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. 

Mother's Day

Mother's Day is complicated for me. Despite my recent change in status, it is still a day when all I can think about is my own mother. No matter where I am or what else is going on, it is a day each year when I am forced to reflect on the fact that I am a motherless daughter.

There are other days in the year, of course, when I think about the fact that my mother is gone. There are the big events that I can't imagine going through without her, that I eventually do go through. There are also plenty of non-event days when I miss her, days that are just typical, whether good or bad; days when I would have, when she was here, called her up to process things. But on Mother's Day, all those big event and non-event days come together, for me to take stock of how they've accumulated in the years since she's been gone.

Some years I handle the inventory-taking better than others. One year not long ago, I was with a handful of staff members and students on a school trip in Maine on Mother's Day. During a break, we had some time to walk around town and lots of the kids went off to call their moms and shop for gifts. Jenna was in the eleventh grade at the time; her own mother had died recently. Both of our mothers died of cancer on the day before their birthdays—what are the odds? (If you know the answer, please don't tell me because I'll just think your math skills are freaky!) Anyway, Jenna and I walked around town together, enjoying each other's snarky comments about all the stupid shops selling all the stupid stuff for that most stupid of supposed holidays. It did the job; we held ourselves together and managed to laugh.

At this point, I remember more Mother's Days without my mother than those spent with her. The only thing I can remember doing for my mom on Mother's Day was making her homemade cards and making her breakfast in bed, which I'm sure we did more than once. I don’t know whose idea of a good time breakfast in bed is, but as I think about it now it seems pretty horrible. I mean, crumbs in bed? That's gross. And how can you enjoy your coffee when you're trying to balance all that stuff on your lap? And being stuck there in your pajamas on a beautiful spring day…it makes me antsy just thinking about it. I wonder what she thought of it all.

My mother was 46 when she died, and I was 21. Even then, I thought 46 was young, but now…oh my god! I can't even think about how young she was. I miss everything about her, and I even miss the things I hadn't experienced yet. More and more I miss the adult conversations we never got to have. I don't think I ever even talked with her about the possibility of having a kid of my own someday...When she died I was only recently evolving out of the whacky idea that I would be some sort of high powered lawyer, living in New York City, remaining single and driving a (get this..) Corvette. What? I don't even know where that came from! Well, I kind of do: I wanted to save the world and I imagined crushing the bad guys and locking their asses up. And, I guess I thought I'd find a lot of bad guys in New York City. Anyway, fast forward through college in Vermont and I'm living the life I eventually imagined…Except for the kid, because I never really imagined her until she did a push up on my chest two minutes after she was born so she could get a better look at her dad.

That's the kind of thing I wish I could talk to my mom about.

When I was in college I called my mom every day. I'm not exaggerating. I called her every day. I had wonderful friends in college, who are still my wonderful friends, and still I needed to process things by talking them through with my mom. The bad things didn't go away until she put them in perspective, and the good things didn't seem real until I could share them with her.

And so, maybe that's why I still don't really feel like a mother, because I haven't been able to talk with her about it. She hasn't, just by being here, helped make it real.

Quinn is real of course. And when I think of her, I don't feel like a stranger, I feel a profound connection to her. I feel proud and possessive and I feel the weight of a tremendous responsibility. And I feel love like I have never imagined it. I feel ferocious rage when I imagine anyone ever doing anything to harm her, and I feel the entire world go blurry in my peripheral vision fifty times a day while I am watching her. But, I still mostly just feel like Quinn's Really Big Fan.

My mother, when I asked her where babies come from, told me: "a place near your leg." It wasn't a lie, and her answer was good enough to satisfy me for an embarrassing number of years. And that's just what I'm looking for now…some sort of magic answer (beyond the obvious one about giving birth). You'll feel like a mother when…

The other night, we took Quinn with us when we went out for a burger. She sits in a high chair now, so I brought her dinner along too. When she was done, food was smeared on both cheeks. Without realizing what I was doing, I dipped my napkin into my water glass…as I reached out to clean Quinn's face, she grimaced and turned away in what seemed like slow motion. And in that desperate "Mom! NOOOOOOO!" look on her face, I realized I was looking at myself, through my mother's eyes, on the dipping end of the napkin.

It's not much, but it's a start. In the meantime, I've been working, not so secretly, on my campaign to have "Mumma" be Quinn's first word. She talks a lot now, in her own language, and one of the sounds she's working on is mmuh-mmuh-mmuh. Whenever she says it I try to jump out in front of her with a big happy smile on my face and offer her something she might like. It's shameless, I know. And I also know that all this effort will likely result in her calling for her dad first. Based on how I look, she probably still doesn't even realize we're related. And, to my great sadness, she'll never know her maternal grandmother, whose name she has as part of her own, except through my stories and some her Aunt Amy will tell her.

