Eat Another Egg: Mother's Day

Quinn's 8th grade graduation, June 2025

Existing in a family means existing in a near-constant conflict of interest. You come into the world with no choice in the matter, and you spend the rest of your life trying to exercise agency in the pursuit of your own survival. Mothers and their children are in some ways biologically at odds, with the mother’s job to hold on and protect, and the child's to extricate herself from the hold, lest she suffocate. It all feels primordial to me, with my “intense” and “ferocious” love for Quinn (words that Sam used to describe me this morning), and her tangibly growing capacity for a life of her own.

Thinking of Quinn this morning, I felt grateful that her arrival in the world made me a mother. And yet I realized, in the instant after that thought, that she had had no say in the matter. If I had really been able to objectively, and with informed foresight, think about what kind of world I was bringing her into, and ultimately leaving her to deal with, I’m not sure I would’ve thought it was a smart (or fair) idea. And I’m not sure I would’ve been able to say honestly that she’d be getting a good deal.

The world looked different in early 2010 when she was embryonic. The cursed iPhone was only 2.5 years old at that time and no one had yet imagined the world we see now—where kids grow up staring at phones, probably in the company, or shadow, of parents who do so as well. We didn’t see that their lives would become an online minefield of too much information and exposure. Instagram was unveiled a month after Quinn was born, and we didn’t know how that kind of technology would change the way we all experience the world—how we would come to see (and judge) others and, even more destructively, ourselves. We didn’t know how it would overwhelm, and distract our efforts, and habits, as parents and those of our kids. We just didn’t know what it would all mean.

I feel sort of okay, but not great, about how long we held out on a phone for Quinn. She was thirteen when she got hers, at the start of 7th grade in 2023. She was one of the last two kids in her peer group and plans were no longer being made by moms; it was a way for her to communicate, and be included. Her first social media didn’t enter until two and half years later, halfway through 9th grade (this winter), and that was, and is still, only one messaging app (Snapchat). I wanted to hold out forever, but there is always the nagging question of what is worse—to have the phone and enter the fray, or not have it and be isolated and left behind. For my only child, who lives in the woods, isolation is one of my worries (and hers). And for my only child who endured the isolation of Covid for two masked years, I will probably always feel a desire to pay her back for that—for the worry, for the solitude, for the lost time with friends and family, for the metastasized tendency to feel she’s failed or done something wrong.

She asked for the app politely and then waited patiently for months while I gave it deep consideration. Ultimately, that process allowed me to realize, slowly, that she was ready—she understood that I needed time and she kindly waited, without ever nagging or complaining. It was that maturity that convinced me when I eventually succumbed. That particular conflict of interest Quinn won by avoiding conflict; sometimes you win by ceding control.

There are other things too, besides the phone, that were beyond my comprehension when I was contemplating motherhood, including the political landscape we find ourselves in now. And the climate crisis. I can’t say much about these realities without succumbing to rage or despair, but certainly I didn’t imagine raising a daughter in a world that seems more sexist and bigoted than any I’ve ever known, and where natural disasters happen nearby rather than somewhere far away. And where people’s rights and dignities are disregarded, and basic needs overlooked. All of this is not really what I had imagined the future to look like; and if I had, I probably wouldn’t have thought reproducing was a good idea.

And yet Quinn was, and is, a good idea. The best idea really. The best idea I’ve ever had.

At this point in time, I recognize Quinn may only have three more years at home. And she is reaching (in often thoughtful, and compassionate, and responsible ways) toward that world beyond my grasp. She has a job (since last summer, when she was 14 and just out of 8th grade). She is learning to drive. She does good work in school and has earned the recognition and admiration of her teachers, and she is playing high school sports—soccer last fall and lacrosse this spring. She is a gracious co-host when we have dinner guests, an attentive cousin when the boys (from either side) are around, and she is usually a compassionate and insightful partner in our family of three—capable of empathy for those who need it (me) and also capable of defending those who occasionally need that (Sam).

Recently Sam decided to give away Quinn’s swing set, to a guy who was looking for one for his daughter. He invited the guy over to check it out, and then (after the fact) asked me if that was okay. As has been true with many projects, the swing set was something I envisioned for Quinn, researched, shopped for, and had all planned out. And then Sam built it and made it real. We covered it with a giant blue tarp and told her it was a storage shed for the tractor. We kept it hidden until her 5th birthday—a day when we had a giant inflatable castle delivered to the front yard and invited a million little friends and their parents over for an afternoon scavenger hunt, tea party, bouncey house and swing set good time. It was so busy I don’t have any photos of the unveiling of the swings, and probably also because I did not yet have an iPhone in my pocket. Still, I do remember Quinn joyfully grabbing air with her legs and pumping her way toward freedom.

This was Quinn's 5th birthday, when we gave her her swing set.

This was her 6th birthday, a year later, but it's the only photo I can find of the swings!

Yesterday morning, Sam loaded up the disassembled swings and hauled them away. Quinn was off to a lacrosse game—the first one I felt I had to miss, in order to get caught up on grading. I was alone in the cabin. Sam sent a note: “Swing delivered. Hope I never see it again!” Admittedly his “good riddance” was the result of dropping it on his achilles tendon while attempting to take it down and nearly breaking his own leg. Still, there it was again—the sharp contrast of views we experience as parents. Sam excited to keep moving forward, and me wanting to stop time. My own Achilles.

The reality is that this ninth grade version of Quinn is probably my favorite version yet. I suppose I have felt that way at every stage, but this time I really mean it! She is an amazing young woman and there’s no one I’d rather be with. It’s hard for me to imagine how I’ll go on without her once she goes. And yet, all the things she is experiencing now, and approaching soon, are some of my favorite moments from life. While I wasn’t particularly fond of my high school, I felt so powerful in those years. My early fragmented sense of self finally coalesced and I felt kind of, well, superhuman. “Try to stop me,” I thought often, “I dare you!” And getting my driver’s license, toward the end of high school, was my first taste of real freedom, the most delicious and exhilarating joy! I drove with the music loud and the windows open and in my memory of it, I was always smiling…smiling like a slam dunk. And then there was college…life just got better and better.

That’s the thing—I loved it all. I had a ravenous desire to consume the world and every experience I could possibly have. We didn’t have phones to distract us then. And our parents weren’t crippled by the heavy burden of too much information, about too much tragedy. My dad’s philosophy for parenting was “what I don’t know won’t hurt me,” and that worked just fine for me. And my mom gave me luggage as a graduation gift after high school—easy come, easy go. Though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t quite so easy for her; I'll never know. What I do know is that I feel dread mounting by the day--my fingers curling around each good conversation, or funny story, or day on the sidelines watching her play. I know I’m experiencing anticipatory grief. Three more years is not enough, not even close, and I don’t want to let her go. And yet I also want Quinn to experience all the thrills and wild joy that I had. Her own money in the bank, her own music playing loud, the windows open, the road stretching out in front of her, all of it—pumping her legs to grab the air, leaning back to look at the sky, higher and higher, ready to launch. I want her to have it all.