Multiple Choice

When you have a tendency to leave your wallet on the roof of your car, you should not: a) carry your Social Security card around in it, b) carry a lot of cash around in it, or c) buy one that is the color of roadside weeds. You should definitely not do: d) all of the above.

Friday was our first day back to school…the hard-to-believe, but inevitable, end of summer. It was a good start to the year: some good vibes, some good plans, and already some interesting moments to reflect on as I beat back the weeds on the three-mile stretch of road that I walked for hours that night before dusk searching for my lost, weed-colored wallet.

My sister and brother-in-law are visiting, here to take care of Quinn while Sam and I are busy at school in these first days. Friday, after our meetings, I took them over to Waterbury to do some touristy stuff: buy some cider donuts at the mill, stop in at the Ben & Jerry's factory for a tour and an ice cream.  It was a nice idea. Unfortunately, my head was in a variety of places other than those places, and I left my wallet on the roof of my car (again) when I drove from one to the other.

As soon as we pulled into Ben & Jerry's, three miles down the road, I realized what I had done. We peeled out and headed back, scanning the new pavement as we went. I felt certain we'd see it…it had only been a few minutes. But then we didn't see it. We drove the loop again. Still nothing. That's when I started to do an inventory: new license, new Social Security card, credit cards, the cash from the returned weed wacker meant to pay the credit card, my Healthy Mama discount card for the local market, my health insurance card, Quinn's health insurance card…I started to feel sick.

We checked in at the cider mill and the gas station across the street. I looked in the garbage cans (last time I lost my wallet, ironically on another ice cream mission, it was dropped into the mailbox outside the Post Office, without my cash or my ipod, but with everything else). Quinn was growing increasingly irritable (screaming), and it was approaching everyone's dinnertime, but I couldn't leave knowing that it must be right here! I sent Amy and Scott home with Quinn and started walking the road, back and forth on the first mile or so where I would have picked up speed and the wallet would have blown off. They said they'd get Quinn taken care of and send Sam back to pick me up.

I found a tomato stake on the side of the road and used it to poke around. My confidence waned as I realized I would see brightly colored objects only if I was looking right at them. The weeds were dense and my wallet would have blended right in. I walked back and forth as cars with Vermont plates sped by, presumably headed home at the end of the work-week, and cars with out-of-state plates sped by headed to or from some sort of local fun. I called the house about ten times, but Sam was outside and I hung up on our answering machine over and over again. I kept walking, and looking, and beating back weeds.

I had a few hours like this to think. I thought about the school year ahead. I thought about karma. I thought about good (maybe someone will return it) and I thought about evil (maybe someone will steal it). As the sun started to go down, and cars continued to speed by, and I realized it was the third night in a row that I wouldn't get to put Quinn to bed, my thoughts gravitated more and more toward evil.

Sam eventually showed up in the truck with his bike in the back. He rode beyond where I had turned around on foot. We both looked for another hour. Eventually, I gave up, got in the truck and drove down the road to pick him up. He got in and said, "let's drive it one more time." I was skeptical, but I agreed. I drove while he looked out his window along the side of the road. I drove slowly, close to the edge. Periodically, I pulled over and let cars pass by. At one point, I pulled into a small parking lot and the truck I was trying to let pass pulled in behind me. I parked. The other guy parked. Then he got out and came to my window.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I explained what I was doing. He seemed relieved, because I wasn't drunk, and empathetic--he told me he had lost his gas cap that very morning. "I'll give you my gas cap if you can get me my wallet back," I offered...I didn't feel better, but he meant well.

"I just wanted to be sure you were okay. I've seen some other cars swerving already tonight. I was just going to offer to drive you home…it'd be a lot cheaper!" (Cheaper than the DUI, I imagine). "I don't want to see anyone get hurt."