In her early career, my mom was an elementary school teacher—kindergarten and first grade. I have a vague memory of going to school with her once or twice, but I never really knew that part of my mom—that part where she was in charge of a room full of little kids, helping them button their sweaters and read books and draw pictures. I wish did, because then maybe I'd know what it would look like to see my mom helping Quinn put on her sweater, or read books, or maybe head off through the yard on a walk. I wish I could see them interact. Maybe that would anchor me in some way, as the link between two souls I love…I could exist simultaneously as daughter and mother, instead of one without the other.

If she were still here, this would be her first Mother's Day as a grandmother. My mom was a vivacious woman. She loved life, she loved us, she loved flowers and puppies and golf and fast cars (maybe that's where my Corvette gene came from?), she loved homegrown tomatoes, playing the piano, decorating cakes, Johnny Mathas, Julio Iglesias, Robert Redford, Tom Selleck, and her high school sweetheart who is also my dad. She loved playing tennis on summer evenings, she loved swimming, she loved pinching my butt (despite my consternation) whenever she followed me up the stairs. She loved the two or three Pink Lady's Slippers that grew in the woods behind our house, and she would have really loved the dozens of them that grow in the woods behind mine…they bloom each year right around Mother's Day. She loved scallops and holidays and Danielle Steele novels and she loved braiding my sister's hair like Princess Leia. She loved making things—artsy craftsy things. She loved the color pink and she loved making me wear the color pink, long before I was prepared for pink. She loved that my sister came along and actually wanted to be a girl (dolls, dresses, the whole shebang). She loved to laugh. She loved sticking her thumb in our bruises and saying, "Aww, Honey! You have a bruise!" And of all these things that my mom loved, I bet she would have really loved, more than most of them, being a grandmother. 

Long before Quinn came along, to begin the next generation of Claire's daughters, my mother was already grand.

Trapped

Sometimes the metaphors in life are just so obvious. Yesterday's proves too irresistible for me to pass over: I woke up to find that my driveway was partially washed out, my road was nearly impassable and the bridge at the bottom of our hill was completely gone—just a big round culvert sitting in the middle of a raging river. (Well, it's actually a brook, but that doesn't really evoke the kind of water that took out our bridge…so, I'm calling it a river.)

As if being married and having a new baby hasn't made me feel trapped enough at times, yesterday the isolation was physical and it was real. For months I've been describing my experience as a new parent as being much like house arrest, and yesterday we literally could not leave.

We live on a U-shaped road, our house is on the little stretch connecting the two primary roads. Here in Vermont, "primary" is still dirt, but it's dirt that is maintained by the town. From the end of our driveway, the road was washed out in both directions, and bridges in both directions were washed out as well. We called school and arranged for subs; we weren't going to make it in. We spent the day bonding with our other trapped neighbors, the two Richards who live on either side of the road down below. Other neighbors from the far side of the bridge came up to see it. They waved to us from their freedom, yelled friendly jokes about sending in supplies, and made real offers of help if we were in need.

I don't think stir-craziness is technically a need. At least not in its early stages. But, by the end of the day, when Sam and I were snapping at each other and I was making what felt like astute observations about the inevitable demise of our marriage if we remain incapable of carrying into our day-to-day lives the romance and relaxation of our vacation days, well, by then we were close to calling in the troops for a rescue.

It rained more last night, and more this morning. Sam was getting ready to leave for school and I didn't technically have to be there until midday, but as the rain kept coming and the notion of being trapped on our hill started to sink in—trapped in our muddy yard, in our small house with our ever-growing baby—I panicked, threw a bunch of stuff in bags and ran out with him. I didn't really have anywhere to go, but I knew I needed to get out. I didn't even really care if I could ever get back up again.

One day soon after we finished building our house, and not long after our wedding, I was home alone, sitting in the living room admiring all of the beautiful details. It was then that I first started thinking about writing again. I imagined a first chapter title for a memoir: "I Built My Own Beautiful Prison." Today I would add chapter two: "I Gave Birth to My Jailer."

I love the house, and the kid. But some days, I really miss my old life. I miss waking up when I wake up. I miss spending my first hour of being awake tending exclusively to my own needs: coffee, quiet, sunshine on the back deck, a long shower. I miss coming and going as I please. I miss being in the car alone. I miss being spontaneous about going for a run, walking the dogs, going out for a beer or a movie. I miss having energy. You get the idea…I miss my free and independent former self.

Lately, the switch that gets flipped in my brain is when Sam says something like, "I'm going to go out and start the tractor," or "I'm going to go take a shower." I get so angry with him for not asking me if it's okay to do these things, not because he should have to ask me, but because I feel like I have to ask him (one of us has to be with the kid, right?). And if I feel this constant nagging sense of responsibility, well, he should feel it too. And it's a sucky way to feel, so I'm definitely not going to be the only one feeling it, "you feel me?" (Have you watched The Wire on HBO? You must.)

Of course, yesterday, when he said he was going out to start the tractor, which I needed him to do so he could redirect some of the rushing water and prevent what remained of our driveway from washing into the woods…well, that wasn't really a good time to have the discussion with him about how the success or failure of this team effort largely depends on his choice of words. I wasn't the only one trapped on this hill after all. Sam has used the word "claustrophobic" more than once in the past twenty-four hours.

