she wanted to go sledding. We had our first sledding adventure of the year just last night. All three of us in our green plastic sled, legs hanging over the sides. It had snowed all day and the road had just enough cover. We whizzed down the quarter-mile hill in the dark twice before she was ready to go in. This morning she couldn’t wait to get out there again, and while we waited for Sam to get dressed and come out, Quinn and I went to the shed to grab the sled, and we took a run in the backyard. Walking back up among the snow-heavy spruces, sun sparkling off the snow all around, the blue sky above, Quinn asked, “Mom, why do some people die?” 

Before I had an answer fully formed, I heard myself trying to make it seem normal. “Well, everyone dies eventually.” She stopped walking and looked up at me. “Everyone dies?” she asked. I continued to try to make it seem normal, “Yeah, everyone does eventually, but you don’t have to worry about it. You’re not going to die for a really long time.”

Just last night she asked me "Do I have to get married?" I told her not unless she wants to. "I want to marry you," she told me, and of course I promised I would. Less than twenty-four hours later, I promised her she would live for a really long time, knowing that however long it is, it will never be long enough. Sam stepped out on the porch and she ran up to tell him about our new sled run below the woodshed. Her question had been answered and put away.

Quinn’s bedtime routine is a long one. After we each read her a book, or a few chapters from a longer one, she wants “a few minutes of snuggles.” Sometimes either of us will do, but more often than not, she wants snuggles from me. And most nights I’m thrilled to have the job, but when she makes it impossible to leave it can get frustrating. Sam and I try to take turns reading the first book so we can also take turns with the “few minutes of snuggles” that sometimes take half an hour. But lately, when he’s up there for the final phase, she will send him down to ask me if I’ll come up one more time. 

Tonight Sam came downstairs and stood behind me, reading over my shoulder for a moment. I looked at him. “Please don’t tell me you’re here to ask me if I want to go back up because…” He interrupted me, “I am...I am because she is asking why everyone has to die.”

When I returned to her room she reached out for me from her bed. She pulled at my flannel shirt and told me to just wear my tank top. “I want to snuggle you on your bare arms,” she told me. I laid down next to her and she squirmed trying to find the right spot. She wasn’t settled until she laid down fully on my chest, the way she would sleep as a baby. I could hear her voice cracking as she formed the question, “why does everyone have to die?” 

I tried again to make it seem normal. “It’s just part of life,” I told her. “Think of a flower. It is bright and beautiful in the summer, and then it dies before winter. The same is true for the leaves on the trees. And the grass. And the bugs in the grass. The same is true for everything that’s alive.” She lifted her head to look at my face, with still more panic written on hers. “Everything dies?!” She couldn’t believe the news kept getting worse. “Well the good news,” I told her, “is that people live for a really long time…” 

Even as I said it, I wondered when I would have to first explain the death of a young person in her life. For my mom, with me, it was the fourth grade. Carol Hanford, my classmate and neighbor, died from a brain tumor. And I flashed to my mother too, and offered her a silent apology: I’m sorry, Mum, I know forty-six years isn’t “a really long time.” 

Just when I thought I might have made Quinn feel safe, telling her she wouldn't die anytime soon, she jumped up and started to cry. “I don’t like it!” she yelped, “I don’t like it!” She flopped back down on the bed next to me. She curled up her body against my body, laid her head on the bend of my arm, stretched her limbs out next to mine. Today, on this beautiful, sun-filled, early winter day, this day that ended with a full moon lighting up our snowy woods, my four year old learned she would not live forever...and neither would anyone else she loves. 

She was quiet for a moment. "I think we need to put some colored lights on the Christmas tree outside," she told me. "Okay," I said; "I love you." She fell asleep then, hopefully thinking of colored lights, and how much I love her.

Thanksgiving

For a short period of time after college, I worked in a corporate library at a management consulting firm at Copley Place. I was commuting into the city, trying on a working girl’s life, missing the mountains and open spaces of Vermont. At lunch time I would go to the Boston Public Library, to sit on a bench in the inner sanctuary of the open air courtyard. It was a magical place, somehow impervious to the city sounds just over the walls. 