I thanked him and he wished me luck. It was too dark to see anything by then; it was already eight o'clock. We picked up a pizza on the way home and returned, defeated, to a quiet house. The four of us ate, and Sam and Amy and Scott all tried to cheer me up. I can't believe I did this again! I thought, and said, over and over. I feel so scattered, so distracted…my anxiety from the end of the last school year flaring up, like an infection that the antibiotics didn't quite kill…too much to do, too much to worry about, not enough energy or time in the day. It's transition time again and I'm not good in transition. The lost wallet, the lost money, the new identity, lost already…all of these symbolic of one fear: Will I be able to handle it?

By ten o'clock, I was headed to bed, still feeling down. Sam said we'd go back in the morning to walk some more. Amy and Scott were determined to help. When I got to our room, I saw the answering machine blinking with all of my hung-up calls. I hit play to delete them one by one.

"Hi Sam, it's me…"

Click.

Click.

Click.

Then this: "Hi Kerry, I hope I have the right person…Kerry Jackson or Kerry Litchfield…I found your wallet. I have your wallet, your driver's license, your Social Security card, your credit cards…My name is April, call me back, I'm going to be here all weekend. So, I do have your wallet. I repeat: I have your wallet…Alright, bye-bye."

All the evil fell away.

I thought back to a show I listened to on VPR this week, talking about the rise of violent crime nationwide and even here in Vermont. Those on the show were talking about what social and economic factors might cause such increases. One person talked about his theory that when people in communities stop being able to relate to one another, and stop having opportunities to interact with one another in person, things start to fall apart. He talked about the importance of raising children in such a way that they do interact with their neighbors, and they do have opportunities to gather and play and work with others in the community. I thought about how I hope to raise Quinn. I thought about wanting to be the kind of teacher who can motivate kids to look up and see beyond the screens of their laptops, see into the eyes of other human beings…it's not easy, but it's obviously important.

This morning Sam drove me over to Waterbury to meet April. We picked up a maple sticky bun from the bakery on the way…it wasn't much, but I wanted to have something to offer. She met us in the driveway and told me, "I was driving home and I saw your wallet in the middle of the street. I thought, 'I'm going to pick that up for that person!' Now, I had to look in it to figure out how to find you." She was confessing, but it wasn't necessary; I was so grateful. Then she scolded me for carrying my Social Security card around: "That is so dangerous!" I tried to explain: I'm in the process of changing my name, I had a baby, I need it to change all my paperwork…I thanked her, tried to offer her some money (for breakfast out? a bottle of wine?), but she shut me down immediately, "Oh no! Your gratitude is more than enough," and then, she hugged me…she hugged me…and she thanked me for "the sweets" as she waved over her shoulder and headed back inside.

Times are tough. It would have been so easy for her…$140 in cash, no one would have known…I wouldn't have ever known. But, she didn't take it. And when she didn't find Kerry Jackson listed in information, she kept trying, and she found me.

I didn't get the name of the man who stopped and offered to drive me home if I needed a ride. And I didn't really get to express how much I appreciated April's efforts to reunite me with my evolving identity. But I did get to renew my appreciation (yet again) for this incredible place where I live. I got to renew my faith in people's ability to care for other people. And I got a good refresher, as this new school year begins, about how to contribute to the preservation of community: Notice other people. Spend a few minutes. Offer help. Be kind.

Life often seems so complicated, and it seems like there are so many hard choices to make, but when you really think about it, the right choices are pretty straightforward. I'm so grateful for the many people who have the strength of character to make them. 

Grand Cru

Yesterday, while I pulled weeds in my northside garden, I had this random thought: "If I were to croak right now, it would be okay. I've had a good life." As soon as I thought it, I wondered at its origins.

I can't entirely explain where it came from. I'm definitely not planning to croak any time soon. And usually when I think about croaking, I feel a bit panicky. But not yesterday. Yesterday I felt sort of fine about it all. I've traveled a lot, I have loved and been loved, I've done physical and intellectual things I'm proud of, and I have a job that I feel good about. I have a head full of happy memories. Already, at 39, I've had a very good life. And I feel lucky and grateful.