Today was a better day for that discussion. It was better because we weren't trapped here on the hill, so we felt a little tiny bit less trapped in our lives. I got mad at him for going to the dining hall to get lunch while I gave Quinn her bottle in my office. Not because going to get lunch is a bad thing, but because I wanted to be the one going to get lunch. And once I made that known, Sam happily took Quinn, propped her up to play with some rolled up ace bandages from his bag of lacrosse gear, and he freed me to go get my lunch.

Some hours later, after dropping Quinn off with her babysitter, teaching our classes, attending an all-school community meeting, meeting with our advisees, picking Quinn up from her babysitter and doing the grocery shopping, we made it home. The guy in the excavator was still working on the bridge. We drove over it and up the hill. More of the road had eroded, but there was still enough there that we could sneak alongside the chasm and make it to the house. The pile of snow under the roofline on the north side of our house was still there, but it was smaller than it had been this morning. The tips of the plants coming up in the garden looked just a little bit higher. I carried my school bag, Sam's school bag, Quinn's diaper bag, and Quinn's toy bag in the house. Sam carried Quinn and a bag of groceries. We got through the door, set things down and exhaled. Sam put his arm around my waist. "We made it through the day," he said and smiled. I did one of those laugh/cry things and made a point to say that if our marriage is going to succeed, it will likely do so because he manages to hold me together on the days I start to fall apart.

I hear all those voices in my head reassuring me, "It is SO worth it...Enjoy every minute because it goes by so fast"! Yadda yadda yadda…whatever people! It's a lot of work and somedays I look forward to time going by just a little bit faster.

In the meantime, I'll try to keep finding the humor in it as best as possible. On vacation last week, we took turns being under house arrest for the afternoon nap. One day I stayed at the house while Sam went to the beach, the next day we switched. On the day I stayed, Sam came back to check on me, and Quinn was being her stubborn self, refusing to fall asleep. He knew I was frustrated, stuck indoors on a beautiful day, the ocean within earshot. I insisted he go back to the beach, so at least one of us could enjoy it. An hour later, I gave up. As I picked up the canvas tote bag and prepared to fill it with all the requisite baby crap, I realized: I bet Quinn fits in this bag. Sure enough, she did. I sat her in the bag, pulled it up around her and fit the straps over my shoulder. I looked in to be sure she could breathe; she actually seemed content, curled up kind of cozily, examining her hands as if they were some new and wonderful object. I walked to the beach with her in the bag. I found Sam and he looked up. "Are we missing someone?" he asked. (I was impressed he noticed.)

"I got so fed up with her I just strapped her in her carseat and locked the door."

"Okay; I'll go get her," he said calmly. (His lack of alarm was a bit less impressive.)

When I leaned over so he could see in the bag, the look of surprise made my previous sense of imprisonment disappear. Sometimes I truly crack myself up. And thank god, because sometimes that's literally all I can do…on the good days that is, all I can do is laugh at the absurdity. That and hope the rain stops.

Count 'Em Up

When it's April and still snowing and the pile of snow on the north side of your house is still high enough that, if you stand on it, you can touch your roof, it's a good time to look around and try to find the blessings in your life. I thought of this the other day, as I drove to work in yet another snow squall, and I nearly drove off the road at the sight of snow geese in an open field at Simplicity Farm, the organic dairy farm just a few miles from my house.

Last year's corn stalks are poking through the shrinking snow pack and, in among them, I have seen for some days a flock of Canada geese. But the other day, white geese with black-tipped wings milled about in their company. Snow geese have made western Vermont one of their stopping points on their southbound journey each fall. In years past, another lifetime it seems, I made fall journeys over the Green Mountains, from my eastern side of the hills, to the Dead Creek Wildlife Refuge to welcome their arrival. They are a spectacular sight when they number in the hundreds or thousands. The other day, I saw only a handful which, in a way, seemed somehow more magical.

I don't know too much about snow geese, but I do know they mate for life. I know they spend their summers in the Arctic tundra. And, I know they are beautiful.

The snow geese at Simplicity Farm briefly expanded my sense of space to the bird's eye view and to migratory distances. I swirled around above all of the murky weather and mud for just a moment or two before landing back here in the Mad River Valley. I drove on thinking about this place where I live. The people who make it what it is. The reasons I've chosen to live here…

I thought about the early phase of committing to it all. Sam had just bought our little 5.8 acre lot and we were living as dorm parents in order to save money to build a house. We spent all of our free time up on the land, cutting trees, pushing the woods back to create a bit of space, excavating the old stone walls that surround us on three sides. We built a tent platform where we thought the house should be so we could try it out...see what the view was like, see how the sun hit at different times of day and different seasons. 

At the end of a work day, we'd sit on the edge of the platform and drink a beer, admire our progress. Suspended as it was in the trees, we could hang our legs over the edge. It felt good to be up in the air. Our house is now where the platform used to be. The trees that held it up are built into our timberframe, still holding us up. 

It was, and is, the right spot.