For the past four years, I have been trying on a working mother’s life, no longer commuting, but navigating other challenges instead. None of them insurmountable, so far, and none without the balancing effect of joy, but always on the run nevertheless, trying to catch each day’s “next train.” And so this morning, after waking up rested in a Boston hotel, I find myself trying to prolong the last hours of this brief sojourn, tucked in from the weather here in the Bates Room of the public library, this still and still-magical place. 

In a room full of people, there is silence, save the occasional hum of a wooden chair sliding in or out from a long oak table. The arched windows glow with pre-storm light from the city outside. And I sit here trying to imagine what my life might have been had I stayed in the city all those years ago.

It is a great privilege, I realize, to have passed through forty-three years of phases without a single substantial regret. I regret not learning Spanish when I was a kid. I regret not taking a Bible as literature class in college. But these are regrets I can still address. All the other decisions I’ve made have led me to good places and good people. Each step has been forward. Each step has brought me great joy. How lucky I have been.

These past two days here in the city were planned months ago as part of a determined effort to hold back the unexplainable blues that still somehow, in spite of it all, rise up for me in the grey transition of November, and to celebrate the many good fortunes of my life. In previous years, I’ve scheduled doctors’ appointments and done chores. I’ve watched another anniversary and yet another birthday pass by, and I’ve often felt lonely in my reflections on the inexorable advance of time. That is one of the risks of feeling so lucky; it’s easy to feel vulnerable too. 

Last year I decided I would do this November differently. I would use this time not for tasks that remind me how short life is, but instead to slow it down and breathe it in. Our first planned stop was a couple of weeks ago: a spa weekend with Quinn. She had never stayed in a hotel before, and had a hard time believing there could be such a place: with three pools, indoors and out, and two restaurants all under one roof. She couldn’t believe her good luck when she heard there would only be one big bed and we’d all have to sleep in it together. In advance, I bought her a white spa bathrobe and scheduled her first pedicure. I asked her how she thought she would feel having a lady she didn’t know touch her feet. She thought about her answer before giving it. A smile spread over her face, “I think I’m going to like it,” she said, with a smirk. For weeks leading up to our check-in day, she would ask me when she woke up, “Is today spa day?” And eventually it was.

On the night when we returned home from the spa, lying with her in the dark, after her books were read, I thanked her for going with me. She popped up off the pillow surprised, “Thank you, Mom, for taking me!” I asked her if she wanted to know what my favorite part of our weekend had been. I told her I most loved the time after her toenails were painted when she was sitting on my lap in the big chair, and she laid back in my arms, warm and relaxed, and let me snuggle her while the lady painted my toes. “Do you want to know my favorite part?” she asked. “My favorite part was when I was sitting on your lap and getting my toes painted!” That one memory was the highlight for us both, which of course made it sweeter still.

This week, the adventure has been for just Sam and me--a brief return to life before Quinn, thanks to many incredible generosities: My dad and Louise have been watching Quinn. We stayed two nights in a lovely hotel, which was a gift from friends. And we got to see a Bruins game from the Reebok box at center ice with my cousin Paul and his daughter Jen--an experience I will enjoy again and again, for as long as I have a memory to hold it. “Thank you” never seems to really do the trick at times like these. 

We’ve wandered the city feeling grateful for two days. We visited a favorite former student who is now at BU. We tried on hats in a hat shop and laughed as we haven’t done in weeks, and we made a spontaneous stop in a basement bar on Newbury Street for lunch. Last night we ate at an amazing restaurant, slurping oysters harvested from the coastal waters of my childhood, and sipping champagne from who-knows-where. This morning we sat in bed reading, drinking coffee and eating scones, savoring each slow second of quiet as it passed by.

