The Loveliness of Trees

The first time Sam took me to the family compound, we had only just met the previous month. At the end of our ten-day Wilderness First Responder class, he returned home to Virginia, and I returned to my school in southern Vermont. It was September of 2001, and when 9/11 happened, it was a gorgeous and clear day. I spent every hour watching the television in shock with my students, and Sam spent his watching the Pentagon burn from the roof of the library at his school. We spoke briefly on the phone when he called me from Virginia—a phone call that seemed momentous, by virtue of his thinking of me in that historic and terrible moment.

My school was supposed to be heading to Thailand for the semester, but with the world so suddenly unfamiliar, we changed our plan and decided to travel to the desert Southwest, to climb and hike in the protected red rock canyons. Before my departure, Sam proposed we meet, one more time, at his parents' house in the Poconos of northeastern Pennsylvania.

We had only known each other a short time, and though I felt, from the moment I first spoke to him in the lunch line on our first day in NH, that he was the man I was meant to marry, I wouldn't have voiced that certainty out loud. I wasn't at all sure how he felt, but once I arrived in PA, my sense of him as a person expanded like a deep breath. His parents were away, but his brother was staying in the main house with a friend, or friends…I can't really remember them. What I do remember is every detail of my time with Sam in that special place.

We stayed in the cabin, separated slightly from the main house by a wooden deck. At twelve feet by sixteen, with a small woodstove and a sleeping loft, it was the kind of place I could have easily called home, especially given that I was living out of my backpack at the time. I was falling in love with Sam as quickly as my days were running out (before my departure to Utah), and our time in Pennsylvania was a big part of that. In the mornings Sam made coffee and we walked the perimeters of the various fields and meadows watching the progress of his slow, old dog Chester who was not at all confident I was a welcome addition to his love affair with the gentle and handsome Sam. On those walks I learned the history of the place, of Sam's paternal grandparents who bought 80 acres on that hilltop, and the summers spent there over many decades as the Jackson clan continued to expand. Sam's father is the youngest of four, three brothers and a sister: Ellsworth, then Calvin, then Elinor and Bruce—Sam's dad who, when he arrived at Yale, exercised his much-anticipated freewill by choosing to shed the name he'd been called by family (of which he had never been particularly fond), and introducing himself by his first given name of Sam.

When the grandparents passed on, the land was parceled out among the children, and Sam's father and each of his siblings grew and raised families of their own, who gathered there for vacations and family reunions over many years—some building, some camping, some just stopping by. By now Aunt Nip is gone, and Ellsworth and Cal are in their eighties, with Sam and Alden thankfully a healthy distance behind them in years, but each Fourth of July, the extended clan still returns, more cousins among the four tribes than I can keep count of, and certainly more of their children than I can ever keep straight. But each among them is warm and welcoming, more so than most people I've  met, and each is eager to hear and share the news of the year.

The family's branches return gradually over the holiday from a variety of bases in all four directions. And each, it seems, follows the same itinerary once there: unload at your tribe's designated place, and then meander down the dirt road, past Uncle Ells' house with the bronze Buddha out front, down to the pond for a swim. After catching up with whomever else is there, eventually, everyone meanders back to base, passing still more cousins on the way, agreeing to connect again after dinner, to see each other at the bonfire for the fireworks, to be back for another swim. The hillside is speckled with truck-sized blueberry bushes, in woods and meadows alike, and you gather and eat fistfuls wherever you go.

That first morning, eleven years ago, as Sam and I walked across the top of Aunt Nip's long sloping meadow, and worked our way down along the stone wall, amidst the cherry and ash woods, he told me that he pictured his wedding happening right there…with cousins everywhere, and a Frisbee game in the afternoon, and a pig roasting in a pit. When he described it to me, I wished myself into the scene. Some time later, when I first met his eclectic Uncle Ellsworth, who had been a Presbyterian minister, like his own father and brother both, bejeweled in turquoise rings and a curious robe, with white hair and stories of travel and thoughts on spiritual matters, I imagined him into the wedding story as well, delivering our vows in full summer sun. When Sam and I eventually did marry, it was in Vermont, in November, and without most of the people who make up this special family place. Our wedding was lovely, and special in its own way, but had I to do it over again, I would do it, gladly, as Sam first envisioned it.