During that process, we also planned our wedding. That ritual was about our relationship, of course, but it was also about this place…our land, our town, our valley beyond. It was about building a life together, and about building that life here among the mountains and rivers we love, in the company of friends and neighbors we value.

So, when I heard that one of our neighbors on our hill was a justice of the peace, she seemed like the perfect person to marry us. I hadn't met her yet, but I knew where she lived. We'd pass her house a mile before reaching our land. She has the best view of Camel's Hump in the entire state. I started looking for her every time I drove by in hopes that I might meet her. One warm morning, she was sitting outside in front of her house. She was in her nightgown, eating a bowl of oatmeal, the gallon can of maple syrup on the table next to her…my kind of gal.

I might have driven a bit fast on our road, in those early days, always eager to get to our land and never fully appreciating the scenery on the way up. So, that morning when I saw Stephanie, I was almost past her when she came into view. I slammed on the breaks and kicked up a cloud of dirt from the road. I jumped out of the car, amazed to finally see her, in the flesh, after all those months of stalking her.

"Are you Stephanie?" I blurted out.

"Yes," she replied slowly, eyebrows bent in a "who the hell are you?" sort of way, seeming to suggest that I should, first of all, slow the hell down, and second, have a damned good reason for interrupting her early morning solitude.

"My name is Kerry and my partner and I are wondering if you'd marry us!" As if she knew our whole story. As if she cared. As if I hadn't just put dirt in her oatmeal. I don't remember her exact response, but I think it was essentially a "Yes…but let's get to know each other a bit first" kind of answer.

From then on, I drove by slowly and always made sure to wave as I passed—whether I could see her and her husband Louie or not. (Some time later, when I was visiting in their living room, they told me they always saw me wave and appreciated it. They also suggested I convince Sam to slow down.)

Stephanie eventually did marry us, but only after she came up to our half-built house on a warm fall day and sat with us on our back porch. She asked us a bunch of questions—about why we wanted to marry, about why we wanted to live here on this shared hill, about how the hell we planned to get up and down it in the winter! We talked with her about our families and our values and our goals and, when the talk was over, we had a better sense than we ever had before of why we were doing what we were doing.

Stephanie took that conversation and turned it into the most lovely wedding ceremony I could've imagined. I dreaded standing up in front of everyone to say our vows; I was nervous and embarrassed for some reason. But, in the end, the ceremony itself was my absolute favorite part of the whole event. We were surrounded by loved ones—a small group by most standards, only about sixty family members and just our oldest friends. We didn't have a fancy alter or arbor or anything like that. We didn't even have flowers up there. It was just me and Sam, our friend Jim and my sister Amy standing up with us, and Stephanie with her music stand to hold her prepared words. 

Sam and I wrote our own vows—you would expect that of two English teachers, I suppose. We wrote them separately, with no guidelines, and they turned out to express nearly the exact same sentiments—the same themes of respect for each other's independence, desire to share adventures together, devotion to one another and of course a promise to love one another through all the highs and lows. Stephanie's additions were about a sense of place, about our shared hill, about the community we were coming into and which we would help shape.

When I was growing up, my family moved twice, once when I was in third grade and again after ninth grade. I never felt rooted anywhere. I never felt that I had a real home, a sense of history or continuity. I always felt like the new kid, from somewhere else. My whole life I craved home. I have always wanted to belong and have been envious of those with real roots. 

Seeing the snow geese the other day, I was reminded: this is my arctic tundra. I have chosen this place to build my home, set down my roots. So now, as I wait for the snow to melt, and I take stock of my life, I take solace in the blessings I can count. Underneath two feet of snow, there are snow drops working their way toward the sun. My friend Tei gave me the bulbs. And there are tulips and daffodils from my friend Mike; they're on their way too. I have strawberries from Sam's mom and dad's garden, and rhubarb from our friends the Stetsons. I have perennials galore from Char and Jean and neighbors here on our hill. I have a crab apple tree given to me by my friend Bernie on my mother's birthday, to plant for my mom. I have a new stone wall, holding up a new curved garden bed, built by Sam late last summer, that's just waiting for me to decide what to plant…what roots to set. And I have neighbors who appreciate when I wave.

In these seemingly interminable late winter days, it is easy to think about the lingering darkness that is both real and metaphorical. It is easy to feel sad when I think about Japan, or anxious when I think of Tik, another recent student who just spent two weeks in a Syrian prison. It is easy to feel profoundly vulnerable when I think of my current students who have, in the past week, had seizures and been diagnosed with cancer. Even as I look forward to going on our first vacation with Quinn next week, I am reminded of the panicky phone call I received from my friend Mary years ago; she was about to get on a plane and she called to ask if I would take care of her daughter Claire if anything happened to her and her husband.

I have my own panicky thoughts now. I do not want my daughter to be motherless as I am, especially as young as she is. Sam and I spent yesterday afternoon filling out our application for life insurance. But, what value do you put on a life? Who will we ask to raise our daughter? Will our daughter grow to adulthood without having seizures, without cancer? All of this is an exercise in self control.