I suppose that's where the thought came from: a place of gratitude.

Sam cut firewood all day while Boone supervised. Quinn and I went for a hike with Moses. We visited with the neighbors on our way back up the hill. I found and ate ripe blackberries. Quinn napped and I worked in the garden—two things that never seem to happen often enough. At the end of the day, we all drove over to our friend Corey's to go for a swim. I forgot Quinn's bathing suit, with its built-in diaper, and I forgot dry diapers too. But, we made the best of it: she went skinny dipping for the first time*, and then Sam fashioned a "diaper" out of a blanket to hold her over while we all had tea.

We returned home in time to get Quinn some dinner (Annie's mac & cheese, scrambled eggs with cheddar, pureed mango) and get her to bed. She went down without a peep. It was a satisfying day.


Sam cooked us some pasta and I closed windows against the cooling air. Autumn already feels close by. As we got ready to eat, we wondered what to drink with dinner. We had a bottle of white wine in the fridge, but it was a red wine kind of evening. All we had in the rack were three bottles of Bordeaux I have been saving for years.

The 2000 vintage of Bordeaux was, according to many critics, one of the best Bordeaux offerings ever. Wine guru, Robert Parker, in The Wine Advocate, called it "a monumental vintage," and said it was "undoubtedly the greatest year Bordeaux has ever experienced." The best ever...My father and I used to share an amateur interest in wine and, over a few Christmases, he bought me three bottles of this promising vintage. I have been carrying the bottles around for years, never convinced that a special occasion was special enough to merit opening one, and never sure when the official "right time" was.

Last night suddenly seemed like a good night. I told Sam about my "it's been a good life" realization and I used that to justify opening the bottle. I also told myself the wines had probably been ruined by improper storing over the years, so why wait? And, I remembered my pledge to buy an expensive wine to celebrate my mom's recent birthday, which I had yet to do. These were good steps toward uncorking the bottle, but once I peeled the foil off the neck, I started to get Catholic about it (I have somehow inherited my family's sense of guilt, despite not actually being Catholic myself). I started to feel like I was making a mistake…what if it was too soon? Am I going to regret this? I ruminated silently, trying not to ruin it for Sam too.

But suddenly, it came to me: this week marks the 10^th anniversary of the year Sam and I first met. It was a fortuitous meeting and it's been an incredible ten years…with most of that incredible actually being the good kind. So that was the occasion I needed to make myself feel good about the decision. Problem solved.

I don't usually make decisions in this way: commit first, justify later. But maybe I should more often…the wine was exceptional: complex and yet still balanced. We tried to pick out individual flavor components. We came up with black currant and bacon, with bacon being the catch-all for indefinable smoky goodness. The fruit was held in check by tannins, a dryness like all of your teeth had been dried off with a towel after each sip...a strangely pleasing experience.

Before bed, I got online to see when the experts recommend opening the 2000 Bordeaux. To my joyful surprise, our timing was just fine. Most sources say any time from ten years on is when things are at their best. I couldn't agree more... 


Happy ten years Handsome Guy in the back row with the sexy voice. Thank you for not having a girlfriend when I found a way to ask if you did. Thank you for being just a bit older than me, since I had sworn off dating younger men. Thank you for using the word "predilection" in a sentence when you asked me out to dinner that first time. Thank you for the best first date ever: rock climbing, swimming hole, art gallery, dinner at The Starry Night Cafe...and the best kiss of my life. Thank you for being the guy in our Wilderness First Responder course to lead the night rescue; I'll never forget looking up at you, standing on that rock, calming everyone by giving clear guidance and genuine encouragement. Your ability to do these things holds us together even still...Thank you for all of these first memories and for your countless other contributions, since then, to my very good life.






*Wendy & Richard, don't worry, we had a long talk with Quinn about what not to do in the pool while skinny dipping! Thank you for sharing it with us this summer.