That is what I still miss about my pre-Quinn life: the slow, quiet mornings I used to enjoy. The endless hours of reading...But if I’m remembering those times honestly, I remember also feeling as if there must’ve been something else I was supposed to be doing. I felt, oftentimes, a little guilty for indulging in prolonged stillness, and a little anxious about what I might be missing. Now, when I have the chance to sit quietly and read, I do so gratefully. And I know exactly what I’m missing...that’s what makes it so easy, eventually, to put the book down and head home. 

I have so many things to be thankful for that I've lost count, and in spite of all the words piling up here, none of them really communicate the gratitude I feel every day.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. 

xo

Her Sense of Self

“You’re a crazy young woman!” I heard Quinn say to herself this morning. 

And then I heard her respond, in a slightly different voice:

 “I’m not a crazy young woman. I’m Batgirl!”

One of the ironies here is that before I got out of bed this morning I was trying to think of what stories I wanted to preserve from this past month, and one that came immediately to mind was Halloween. The other irony, obviously, is that in talking to herself, as she walked around the house, she was demonstrating her craziness, which was also kind of batty. Quinn’s evolution continues to entertain, inspire and challenge us, and I hope it always will. 

Sometime last month we had our first parent-teacher conference, and we were eager to hear what her primary teacher at her new school would have to say. We were eager and a little nervous; she is a powerful force--for better and for worse. Fortunately, her new teacher is known for dealing well with kids like Quinn, the especially strong-willed girls. And from the first minutes of our meeting, I knew she understood our girl. “Quinn is really smart,” she said, “And she really likes routine. And, she’s a little bit tattle-taley.” 

She grinned at that last part while we laughed and processed. I reminded her that Sam and I are both teachers, and that we can handle the truth. “You don’t have to code it for us; you can say manipulative instead of smart.” But she didn’t modify. We talked through the details, and agreed on it all. One of the details was that Quinn spends much of her time telling other kids what they should and should not do. Her teacher painted a funny picture: she will be doing something in the kitchen, for example, and Quinn will show up by her side. “So-and-so is doing xyz!” she’ll say, waiting for her teacher to be horrified and jump into action. Instead, her teacher will casually look down at her. “I know,” she’ll say, as she absorbs Quinn’s shock at her indifference. “I’ve got it under control, Quinn, you don’t have to worry.” Her goal for Quinn, she told us, is for her to “work on just being a kid.”

The problem is, Quinn doesn’t really think of herself as just a kid.

Last year for Halloween, Quinn wanted to be a butterfly. She didn’t really get what Halloween was all about, so I bought her some wings and pants in the same color and she was satisfied. She looked pretty and sweet, but the butterfly didn’t really match her personality. This year she wanted to be Batgirl. This year when she put her costume on, I felt like I was looking at her inner being shining out...a little dark, a little bit alarming in her confidence, ready to take flight to fight for what she believes is right. 

The emphasis here is on fight. She is a fighter and, while I don’t always love having to fight with her, I love that she is not afraid, love that she has strong beliefs, and love that she will let no one walk on her, or on anyone she is determined to protect. 

On Halloween this year, we took Quinn to the local trick-or-treating mecca. The town closes the road to traffic, except for the tractor-pulled wagon that hauls kids from one end of the road to the other so they can trick-or-treat their way back to the beginning. We went with friends: Quinn’s pseudo-sibling and his parents. As soon as we were off the wagon, we reminded the superheroes of the drill: go to the door, say trick-or-treat, hold out your bag, say thank you. They only needed to be told once. 

For the rest of the night, the two kids were at a full sprint. While other kids walked down driveways with their parents, Quinn and her buddy cut across lawns at full speed. His mom and I could barely keep up, and we didn’t know whether to panic or laugh as we watched, from a distance, as our kids would burst through people’s front doors and disappear into their living rooms. The dads walked slowly behind, drinking beer, happy in their own conversation. I think I laughed the entire way back to the car. 