How does one make it through life with all these hazards to navigate? Is it even possible to navigate them? Believing so is magical thinking…as much as I plan and organize and arrange all the details, there is no controlling it all, there is no controlling what hasn't happened yet.  And, when you are me and control is important, some of these late winter days of darkness and cold are really dark and really cold.

And so, you do what you taught yourself to do years ago: you interrupt yourself even though interrupting is technically not polite; you do it because you have to. You interrupt the dark thoughts by counting up your blessings. You lift yourself up above it all and you look around from the bird's eye view and you see your neighbors' houses which are actually much closer than they feel when the road is blocked by snow, and you see your gardens starting to reveal themselves, and you imagine the taste of fresh strawberries and the feel of sun on your skin, and you feel lucky to have seen the snow geese because they may have been some crazy fluke here in this valley, and you were there to see them and you can tell your neighbors about it the next time you see them because this is where you live. You have a home, a place to set down roots, and so many people who have shared a bit of their world to help you create yours. And, you have Quinn, sleeping on the bed next to you, to hand it all over to someday.

Last spring on May 4th

Enough Said

Very Much Wow

Some years ago, for some reason, I had my eleventh grade American Literature students write haikus. It was springtime and I think we were all feeling celebratory, and claustrophobic. So we wrote haikus in our classroom and then ran down the hill from one building to another. Attached to the second floor dining hall is a large porch that looks out over our small campus and the Green Mountains just beyond. It's a beautiful spot. The class gathered around in the green grass below the porch, each person finding his and her own piece of earth. One at a time, the students climbed the stairs up to that high perch, came forward to the railing and, at the top of their lungs, belted out their beautiful haikus to the sunny day, to the mountains, to the smiling faces of friends below.

Masaru, if I remember correctly, went last. As he bounded up the stairs, the class was already wild, cheering, arms in the air, unable to stand still. He stepped forward. "This is an original Japanese haiku!" he yelled proudly. His haiku, as it should've been, was delivered in Japanese. We had absolutely no idea what he was saying but…and I think I'm speaking for the whole class when I say this…we loved it. It was as if Masaru shared with us some sort of blessing directly from the Haiku Gods. It was an honor and a moment of pure springtime-poetry-friends-all-around joy.

This is Masaru, at home in Japan:

Masaru translated his poem for us in a second reading. Sadly, I don't remember what it was about, but I'll never forget that brief wonderful experience of the "Original Japanese Haiku" so graciously and proudly shared.

The next spring, Masaru graduated. In his graduation speech, he said, "…and Kerry's class was very much wow!" He might have meant anything: wow, what a waste of time, or wow, that was boring! I don't really know, but I've always taken it as a compliment because, well, compliments are nice. And I still think of that phrase whenever I think of Masaru.

And very much wow is just about all I can think of now each day when I see the latest news from Japan.  I am thinking of Masaru all the time, and I know he's one of the lucky ones; his home is not near the coast and he's sent word to us at school through one of his old classmates:

"We are ok and our all families are ok. Thank you man. Still there are

earthquake coming constantly...But I know that we will be ok.

Cuz I know how to survive from those crazy earthquake."

His message was a huge relief in our community. But we've had other Japanese students as well. And our students are obviously just the beginning of what I am thinking about. A few days later, Masaru posted this on his Facebook page:

"need to save the energy sources. like gas, electricity, food, drinkable water

...
but never be enough to save all the life..."

Concentric circles ripple out from this great disaster, over all of Japan and, of course, beyond.

Another email came through to Sam from another alumnus who was passing on a message from a woman in Mississippi. Sam coordinates a senior class service project each year. For a few years, they went to Mississippi and New Orleans to help clean up and rebuild after Hurricane Katrina. Some of the kids have remained in touch with some of the people they worked with down there…

"I'm the lady whose home you dear people readied for rebuilding after Katrina.

I haven't been able to get my mind off Masaru. Did he return to Japan or is he

still in the US? I'm hoping you can tell me if he and his family are safe.

ALL of you will be forever in my heart and prayers."

When I start thinking about the devastation, I get overwhelmed, as so many people obviously do.

I heard a news clip on NPR: a reporter walking around in the rubble spotted a woman sorting recyclables out of the trash. "Was your home damaged in the tsunami?" he asked. "My home was washed away," she said, through a translator. And so, she sorted recyclables out of the mountains of "trash" that was once the stuff of people's lives.

I try to imagine myself in such a position and I can't. I can't imagine having any ability whatsoever to pick myself up and keep going. I used to take pride in the fact that I made it through my mother's death without being institutionalized or becoming a drug addict—as if that was some test of my strength. When I think about the magnitude of other people's losses and hardships, I laugh at myself. It is incomprehensible to imagine having your whole world shaken…and then washed away…and then being left standing in the rubble trying to find your loved ones, wondering how much invisible radiation is raining down on you.