A Million Diamonds

Yoga is not supposed to be competitive; that's what they tell you. But, it seems to me you are a pretty exceptional person if you are not at all fazed by how you look in the mirror compared to that 5'11" twenty-something who weighs about 102 lbs and insists on bending sideways like a rubber band into your personal space, looking so serene. Or, maybe you are that twenty-something and you don't need to compete, because you are, in fact, a yoga goddess (and someone who perhaps has never given birth and who doesn't have forty breathing down her neck).

I left my first summer yoga class in tears. I was so disheartened by how far back up I have to climb to regain my former flexibility, my former strength, and my former balance. But, in the weeks since, I've kept at it, trying my best not to look at the other people in the room. (If only it weren't for that damned mirror!)

Balancing poses are, right now, my biggest challenge. I don't know what's happened; I used to be pretty steady, but everything is unsteady these days.  The irony is that I feel more centered emotionally than ever. My purpose, at least for right now, is focused and clear: diapers, tiny little finger foods, guarding the stairs, electrical chords and all things that topple, and naps. But my body, and even my mind are a bit, well, clumsy. I forget things. I can't concentrate. I fall over.

I'm especially prone to falling over when I look at someone else who is not falling over, someone who is rock solid, anchored through one leg, stretching through the crown of the head, hands in prayer position in front of the heart's center…When I leave my own thoughts, stop trusting myself, compare myself to others, that's when I fall.

My instructor on a recent Friday was Patty who seems to emit kindness like sonic rays. She smiles all the time. When I walked into the building, she said hello and asked me, "how is your practice going?" How is my practice, I wondered, as I put my things on a shelf, and I kept wondering as I laid out my mat. How is my practice? Am I practicing?

About twenty minutes into the sequence, we were into the balancing postures: awkward pose (aptly named), standing bow, balancing stick, tree pose. I was wobbly. Patty glided quietly around the sweaty bodies, guiding the sequence, offering tips for adjustments. "When you feel yourself falling over, Kerry," she said, "lift your chin up, just a little bit. That will help you regain your balance."

Lift your chin up. Just a little bit.

Patty was right. I lifted my chin and, when I did, my eyes met their own gaze. The gumby girl next to me vaporized and I became steady. I focused on what I needed to do.

It wasn't perfect, by any means, and I struggle on my right leg more than my left. My body is different than it used to be, but everything is different than it used to be—my whole universe. When I inhale oxygen into my lungs these days, I notice a greater capacity to breathe. So, imperfect is okay…the effort and the ease.

When the series ended, and we laid on our mats for the final resting pose, Patty didn't say "Namaste," as yoga instructors are wont to do. She said, "Rest well," and then she rested with us. Rest well, I thought. It too is part of the practice. Resting, as well as working, is something we must aim to do well. Again, I was reminded of my husband: every night when we go to sleep, the last thing Sam says to me—for as long as we've been sleeping side by side—is "sleep well." How does he know about these things? (My friend Wade once described Sam as The Buddha…primarily for his patient capacity to put up with me, but maybe Wade was on to something?)

At the end of class people were milling around waiting for the shower. Patty was talking about her hip replacement from last winter, and how her own yoga practice is helping. "If you focus on the healing, the obsession strips away." Another sentence left to reverberate in my mind: focus on the healing, the obsession strips away.

I have healing to do too: to reclaim my body for myself, to accept myself in this new role as someone's mom, to stop obsessing about what I am not, and be glad and grateful for what I am...to keep expanding beyond my former limitations. Lift up your chin. Just a little bit.

I stood behind the far curtain letting the air dry my skin for just a moment. It was 95 degrees outside; the sun was shining and there was a soft breeze through the low open window. I looked out and was surprised by what looked like a million diamonds twinkling up at me from the illuminated river below. Gratitude washed over me as I filled my lungs. Yoga tears again, but different this time…I am practicing.

Rest well.

(Thank you, Patty.)