Afterward, we all went out for pizza. A little hopped up on candy and adrenaline, a little close to bedtime, the kids were wired. But, we made it through dinner without any blow ups between them. The only blow up was theirs directed at me toward the end. I made a rookie move and gave them each a piece of candy after dinner was done--I thought both families were on the same plan: eat some real food, then you can have one treat. But we weren’t on the same plan and when Quinn’s friend was told no, he burst into tears. And so did she. Tears were inevitable at some point, so at least they happened as we were all getting ready to leave. I kept trying to calm her down, “Why are you crying?” I whispered, “you can still have your treat in the car!” Batgirl was outraged, “I’m crying because he’s crying!” she demanded, incredulous that I had to ask. Quinn lectured me all the way home about the importance of checking with moms and dads first. 

I know she’s just a kid, and I want her to enjoy being a kid, but I also want to appreciate her for who she is. She has strong intuition, she understands things, and more and more when she encounters frustration or difficulties, she’s willing to “talk it out.” And if I’m organized, and can help her prepare for what’s coming at her, she shines. 

And the best news of all, is that when she sees herself, she sees herself smiling.

One of my many hopes, as I imagine her into the future, is that she will keep learning to use her powers for good.

Weddings & Funerals

In late August, a few weeks before Sam and I flew to Wyoming for a dear friend’s wedding, I got a call from that dear friend. I hadn’t talked to him in a while; ours is a friendship that has lasted seventeen years on sporadic phone calls and cryptic notes. It is a long history of laughter and meaningful conversations, mostly disguised in teasing and practical jokes. Like the one I thought he was playing when he asked me, that night on the phone, “Do you want to marry us? It’s okay if you don’t, but if you don’t, you can’t come to the wedding.” He burst out laughing then, the obvious thing to do after saying something so absurd. But then there was a weird silence. “Well?” he asked.

We went back and forth for a while: Wade insisting he was serious, between peals of laughter, and me mostly saying things like: Shut the hell up!...You’re not funny...No really, how are you? 

As the “discussion” went on, I was silently scrolling back through seventeen years of memories, many of them from the time when we lived in neighboring condos at a ski resort. Like the morning I went to go to work and found a giant snowman built in the bed of my truck. Or the many nights he would throw snowballs at my windows, as if I didn’t know it was him. Or all the stupid things he’d ask me to do because he knew I would want to prove that I could--like paddling his metal canoe down the snowmelt-swollen river around midnight with at least a six pack of beer, or the time I drove my truck straight up a grassy hill while he fell over laughing. 

There were other times when I saved him and his roommates from themselves, like the night Wade and Corey and Todd all sat around feeling grumpy with headaches after they built a wall of snow bricks, sealing in their porch from the outside world, and sealing in, as well, the exhaust pipe from their propane heater. When we left that “lord of the flies”-like existence, it surprised me and pleased me that our friendships persisted. Wade and Corey would go off and have big adventures, and then randomly one or the other would call, or show up. When they showed up together, it was trouble. Like the time I went to go to work and found the 20 ft. Christmas wreath that had been on the front window of the bank, now on the front of my house. 

Once I started thinking back, the memories just kept coming. Like the time Wade showed up and handed me a dead grouse that he had just run over in my driveway and suggested we have dinner together. Or the time when he was driving from Vermont to Colorado for the winter and he asked me if I wanted to keep him company on the ride. I agreed on the condition that we drive through the Badlands on the way--well, not exactly on the way--a decision I momentarily regretted when we got pulled over in South Dakota and told to stand on the side of the road while the cop and his dog searched Wade’s van. Wade barely moved his lips as he whispered to me, “If he asks you any questions, don’t say a word.” On that same trip, we argued over whether or not we should go an additional forty-five minutes out of the way to see Mount Rushmore. Wade insisted it would be dark. I insisted it was the kind of thing that would be lit up. It was January, and late at night, and we drove to the top of an empty parking garage and sat in his van and looked at the stone faces all lit up. A security guard came to see what we were doing. He was nice and we talked for a few minutes, but then he said goodbye, he had to go “turn off the lights.” As we drove away ourselves, we wondered out loud, “did he mean those lights?” And in the rearview mirror, we watched Mount Rushmore disappear one stone face at a time.