I keep looking at the images coming out of Japan. Rescue workers standing over bodies, their palms pressed together in prayer. Boats perched on top of buildings. Raging fires. Mountains of debris. Adults sobbing. Children's faces covered by masks, except their wide vacant eyes. I watched a six minute long video of the tsunami overtaking a town…at first, a trickle of water rushing up the center of the street…by the end of the video, only six minutes later, everything under water, cars and buildings rushing by. The videographer clearly moving uphill as the time passed. In the final seconds the camera zooms across the raging river to a small group of people huddled together on top of a building, in the middle of other buildings which one by one disappear around them. It just goes blank…the video ends on the screen and yet it inevitably continues to play in your mind.

It is so far away. I take solace somehow in the incomprehensibility of it all. I don't live on a fault line. I don't live near the sea. It couldn't happen here. I count my blessings. I focus on what I can handle. Denial is a family trait.

Then I see this:

...and it all comes crashing in around me again: the sadness, the ache of empathy, my friend Masaru, the vulnerability of us all…the magic and beauty of our short sweet lives.

About a month ago, Sam and I had a date in our kitchen. Quinn was asleep in her crib. We opened a bottle of wine, had a fire in the stove, soft light in our dining room. We were too tired for a movie, or books and for those reasons I tolerated the laptops being open and on (I resist their presence in our home life most of the time). We shared news from friends, looked at things we had each discovered during the week. Sam played me this video that he found:

We were mesmerized by it…the music, the serenity of the landscape, the fluid grace of the skiers, the focus and artistry of the Japanese subject. At school yesterday, I played this video again, in my office, and I started to cry. 

I feel an obligation to look at the hard things, as if my empathy only has potential to reach the people it is intended for if I remain focused, in the way that they must be focused, on their present crisis. And yet, what I hope for them is relief, peace, comfort, a return to beauty and joy…a fast forward out of their present crisis which is really, if we think about it, our present crisis. Our shared, human, present crisis. 

Though for us, from this distance, it is only really shared conceptually. 

Chopped Liver

(or, Patriarchy Sucks*)

One of my greatest character flaws is that I need positive reinforcement; I want people to like me. I'd love to be one of those people who confidently marches through life, satisfied entirely by some internal force…no one else's approval necessary, and in fact able to shed disapproval like raindrops off of gortex. I don't actually know any of those people, but I know that most people in my life are much more gortex than I am. I am 100% cotton; I absorb absolutely everything and in bad weather, I am not very warm.

Quinn can't talk yet so I really have no idea how she feels about me. But, sometimes I get hints—like the other day when I went to pick her up from her babysitter. I practically ran from my car to the front door because I was so friggin' excited to see her. Maury (the babysitter) carried Quinn to me so I wouldn't have to take my boots off. And, as she handed her over, Quinn started to cry. She actually leaned away from me and reached for Maury. I made a joke, of course, in hopes that I wouldn't start to cry too. Maury was kind enough to insist it wasn't as it appeared, my baby preferring her over me, but we both knew it was.

Quinn responds in this preferential way to Sam too. I'll be busily taking care of some need she has—in the middle of the night or at the end of a long day at school—feeding her, bathing her, or changing a diaper, and she'll be all business, like I'm the hired help. But, as soon as Sam walks into the room, her whole face lights up. She smiles and her eyes get bright with joy.

I get basically nothing in the way of positive reinforcement. I have to do all kinds of stupid antics to even get a smile out of her. There is no "Thank you, Mom, for growing me inside your own body for nine months, and for sustaining my life for the past six with what you've produced from your own…thank you for knowing instinctively when I'm on my face and need you to flip me back over, or knowing that I'm crying because I'm cold, or wet, or my toes are being jammed into these pajamas that are too small." And, you know, I don't even really need any of that…at least not yet…but a voluntary smile would be nice now and then. Or at least she might consider not crying when I show up to bring her home.

But she loves Sam...without the antics and despite the fact that I think I am usually more tuned in to her needs than he is. Sam  will walk over to me, with Quinn in his arms, and ask, "should I change her?" This stuns me. "Sniff her butt," I'll say, and that's me being polite, because what I'm really thinking is, "How the flock do I know? You're the one holding her!" And as he walks away, I'll be thinking, "What a moron."

So, okay, I'll admit, maybe the lack of positive reinforcement from Quinn is the price I pay for being overly critical and needy. Maybe she is trying to scold me for being so mean; I am convinced she knows things, that she has fully developed adult thoughts in that little noggin of hers. Maybe that's why she will only smile at Sam. Maybe she's trying to say, "Stop being such a bitch, Mom; he's trying."

That would be fine if there was some way for me to get my tank filled up now and then…some way she could show me that I’m doing something right, or that in the broader world I could get some credit for all this work. In the absence of these things, I cling to mostly irrelevant data, like how much she weighs. I rejoiced proudly at the doctor's office this week when we were told that Quinn had moved from the 13th percentile in weight to the 18th (like it even matters). She now weighs 14 lbs 6 oz, thanks largely to my breastfeeding efforts because she's not taking to the formula quite as I hoped she would, and she'd rather spray the kitchen with the butternut squash I grew for her than eat it. (It pains me still to recall those hot summer days, faithfully bending over my gargantuan belly to pull weeds from the squash bed). She also enjoys spitting the homemade applesauce in my face, more than she enjoys swallowing it. But, she's growing! And as the doctor measured the circumference of her head, she said with a congratulatory smile, "Wow, Sam, she really is your Mini-Me." Would someone please take this invisibility cloak off of me!?!