Short and Sweet: A Life

Cleaning out and reorganizing old files today, I found something my mom sent to me in 1992, the year before she died, which was my junior year in college. It's a book called Life's Little Instruction Book, written by H. Jackson Brown, Jr. and published by Rutledge Hill Press. Inside the front cover, she had written this:

To Kerry,

A Summary of "Life with Mom

over the last 20 years."

Love,

Mum

xoxoxxx

P.S. Now you never need to feel very far from home!

It would have been just like my mom to read the whole book herself before sending it, just to be sure she actually agreed with the various words of wisdom she was advocating. Actually, I don't know if it was just like my mom, but I think it was, probably because that is something I would do. My mother, like me, had strong opinions; she circled the entries she really liked and put an X through those she didn't.

It's been years since I last reorganized files and would have last seen this little book. It was a long time before I was married, living in my little house, hanging out with my little babe. So, reading through the highlighted entries now is appealing in a whole new way. It's especially nice to realize that we agree on so many things. 

These are the entries she crossed off in disagreement:

68. Be brave. Even if you're not, pretend to be. No one can tell the difference.

117. Install dead bolt locks on outside doors.

118. Don't buy expensive wine, luggage, or watches.

148. Learn to handle a pistol and rifle safely.

302. Lock your car even if it's parked in your own driveway.

And these are the entries she circled for emphasis:

83. In business and in family relationships, remember that the most important thing is trust.

87. Even if you're financially well-to-do, have your children earn and pay part of their college tuition.

93. Choose your life's mate carefully. From this one decision will come ninety percent of all your happiness or misery.

175. Give people a second chance, but not a third.

297. Remember that a successful marriage depends on two things: (1) finding the right person and (2) being the right person.

383. Understand that happiness is not based on possessions, power, or prestige, but on relationships with people you love and respect.

421. Take care of your reputation. It's your most valuable asset.

This last one, the last one in the book, she circled with a heart.

511. Call your mother.

My mom died the day before her birthday at the end of July in 1993. This year she would have been 65 years old. If she were home right now, I would call her up and tell her I just found that little book again. I would tell her how much I appreciate the sentiments of Number 297 because this year I have been thinking a lot about how to hold things together. I would talk with her about how fairy tales can really mess you up…I mean, Prince Charming, really, it's that easy? So much of the emphasis in this mating game is put on finding the right mate, finding The One. Where is the fairy tale that instructs us on how to be the right mate? And please, do not talk to me about Cinderella. The part about the Fairy Godmother I can believe, but sitting around sulking and feeling sorry for herself? Well, let's just say that's never worked for me. 


Though it might work for Quinn because she is just so freakin' cute!

And that brings me to Number 511. If I had my mom on the phone, I'd tell her that I'm writing these essays to give to Quinn someday, in case I don't make it to 65 either and she finds herself looking for a way to "call her mother." If I could talk with my mom today, I would thank her for always being the kind of mom I could call…well, except that one time when she thought I wasn't working hard enough on Number 421…but that's a story I probably won't write for Quinn. 

This year, to commemorate my mom's birthday, I'll do what I've been doing for the past three years since I've had my own gardens: I'll buy a plant she would have liked and I'll plant it for her. And, this year, in honor of her sometimes rebellious and always joyful spirit, I'll break rule Number 118 on her behalf. Here's to you Mum! xoxoxxx

Crazy As A Loon

Find the balance between the effort and the ease…

That was the mantra of my yoga class the other day—the first one I've been able to make it to since December. The idea has been with me since, one of those stop-you-in-your-tracks insights that is really so obvious. Balance; of course. We talk about it all the time—finding balance between work and play, companionship and solitude, restraint and indulgence. But right now, the effort and the ease seems to encompass all of those things.