Joining this tribe has been a relatively easy process given how gracious everyone is, but still it is in my nature to be worried about fitting in. That first visit, when Sam's parents weren’t there, I went upstairs in the main house to take a shower. On the way, I passed a portrait of his dad, the private school educated, Yale and Cambridge graduated, English teacher, holding a copy of The Odyssey. I was in my first high school teaching job, trying to figure out how to teach English, having not yet read The Odyssey, which of course I have done since. Sam's parents met at Cambridge. His brother went to Yale, as did his two sisters, the eldest of whom was also an English major. How could I spend a lifetime with this man, I wondered, and manage to never talk about books with his father or sister? How could I prevent them from knowing I was a phony? It didn't help that for a long time Sam's dad called me Curry instead of Kerry. But, at one of those Fourth of July gatherings, I was grateful to overhear him talking with his sister, Nip. "Curry? Who's Curry?" she demanded. When he identified me, Sam's girlfriend, Aunt Nip scolded him, "Curry? Her name is Kerry!" I didn't know her for long, but I certainly loved her for that.

There have been other moments when I have marked my progress into the clan as well, but none more completely than with the offering of Quinn Jackson into the tribe. 

When we arrived for the Fourth in 2010, I was 7 months pregnant and cousin Rob crossed a whole field to lay hands on the belly and bow down to offer some whacky and wonderful little blessing. A year later, sitting inside Uncle Ells' house, singing songs and eating ice cream to mark his 85^th birthday, Rob was sitting on the floor and Quinn (who could not yet walk) worked her way to his side, placed her hand on his knee and gazed up at him, eager, I imagine, to finally meet him. 

Last week, as I sat in the yard with Betsy, a soul sister-cousin whom I've come to love dearly, Sam went inside with Quinn to visit with his uncles, Ellsworth and Cal, and Quinn, having taken off all of her clothes in some sort of private celebration, lay stretched out and sleeping in the recliner, completely naked in the midst of the conversation, never waking despite the many openings and closings of the door, or the many exclamations of delight over her condition. "She is so comfortable in her life!" said Ells, and I thought of her father who is also that way.

On Ells' birthday this year, I was at the house alone while Quinn napped and Sam and his parents went to town for groceries. I looked up to see Ells coming to the side porch, his walking staff in hand, ski goggles and wide hat protecting his face from the sun. He was alarmingly unsteady in his gait, until he sat on the edge of the porch to rest. I went out, and helped him into a chair to catch his breath, and brought him some water; his fingers still jeweled with turquoise. He wasn't really sure who I was, as his memory is failing him a bit by now, and I never really had secure footing there in the first place. He asked me questions about his brother's house, and my connection to the clan, and whether or not I was still in college…I did my best to keep a straight face on that one, and tried as well to fill in the gaps.

Ells told me all about his current life, living in the "personal care home for the elderly," of which, he told me, he was one. He gazed out over Alden's gardens, the blueberry bushes and the landscape beyond them. "I've been thinking lately about the loveliness of trees," he said, "and the beauty they have to offer." I listened in agreement, feeling it a privilege to share that moment with him, bearing witness to his meditation, and meditating myself on the loveliness of trees. 

What an important ritual it is to gather with family for relaxed days and evenings, to hear the family stories. And for the elders to gather and take stock of how the clan has grown, and to take stock of their own lives, and enjoy the accomplishments brought forth for the offering.

How important for the men of the tribe to return to the stories of their youth, and in so doing, return to themselves.

And how important for the women of the tribe to gather in support of one another—to help each other laugh and be strong for the phases of family and the passing of the years. Through such a ritual, I understand now more than ever, we gather the strength needed to continue creating our own stories, and forming our own offerings to the tribe.