By the end of the phone call in August, I was 95% sure that Wade wasn’t kidding and he really was wondering if I would officiate his wedding. I had been looking forward to relaxing on this trip, to having absolutely no responsibilities. We were leaving Quinn with my dad and Louise for five days. I was so desperate for the break, I was even looking forward to the air travel--something normally stressful seemed heavenly when I imagined I wouldn’t have to keep track of Quinn, and I could read a book, uninterrupted, all day long. At the wedding I imagined being invisible--watching the festivities from a comfortable chair in the back, Sam on one side, Corey on the other, nothing to do but smile and soak it all in. But with this, I was in the hot seat again--a job to do, out of my comfort zone, wondering at what point I would be exposed, again, for having fallen for the latest of Wade’s practical jokes.

I went through a predictable pattern: disbelief, frustration, anxiety and then, eventually, a determined resolve. I got my “credentials” online, I pulled out and studied the wedding ceremony our neighbor Stephanie wrote for us, I emailed the bride and groom a bunch of questions, I enlisted Corey’s help and moral support. Two days before the wedding we were en route to Jackson, after saying goodbye to Quinn and my dad who, at the time, was waiting for news of his brother, my Uncle Dean, who was in the hospital and hadn’t woken up in two days. It was a hard time to leave him. My dad and my uncle were close; he loved him of course, but admired and respected him too. I had seen it my whole life, but especially last summer when they visited together in Vermont. I hoped Quinn would provide some humor for him in those difficult days, and not prove to be an added burden. I felt guilty for leaving, but he insisted we go.

We took a bus from NH to Boston to catch our flight. My head was in two places--trying to think of what I would say in Wade’s ceremony, and thinking of my Uncle Dean and my Aunt Marion and cousins. Because they were coexisting in my thoughts, I wondered what advice my aunt and uncle would suggest I pass on to my friend. Their marriage was a long one, almost sixty years long and, by virtue of time alone, it was a great success. In all of my memories of them, they are laughing and making jokes...even when life was hard. Wade and my uncle would have gotten along well. We had a three hour layover at JFK and before our next flight, the ceremony was written.

When we eventually made it to Jackson on Friday afternoon, the ranch was bustling with people getting things ready. Siblings and friends all had jobs and ours was to rehearse the ceremony. We drove down the road and walked out to where the ceremony would be, next to the Snake River, in the cottonwoods, with the Tetons as background. Corey, Sam, Natasha and Wade and I went out there and pieced things together. A while later, Corey and I drove a van to the airport to drop it off for another of Wade’s friends arriving later that night. On the way, I tried to practice what I’d written, but I couldn’t get through the line where I imagined telling Natasha, “you’ve chosen a man who will be a loyal friend.” Or the part where I would try to say something about how marriage is sometimes work, but that “it is good and meaningful work. Work you will feel lucky to have.” Gratitude is one of the few things that renders me speechless, and just about everything makes me cry.

Saturday was a perfect day. The sun was shining as Corey and I set up the chairs by the river for our friend’s wedding. We had the place to ourselves for a while, and being there with him helped me get over my nerves. And we had Natasha and Wade to ourselves for a while in the morning too, and being with them as they rushed around, doing their final tasks, laughing and loving each other as they do, I felt fully the honor that it was to be asked to be part of their important day.

A few hours later I helped my trickster friend marry his beloved, and I felt renewed in my own marriage having given such careful thought to what it all means.

