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.