One night after dinner, when Sam and I walked down to Ells' house with some cold beer, we circled the house in the dark, peeking in the lit up windows to find Betsy and her daughters Jesse and Claire, and her sleepy granddaughter, Elizabeth. We snuck in the back door as they divvied up the work of counting the pills and arranging the necessaries of the elders who laboriously headed off to bed. After half an hour of laughing with them, before turning in ourselves, Sam and I snuck back into the cabin, past the sleeping Quinn, and slept soundly, despite the oppressive heat.

Last month was the one-year anniversary of changing my name to Jackson. I mentioned it to Sam in passing. "You've been a Jackson in my heart for much longer," he replied. Whether this is true, or Sam is just being the romantic poet he often is, I do feel more and more every year that I've found my people, and I'm grateful to know I have a branch, and so does Quinn.

Someday, when Quinn is old enough to remember it, we imagine having a pagan "christening" of sorts for her, during which we will gather her clan—her godless father and fairy godmother, among others—to welcome her formally into this life. Discussing such an event recently, Sam suggested we "bake her a giant cake in the shape of a lotus, and then we spend hours decorating it with pixie sticks, painting an elaborate mural that Quinn can then blow away in a symbolic gesture toward the impermanence of human life." It struck me right away as a good idea, both hilariously Sam and beautiful—a reminder to value the here and now, and of the only true eternal life—that which is handed down in stories, through the branches of the tree.

Mirror Mirror

On Friday, Beth at daycare told me that Quinn has been taking food off of other people's plates. She did it at my friend Kim's house recently too. It was Asa's second birthday party and Quinn and Asa were sitting at a little table together, mostly staring at each other while they ate their snacks. All of a sudden, Quinn got up and walked over to Asa. I thought, "how sweet, she's going to give her a hug." Quinn looked Asa in the eye and then grabbed her crackers and walked away.  I am so embarrassed by this behavior. I keep trying to figure out, why is it that my kid is such a pig? While Quinn is in her high chair, smearing hummus all over her face, I find myself thinking about how much work I have to do to domesticate her, and then, without thinking, I reach down and snag a piece of uneaten avocado off of her plate. Oh. My. God...

Now, picture this: Sam has just climbed up and over a huge brush pile dragging a giant tarp in an attempt to keep the pile dry until he can get around to burning it. He stumbles a couple of times, a leg pops through the branches here and there…it's not a graceful process. And, just as he makes it back to solid ground and looks up at the pile, now covered by blue plastic, a gust of wind lifts the whole tarp in a graceful ripple and it goes sailing through the air, landing somewhere nearby. He loses it. Quinn and I are standing 50 feet away, looking in the garden for signs of the seeds we've planted. The wind, fortunately, is quite loud. My hope is that she can't hear her father screaming, arms outstretched to the sky, middle fingers leading the way, "Fuck You, Wind! Fuck You!" His rant at the heavens lasts at least two minutes.

This morning, I glance over at Quinn in time to see her try to step into her yellow rain boot. Her toe hits the top of the boot and knocks it over. AHHHHHHHHHHHH! Immediately she is screaming, stomping her feet and flailing her arms. In the midst of the screaming, I'm certain I hear, "Fuck You, Yellow Rain Boot! Fuck You!"

When you think about reproducing with someone, there's usually a lot of sappy, "I hope the baby has your eyes" talk. But I wonder if it ever dawns on people to talk about what they hope won't be reproduced.

Sam's temper is a curious thing. Circumstances that I believe merit real and unmitigated fury don't seem to bother him in the slightest. He goes to that other place and it all just rolls off his back. On the other hand, he will utterly lose it over some little frustration that could easily be solved with a deep breath and some problem solving. Being so polar opposite in our reactions to stress comes in handy sometimes; we can take turns talking each other off the ledge. But, I will admit to being a bit stunned during those moments when I've had to step in and say things like, "Sam, maybe you should set down the hammer."