Later in the day I was talking with Wade’s sister Melanie, someone I had long heard stories about but had never actually met. We were standing on the periphery of the activity, looking out over the family and friends who had gathered from so many places. I felt a connection to her right away, and was eager to know her firsthand. “I’m so glad to be getting older,” she told me, as we talked about the many phases of life. It was an observation that made me think. Usually the advance of time causes me some anxiety. Everyone gets older at the same time; the babies are suddenly no longer babies, and the elders advance precipitously. But something in her comment rung true for me as well. Life is, undeniably, too short, but the older I get, the more I am able to appreciate the moments that make it up. The person I was twenty years ago, even ten years ago, would have seen it all so differently, with a much lesser sense of just how much it all means.

After the wedding, Sam and I drove from the high Wyoming plains south toward Salt Lake City to fly home. As we wound down through Logan Canyon, through sagebrush country and high rock cliffs, my thoughts were once again back east with my family. My Uncle Dean’s life support was stopped that day and it was hard not to think of him slipping away as the miles slipped by on our drive.

When I had a private moment with my cousin Paul a few days later at his father’s wake, I was surprised by his perspective. “It was such a privilege to be there with him,” he told me, “such a privilege to be present for that, you know?” When I sat next to my mother as she was dying, I didn’t think it was a privilege; I was angry and scared. But I was younger then and now I am better equipped to understand what Paul was saying; I used to see everything through my own lens, but more and more I see what’s going on around me as what is going on for others. I too am glad to be getting older.

The day before my Uncle Dean didn’t wake up, he had visitors with him all day. My aunt was there, of course, and some other family and friends. They played games in the hospital room. They laughed. It was the first day he’d been so upbeat in weeks. He smiled a lot, felt happy, insisted on doing things for himself. When he said good night that night, the future was brighter for all of them. A nurse saw him late in the evening and again in the early hours before sunrise. She noted that he was still glowing from his joyful day. A few hours later, when she went to check on him again, he was still sleeping, and after that he never woke up.

My cousin Paul told that and other stories from the alter at my uncle’s funeral. He tried hard to do it without crying, but he didn’t make it. It is the curse and the blessing of the family genes; the Litchfields feel things deeply. While it’s messy sometimes, I see it as a wonderful gift. And how funny to have this gene coupled with the family's sense of humor. As Paul tried to compose himself, his wife, and his uncles (my dad among them), made wise cracks from their pews to lighten his load. Just when I thought I would die of sadness watching my aunt cry, my Uncle Du leaned up and offered her a tissue, and he promised her "it's not even a dirty one!" As we mourned together, we laughed together too. It’s the only funeral I’ve ever been to that felt a bit like a comedy show--with my uncle’s grandchildren walking the wrong way down the aisle, my cousin Brian and my Aunt Marion returning to the wrong pew after receiving communion, my cousin Colette not knowing the words to the prayer she was supposed to read (and was supposed to have had provided for her!), and Paul’s wife Mary making political wise cracks about her father-in-law just loud enough to be heard and appreciated by the family in the first few rows. I have no doubt my Uncle Dean would’ve had a good time.

When I was younger I was so obsessed with proving my own independence that I was reluctant, if not unwilling, to follow any pre-determined paths. I didn't see the value in these rituals and I thought I would always be happy doing things my own way, in my own time. From where I stand now, I’m really grateful for the fact that I’m not doing things on my own, and grateful too for all the rituals I’ve been allowed to participate in. It really is a privilege to be present in other people's lives, and to bear witness, to every wedding, every funeral, every life well and kindly lived.

Wade & Natasha, congratulations!

And Uncle Dean...

We miss you. xo

Quinn Turns Four

The day before Quinn’s first birthday party was one of our worst days together. She behaved badly all day. She whined at me, pestered me, and bossed me around...a lot. She threw fits of screaming and flailing for seemingly no reason. I can’t count how many times I heard her say, “I can do whatever I want!” 

Between fights, I was working like mad to get ready for her party. Sam and I were fighting all day too--though already I cannot remember what we fought about. What I do remember is that I didn’t want to be near either one of them. I wanted to be alone, doing something for myself. But with ten of Quinn’s little friends due to arrive the next morning at 10am, along with their parents (with whom I hope to remain friends), I had a lot to do. 