If it sounds like I'm calling Whine-1-1, well, I suppose I am. Because Quinn doesn't look anything like me. And she doesn't have my name. Even though I'm doing all this work, she's a Jackson, and she looks like one too. And furthermore, she worships her father and treats me like the lunch lady...well, maybe worse than that because at my school, just about everyone thanks the lunch lady (and the lunch man) after every meal.

What gets me too is that I think back to my own childhood and see similarities...not in the distribution of genes necessarily (I am a near look alike to my mother), but in the distribution of adoration. I'm tempted to somehow blame my dad for this weakness of character that makes me crave people's approval; I grew up craving his and, like Quinn, he didn't give it up easily. Here's the ridiculous part: I still seek his approval, even though I'm 39 and no longer need to earn an allowance or get his permission.

I grew up believing I would marry my dad when I got older…I was little, so this seemed normal. I worshipped him. He was funny—always the guy who could put people at ease, make people laugh. He made silly faces. And he made quiet jokes in church that made my sister and me laugh out loud. Our mother would give us the look—the cut it out! behave yourselves! look—and my dad would frown in mock agreement, and that would make us laugh even more. I never had any idea what was happening in church, but I knew my dad's every move. Everything my dad did was funny, and cool. And I always preferred to be doing the things he did than those my mom did. I wanted to mow the lawn. I wanted to stack firewood. I wanted to build stuff in his workshop with him, and use his power tools.

My dad traveled a lot for work when I was young, and I missed him, a lot. On a couple of occasions, to make up for his frequent absences, we had Kerry Days and Amy Days. I don't know if this was his idea or my mom's, but I can tell you, these days were seriously awesome and he got full credit! From morning until evening, he was all mine. I have vague memories of going out to breakfast at Perkins, of walking around the mall, of him buying me some Snoopy stuff, and even of having dinner out (probably pizza) at the far end of those long, indulgent days. But, even better is the fact that in the midst of these vague memories, I have very vivid memories of my dad taking me roller skating…at the roller rink…with disco lights and a bunch of kids my age in corduroys and rainbow stripped leg warmers. Well, maybe I was the only one in leg warmers; that's possible. The important thing is that my dad was there with me. And he roller-skated too.

What I've never stopped to think about before is the possibility that my mom might have influenced the idea for Kerry Day. Even if she didn't, she facilitated it by entertaining my sister on those days, and taking care of everything that needed to be done at home. I never thought about those things...those many, many things. When I think back to my youth, I think of missing my dad when he was away, and of following him around when he was home. I think about sitting in the family room with him on fall Sundays to watch football, not because I liked watching football, because I didn't, but just because I liked being with him. 

Don't get me wrong, I loved my mom. Especially when I was a teenager and I needed her to help me process things. She really was my best friend and best role model. But, I didn't really appreciate the amount of work she did. The amount of behind-the-scenes, keeping-things-running work. I remember that she was always in a bad mood on the day that she spread the bills out on the kitchen table with her calculator and the checkbook; she hated paying the bills, but she did it. Our pantry was always full, clothes were always clean, and we had a hot family dinner every single night…and I could get all Energizer Bunny on you right now and keep going and going and going...but I'll just try to get to the point:

My mom gave her love freely, constantly, and tirelessly, and yet I craved the attention of my dad. I'm glad she at least lived long enough to know I eventually appreciated her in the full way that I should have all along. But I wonder what sustained her all those years when I thought her presence was a given and her efforts were invisible. 

Maybe she took some solace in what was visible.

FYI: This week marked the 100th Anniversary of International Women's Day. If your mom is still within earshot...give her a call and tell her she is awesome...especially if you look just like your dad. 

*Full Disclosure: Sam was willing to give Quinn my last name. I agreed to Jackson. (It must've been the hormones).

The Pussy Posse

One day, when I was complaining about a man I know who was being a bit vulnerable, possibly even a bit dramatic, my friend Mollie cut me short: "Women have pussies. Men just act like them." Mollie doesn't mix words; she's one of my Scorpio friends. And, though her theory doesn't always hold true, it did on that particular day.

Do you know that after a woman pushes another human being out through a very small opening in her own flesh, the people at the hospital tell her to "take a couple of Tylenol" for the pain? 

Tylenol. And I bet many women don't even bother.

That's what I need to talk about now that I've talked about Crazy Town: I need to talk about women. Or, as my friend Cathy would say, The Pussy Posse. Because, even though I love Sam, and even though he works really hard to be supportive, without the women in my life, I'd still be sitting in the trunk.