With Quinn's temper tantrums, I've decided not to swoop in and solve the problems for her (I'm sure Sam wishes he had the same luxury), in hopes that she'll learn to take a deep breath and find a new strategy. Nevertheless, I find that it's still easy to get muddled in my thinking. The screaming, the lack of sleep, the lack of sleep (did I say that already?) these things mess me up.  And, periodically when I'm feeling confused and I've lost sight of the long-term view, and I'm stuck in the right now, as in I must make the screaming stop, right now, periodically I resort to books, which I'm not convinced is an entirely good idea. 

I recently borrowed the popular new Bringing Up Bebe  from my French sister-in-law Geraldine. When she was previewing some of the key concepts in the book for me, I thought, "Yeah, that's all familiar…that's how I was raised too." I ate what my mother cooked for dinner. I greeted guests who came to the house. I waited for things. From Geraldine's preview, none of it seemed that foreign, but still I thought I should read it…just in case—just in case there was some obvious solution to the grocery store temper tantrums, or the high chair acrobatics, or the "No! No! No!" response to every food but raisins. Or, if there was some secret to solving the night wake-ups that are no longer infrequent and now involve her sleeping in our bed anytime from 2 a.m. on, every single night, for the past month. 

You may or may not recall the first bout of co-sleeping we had last September when Quinn had her first ever ear infection. We brought her to our bed only after multiple nights of sitting upright in the chair with her while she slept, and more nights of trying to let her "cry it out." You may or may not recall that after long hours of crying, Quinn never managed to get "it" out, whatever "it" was. And, you may or may not recall that we went 10 hours at a go, more than once, with Quinn screaming on-and-off the whole entire time…but we do. And we also have a distinct memory of the shame of feeling negligent, cruel and, at the same time, defeated.

Well, she's back at it. She wakes up, she screams, and then she screams some more. I know, having endured those 10-hour nights, that she won't get it out. And so now, in this latest round of sleeplessness, we haven't even bothered to let her "cry it out" because it seems so laughable, and because we never feel like we can afford a sleepless night. But, still, we know we need to regain some sanity soon.

If any of this could be solved, well, then reading this new book would certainly be worthwhile, wouldn't it? Chapter 3 in Bringing Up Bebe is called "Doing Her Nights." The author talks at length about the French habit of "pausing" before going to the crying baby in order to let the baby return to sleep on her own. Nice idea. She then talks about the unfortunate reality that sometimes pausing doesn’t work and parents need to resort to a more firm approach to "sleep training." Even though I've read all this before, for some reason yesterday I kept reading and, I'll be honest, I wish I hadn't, because now, in the middle of the night when Quinn has woken us up, convinced us it's hopeless and tricked us into bringing her to our bed, taken over my pillow and started snoring along with Darth Vader next to her, now I'll have this little gem from Druckerman's book to mull over, while I lie there staring at the clock:

"At nine months old, she still wakes up every night at around two a.m. So we brace ourselves to let her cry it out. On the first night, she cries for twelve minutes. (I clutch Simon's arm and cry, too). Then she goes back to sleep. The next night she cries for five minutes. On the third night, Simon and I both wake up to silence at two a.m. 'I think she was waking up for us,' Simon says. 'She thought that we needed her to do it.' Then we go back to sleep."

Twelve minutes?! Merde! 

What I need Quinn to do is to sleep, or at least learn how to go downstairs and make coffee in the morning. Either one of those two things would be great. And, in the meantime, if you have any advice on when I should ignore her pleas and when I should listen, that would be great too. Because Quinn just handed me a handful of clean diapers and I ignored her. Then, she peed on the rug. If only I was making this stuff up.

Regaining The Throne

illustration by Maurice Sendak

What I didn't know about, back when I was single and making all kinds of pronouncements about how things would be with my kid, if I ever even had a kid, was the insidious affect of a toddler's screaming on a parent's stamina and self-esteem.