It was a bit like her first birthday all over again, but this time I recognized the signs: constant list making, strategizing, ordering and reordering tasks in my mind, frantic shopping for supplies...anxiety. I tried, in advance, to warn Sam; I told him I had high expectations and that it was a sentimental event for me, in hopes that he would just put on a big smile and start anticipating my needs. When instead he wanted to argue with me, or roll his eyes at a request, I went from sane to incensed in record time.  I wanted our guests, little ones and big ones, to be well taken care of. I wanted the little ones to have fun and think Quinn’s party was a good one, and I wanted the adults to not be miserable. But throwing a birthday party for a four year old, it turns out, is really like throwing two different parties at the same time, in the same place. I made cheddar, bacon and sweet corn scones, as well as star-shaped peanut butter sandwiches. I made coffee and Bloody Mary’s, and kept a cold pitcher of water near the paper cups. I put wiffle balls and soccer balls and a crawl-through tunnel out on the lawn, and set up enough chairs on the deck for people to sit if they wanted to. I made cupcakes and cake. I made fruit salad, and I prayed and prayed for sun.

Until this year, Quinn’s birthday parties have always really been our parties...we’ve invited our friends over on her birthday, and we’ve all had a good time. But in this past year, Quinn has attended a bunch of other kids’ parties. She’s picked out and wrapped presents and shown up at bouncy houses, movie theaters and gymnastics gyms. She’s seen some real excitement (or chaos, depending on your point of view), and I feared she had high expectations of her own. 

I had a lot of criteria to consider as I planned. I wanted her party to be fun, but not chaotic. Most of all, I wanted her to be a gracious host, but I didn’t even know if that would be possible. I wasn’t comfortable having people bring gifts, but I was too afraid of her feeling gypped and freaking out, to tell guests to come without presents. I rationalized that it would be worse to have the embarrassment of her wondering why there were no presents, than the embarrassment of having people feel obligated to come with a gift. So, to make myself feel better about the fact that Quinn’s friends would, because I didn’t tell them not to, show up with presents, I bought bags and bags of party favors to send home with them.

I also worried about whether or not the party would be “cool” enough, so I got online and reserved a bouncy house rental for $250. But then, a day or so later, I started to come to my senses. I cancelled the bouncy house and I put the money toward swing set parts. We still have her baby swing hung up by the road. One day when I couldn’t find Quinn in the yard, I called her name. “I’m up here, Mom,” she replied, happily swinging in the baby swing which she had somehow climbed into and buckled up herself. A swing set, I imagined, would be fun for her on party day, and for months and years to come afterward--a better use of the money for sure. Sam and I got her swing set built two days before her party, and we threw a big tarp over it in the yard. It was huge and obvious, but when she asked what it was, Sam just told her it was a new tractor shed and she didn’t give it another thought. She’s used to seeing tarp-covered things in our yard, so this wasn’t a curiosity. 

For days leading up to the party, we tried to prep Quinn for what to expect and how, hopefully, to behave. It was my greatest source of anxiety. In the weeks prior to her birthday, I drilled her on her manners. She had developed the habit of complaining about her meals, and I imagined that transferring directly to her party. I could picture someone handing her a present and her starting to cry, “But I don’t like that!” or “I didn’t want that! I wanted something else…” Every night at dinner, as I put her plate in front of her, I started asking, “What’s the first word out of your mouth when someone hands you something?” If I saw her starting to construct an argument, I would cut her off. “First word?!?!?” I would press, until I heard “thank you.”

On the day of the party we were graced with perfect weather: the sky was cloudless blue. Quinn’s energy was off the charts. While she often refuses to take baths, on this day when we were scrambling to get ready, she decided she had to have a bath--a long and luxurious one at that. Eventually she was dressed, and we unveiled the swing set, again as part of a strategy to help avoid any embarrassing meltdowns. I was afraid she wouldn’t share the swings if she hadn’t had a chance to use them first herself. By ten o’clock, right on time, her friends started to arrive. We welcomed people in and right away the kids started to run around the yard and play. Quinn was beside herself--so happy to have all her friends at her house, so happy it was her birthday. 