I almost didn't make it to that class…again. I had the schedule, made sure I had the drop-in fee in my wallet, checked with Sam to be sure he could be with Quinn. It seemed like a sure thing until, the night before, I got a black fly bite on the corner of my eye. The whole thing swelled up…my eyelid looked like a fat slug and I couldn't see out of that side of my face. Fortunately it was the eye that is easily hidden by my bangs, but still it was so awkward and uncomfortable. My friend Erin made a comment about Quasimodo, but I'm sure she wasn't talking about me…

Anyway, I did manage to go. And, having craved the exercise and the little bit of time to myself for so many months, I cherished every single sweaty, muscle straining Bikram moment…even those uniquely yoga-class moments before the class begins when everyone sits on his and her mat picking at toenails, adjusting headbands, and trying to stretch before the stretch. It is a place and time void of the self-consciousness of everyday life…at least it is here in Montpeculiar, VT. No one noticed Quasimodo trying to tuck her spare tire into the waistband of her yoga pants.

And thank god, because I needed that class. I needed to be reminded about finding the balance between the effort and the ease. I don't have any trouble with the effort. I can over think, over plan, over pack, and over analyze better than most people I know. I'm good at working—I've had to be. I had a painful relationship with math as a kid, couldn't write a paper until my senior year in high school, and always found myself completely disoriented in any sport that involved doing anything other than moving quickly in a straight line. Swimming was ideal: I was contained in a lane and, if I lost track of what I was doing, I crashed into the wall. Field sports? No idea. Just ask the women I played soccer with in my early thirties. When nothing comes naturally, you have to work hard. Anything I do, I do.

The ease, well, that's a totally different thing. All year I looked forward to this summer, anticipating the ease. The school year was hard. I have always found myself emotionally and physically drained at the end of  school, but this year was exceptional. With Quinn in the game, there was NO free time. Quinn was with her babysitter only when Sam and I were both in class; otherwise, she was with one of us. We were always juggling, handing her off in the parking lot between appointments or study halls, bringing her to meetings and hoping she wouldn't melt down, rushing to get her home, etc, etc. It was all we could do to get through the year, and we counted on this summer as a time to regroup, reorganize and recharge. So, in characteristic form, I've been trying to hurry up and relax. Ready? Relax! Shoot, it didn't work. Try again: Relax!

You get the idea.

Last week I planned a camping trip for us—Quinn's first. I reserved a favorite campsite at a favorite lake. You have to paddle to get to each site. And, my favorite site is one of the ones farthest away from the put in—quiet, secluded, beautiful. I arranged for a dogsitter, packed all kinds of gear, bought all kinds of food, and even bought Quinn a life jacket for the time in the canoe. Sam was a bit skeptical that it would actually be relaxing and that was, to me, very frustrating. Have faith man, my god! I've planned it. It's organized. It's scheduled. Therefore…it will be brilliant, and relaxing.

It wasn't, of course. It was a bit of a disaster. I was determined to do everything right with Quinn, to get what I hope will be a long and rewarding outdoor life started on the right foot (or butt cheek, in her case). When we had the canoe fully loaded and were ready to start the 30 minute paddle to our site, I put on her sunhat (which she hates), put on her sunblock (which she hates), put on her life jacket (which she really hates), and I put her down in the bottom of the canoe (which I now know she hates). She started screaming right away. And she never stopped, the whole time we were paddling. On a normal day on this lake, all you ever hear are the other-wordly loons, with their bold black and white feathers, their mysterious ways, and those calls…those rich, sonorous, mesmerizing calls.

Quinn's calls were not mesmerizing; they were more of the stand your hair on end type. We just kept paddling and waving reassurances to the other boaters who looked over in horror at our heavily loaded canoe and our screaming baby. I had, within ten minutes, stripped her of her sunhat (not a big deal) and her life jacket (admittedly, a rather big deal). But, all of this to no avail; she was so mad!

The good news is that as soon as we got to camp, she was distracted from her temper tantrum and it ended.The bad news was the deer fly infestation, which I should have anticipated considering this is an epic bug year in Vermont. The flies were so bad, so numerous and so vicious, that we frantically set up the tent and climbed in to take stock; it was about 2pm. This is when the party started for Quinn: she loved the tent.