I am very lucky to have a wonderful and diverse posse. Some of the women in my life have been hanging around for a long time. Others are relatively new. A bunch showed up somewhere in between, but of course, that part is irrelevant; I am deeply grateful for all of them.

Girlfriends are the people who sit around in a church basement after your mother's funeral and manage to make you laugh. They call you up again and again and invite you to do things even when they know you're trying to sleep a year or two of your life away. Girlfriends bake your wedding cake for you, even though you were too young and too naïve to find a way to even get to their wedding. They come to your parties early, dressed up like they've been invited to some very posh affair, and equipped with incredible food they've prepared just for your event. Girlfriends each bring their own bottle of wine (or ginger beer), and they settle in, undistracted, for as long as the fire's going and as long as your husband is away.

Girlfriends laugh at you when you take yourself too seriously, they call your bluff when you're trying to cover something up, and they tell you to stop acting like an idiot when you are acting like an idiot. And if you're not the idiot, they are happy to join you in lambasting the person who is. Girlfriends walk past the screen door, hanging from just one hinge, and say, "We can fix that," and then they come in for a cup of tea. And they keep coming for tea even though you seem to be developing a habit of trying to demolish your front door.

Anyone who is lucky enough to have a good girlfriend, or two, or twelve, knows what I’m talking about. True friends rank as one of the very best aspects of being alive. As my friend Char says, "friends are the family we choose." And, when you find yourself pregnant, after trying to get pregnant, but horrified by the prospect of being pregnant nonetheless, you need these women friends…you need all the women you can get your mitts on.

You expect your sister to be there for you because she can't really escape you, right? And you expect all those crazy friends who had kids back in their prime to be there for you because frankly they've been trying to get you to join their club for years! Here's the part that surprised me: just about every woman you know, close friend or casual acquaintance, baby-lover or not…women all over the place come to your aid.

I didn't anticipate this. I thought I would be going through it essentially alone, missing my mother and paying for my own past failures to support and celebrate my pregnant friends. But, I was wrong; I had more support than I knew what to do with. One day I was visiting my dad and I sat crying at the kitchen table because I was more than halfway through my pregnancy and my baby-to-be still didn't have a single thing to wear. On cue, my dad's wife Louise produced a gift bag with a bunch of soft little nightgowns. From there, it was as if every woman in the universe heard my plea and the supplies started rolling in. First, it was boxes and boxes of hand-me-downs from friends in Colorado and Connecticut and Maine. Then our basement filled up with swings and seats and play stuff from a friend who, best of all, would need it all back when we were done! 

One night in July, my non-mom friends came to pick me up for a summer girls' night. It was Cathy's birthday that night, but still, they piled out of two cars in my driveway with armloads full of little frilly dresses, fuzzy blankets, hand painted onesies and, for me, wine and a gift card for a future dinner out. These friends, with beautiful bodies that have never been stretched, forced me to snap out of my self-consciousness and embrace my own bulge.

And my already-mom friends, the same friends I ran around Burlington with doing all kinds of things that I imagine laughing about someday, when our kids (all but one of whom are girls) are grown enough to sit around and tell those tales to...

…well, those friends bought me all the gifts I didn't want but they knew I would eventually need. And I did need them.

And when I really just needed my mom, my friends even shared their moms. Carol, who bought some of Quinn's most adorable outfits and accessories, called me from North Carolina after Quinn was born and kept me company on the phone for a very long time while I struggled through the early days of nursing. And Wendy, who filled Quinn's room with more wonderful stuff, including her first pair of cowboy boots, has also continued to fill my inbox with just the kind of encouragement my own mom would provide if she were here…even though Wendy has, at the same time, been watching her own mother struggle through the ailments of her old age.

Then there were the neighbors, who sent sleds and beautiful silver bowls and more outfits…the same neighbors whose husbands have had to come out in the wintery dark to pull me out of ditches. And there are the friends from school, and the parents of students from school...who knitted hats and sweaters, and sent books, and little gardening tools, and fuzzy unicorns.

I can't even catalog all the stuff, and all the kind gestures…it would take way too long. Suffice it to say, Quinn is six months old now and I am still writing thank you notes.

My point is this: women are extraordinary, whether they are sisters or friends or acquaintances…they have a sixth sense that detects what other people need. And they provide for one another. They help each other get ready for the big events, and then they help each other recover after the big events. They take your calls and give you the information you need. And, after you confess your insanity to the world, lots and lots of them take the time to write you an email and tell you about the times they went to Crazy Town too.

I can't even really express how humbled I am by them, and how grateful I am for them. And I keep thinking about how I might have been a better girlfriend myself if my mom had been around to coach me in my twenties, and so, as Quinn naps next to me on the bed—our new weekend ritual: she sleeps and I write—I'm trying to figure out how to be sure Quinn gets this coaching, whether I'm here to provide it myself or not. 

So that's what this entry is about: it's about jotting some things down for Quinn to read someday when she is older, and it's about saying thank you…Thank you for the stuff, and the support, and the empathy, and the encouragement and all that magical estrogen. Thank you for being in my posse. A million times and for the rest of time: thank you.