We let them run around for a while, encouraged them to eat fruit and star sandwiches, we refreshed coffee cups and eventually made Bloody Marys, and when there was a tiny lull in the action, we sang happy birthday and ate cupcakes. Once the cupcakes were done, Quinn organized everyone for a scavenger hunt. First Desmond, then Oliver came to ask me if they could be on Quinn’s team, so they joined her and all the girls. Robby wanted to be with Mason, “because,” he said, “he’s nice and I like him.” Seve wanted to be with Sam and the big boys. Quinn handed out bags to all the kids and then, when the teams were all gathered around, Sam and I gave them their first clues, sending them in opposite directions around the yard to retrieve their treasures: M&Ms, toy cars and necklaces up by the swing, star-shaped sunglasses out by the wood shed, paddle-balls down by the tractor, and jump ropes in the red wheelbarrow. 

With all their loot collected, it was present opening time...the time I had been dreading for days. I brought a blanket out to lay on the grass in the shade, and we brought the pile of beautifully wrapped presents out too. I took one last opportunity to pull Quinn aside, “what’s the first word out of your mouth?” It was more a command than a question. Whether it was that reminder or Quinn’s own good heart, I will never know, but what I do know is that as we proceeded through the presents, I felt more and more at ease. I had seen the present part of others’ parties get totally out of hand, so I was determined to control the pace. And with that control, all the kids seemed to relax. One at a time someone would hand her a present, or I would pick one up for her and tell her who it was from and, before she tore any paper, she found that friend’s face among the many faces and said thank you...and then she opened things up and marveled quietly over her gifts. And her friends explained what they picked for her, or just stood back and watched. With each additional thank you delivered, I grew more and more proud. And I started to feel bad for underestimating her.

As soon as the presents were all opened, it was like the whole party spell was broken at once. The clock struck noon and ten little people started to look exhausted all at once, so they packed up and we handed out balloons and we waved and yelled goodbye and suddenly everyone was gone. Quinn was asleep in her bed moments later.

In the afternoon, Corey and Kellam came, as they have every year, only this year Fielding came too. And Char surprised us all, dropping in just in time for another round of cake. The party kept going all day.  And at the end of the day, when I laid on Quinn’s bed with her and asked what her favorite part of her birthday was, she said, “all of it,” and I think that was the truth. She also said she loved having all her friends here to play on her swings with her, and she loved “the scabenger hunt.” 

Thanks for the birthday photo Corey Hendrickson

Thanks for the birthday photo Corey Hendrickson

As we relived the joys of the day, Quinn’s thoughts somehow went back to our bad day, the day before. “Do you know why I wasn’t behaving yesterday, Mom?” she asked. “Because all you did was work, work, work. We didn’t do any playing.” She was right, for the most part, and I had to think for a moment about how to respond. I told her “Sometimes before you have a big play day, you have to have a big work day.” She thought for a moment too, and then said, “Oh!” with a sort of genuine surprise, “I didn’t know about that.” It was funny to hear her say, as that was how I was feeling about things too. I didn’t know about her bad behavior being connected to my working too much. And I didn’t know about trusting her to do the right thing with the presents and the thank yous. I thought it was my job to train her, but learned it is also my job to have faith in her. I couldn't have been more proud...the whole day was fun, but her demonstration of genuine gratitude was the biggest, shiniest gift of the day.

Each year on her birthday, I think back to her actual birth day. And I think back to those quiet hours in the middle of the night when Sam was asleep in the bed next to mine, and I was awake holding Quinn, looking into her eyes thanking her over and over again. At the time I was thanking her for making her journey into the world safely, for arriving in tact and okay. What I didn’t know was how much she would be helping me to grow in the years ahead and how grateful I would be to have her in my life.

Happy Birthday Quinn.

I love you.