Quinn loved the tent so much it was virtually impossible for her to fall asleep when it was time for her to do so. She missed her afternoon nap. Then she missed her bedtime. Then, when our bedtime was approaching and we still hadn't eaten dinner and she was still wide awake, that's when I realized that all the effort I had put in was resulting in more stress, and less relaxation…no ease. I started to think about it in terms of precious summer days wasted. I started apologizing. I started missing home and my bed. Then I felt defeated. All the while, Quinn was in the tent bouncing (literally) off the walls.

Just days before the trip, Sam and I were discussing how different we are and, in conversations like that one, we aren't usually celebrating our differences. I sometimes lament the fact that I usually do all the planning. Sam would say he never gets the chance. I would say that if I waited for him to make a plan we'd never go anywhere. We're both kind of right. But, in this scenario, our yin and yang is what made it work. As Quinn rolled and rolled and rolled around exhaustedly, we contemplated packing up and retreating that first night. At the last minute, before giving up, Sam said this, "I know this is counterintuitive, and it goes against our plan, but let's get her up. Let's take her out in the canoe."

When we were talking about our differences, Sam had mentioned that he feels like I'm too critical of the way he takes care of Quinn. And, because I'm so sensitive, I told him to do a better job and I wouldn't be as critical…Lovely, I know. Eventually, I agreed to work on being more supportive, and this "let's take her out in the canoe" idea was an opportunity to do so. I agreed to break the bedtime rules.

The lake was glassy. The loons were calling to each other. The moon was up. We put a beach chair in the bow of the boat. I sat in it and held Quinn. Sam paddled. We didn't talk. We just glided around that magical place, inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling. Quinn gazed out at the world. She listened to the loons. She watched her dad. She held onto my arm. Eventually, she slept.

For a while after she finally succumbed, we kept going just to be sure. Around 9:30 or so, we slipped back to our campsite, slipped Quinn back into the tent, and slipped ourselves into two chairs by the fire. Sam cooked sausages on the end of a stick and we drank warm beer. Soon after, we too eased into sleep.

I sometimes put so much effort into the ease that I ruin its chances for survival. I don't believe one can exist without the other. I think there must be effort. I know there must be ease. And so, yes, the challenge is in finding the balance between the two.

I've written here in past months of the effort, so let me tell you about some of the ease…

1. The other day, I was sad. I said goodbye to Maury. I came home to make another vet appointment for my old friend Boone. I looked at Quinn, told her I was sad. Asked her if she couldn't just give me a kiss to make me feel better. She looked up at me, opened her sweet little mouth and licked me…That didn't just happen, did it? I asked her for another; she licked me again. Quinn gives kisses now.

2. One morning, she woke up at 4:45 am. I tried to ignore her. Eventually I faced the reality. I went to her crib and picked her up. She said mama, and she kissed me.

3. Whenever Sam comes in the room, I ask her, "Who's that?" Every time, she says, da-da.

4. Yesterday she was in her bouncy chair. I popped up from behind the counter and said peek-a-boo. She smiled and said peek-boo.

5. Yesterday she started a new trick: clapping her hands. This morning she picked up the musical monkey a friend gave her, squeezed the hand that makes it sing and listened with a smile on her face. When the song ended, she clapped.

Brava, Quinn! Brava!

I'm reminded of one of Sam's gems of wisdom years ago. I was struggling to decide whether or not to get a puppy. I really wanted Boone, but each time I tried to go and pick him up, I had a panic attack. I worried about how much work he would be and whether or not I'd be able to handle it on my own (Boone predated Sam as a housemate). Sam looked sort of confused by my concern, "The work is the joy," he said.

The work is the joy. The effort and the ease. To give and to receive...Finding balance. Inhale. Exhale.

Namaste.

Thank you for reading my stories.

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.