I watched badly behaved kids of all ages in the restaurant where I waited tables, and at the end of those shifts, sitting around with my girlfriends (who were also childless and mostly unmarried) we would swap tales, and pass judgment on the nightmares we had witnessed: Kids who threw fits and food. Kids who interrupted, or didn't bother to respond when asked a question. Kids who didn't say please or thank you. Kids who demanded their parents' attention. And so on.  Then there were the parents…they seemed so weak, so spineless, so pathetic. Why didn't they insist their kids behave, or get them the hell out of public view?

I'll tell you what, I might've been heard saying, my kid would not behave that way! I had a powerful certainty of what I would be willing and unwilling to tolerate as a parent, and of what my expectations would be of my child. I had a clear vision of how I would deal with my child in plain, unequivocal and undeniable terms. My kid would be polite, reasonable, and in control.

Nineteen months in, a time I've heard other parents describe as "blissful," I am reduced to hoping for these things. Right now, as surprised as you might be to hear this, things are not going as I had planned.

At the beginning of 2012, I told myself I would start getting real in this blog. I would stop making Sam look like a hero all the time, because he's not (not all the time). And I would stop all the dreamy-mom stuff, because it's not all dreamy. And I would get down to the business of exposing this whole challenging situation for the mess that it sometimes is…So, here are a few illustrative snapshots (I apologize in advance if you read only for the dreamy-mom stuff...come back soon and I'll tell you about Quinn's first haircut)...for now, back to business; here goes:

• Quinn knows how to say cock-a-doodle-doo, but she brazenly refuses to say please.

• One day in the grocery store, one of the cashiers came around the corner of the aisle and saw Quinn standing in the back of the cart, gripping the metal sides, thrashing back and forth and screaming at the top of her lungs. The cashier, with a genuinely friendly smile, said this to Quinn: "I thought that was you! I recognized your voice."

• Another day I picked Quinn up at daycare and Beth, one of the daycare providers, said "Quinn had a bit of a meltdown today…I asked her not to sit on the steps because I didn't want someone to open the door and hit her…she was so mad…it lasted so long…" Beth owns the daycare…she takes care of many children…yet she was impressed by the intensity and duration of my kid's fit.

• Quinn threw a fit one morning that was so intense that she threw up all over herself.

• When Quinn throws fits, sometimes Sam does too.

• 12:30 p.m. is one of my two favorite times of the day*: that's when I drop Quinn off at daycare.

• One day last week I was in town a bit early for the daycare pick-up. As I imagined Quinn's inevitable temper tantrum in the entryway as I tried to get her shoes on, and then I imagined the wrestling match trying to get her into her car seat, I started to feel desperate; my pulse raced. I drove past the turn for the daycare, and pulled into the parking lot of the movie theater and just sat in my car taking deep breaths so as not to have to pick her up any sooner than absolutely necessary. (Full disclosure: I actually made a call to my friend Erin to beg her to meet me for beer, but she couldn't.)

• We have two dogs. They never leave our yard. They spend most of the time lying on our front porch. Recently, one of the neighbors from the other end of the road, half a mile away, drove by our house. He saw me in the yard, with Moses, our black dog. He stopped and said, "Oh! This is your dog. He's been lying on my front porch a lot lately."

Lately, the wheels have been coming off the bus. So much so that when people ask me how I'm doing, I forgo politeness and I actually tell them, because I'm desperate for advice..."Things are not awesome," I will tell people eagerly. "My kid isn't nice. Actually, she's a monster! I don't even think I like her…she's so willful…and so stubborn." At this point in any given conversation, lots of people smile those "knowing" smiles…"I wonder where she got it from?" they'll chuckle, pretending as if they're really asking.

Sure, sure, I'm stubborn and a bit determined, but it's not just me. Sam has most people fooled because in public he's so composed. But try arguing with him sometime—it lasts for days.  (I hear Beth's voice echoing in my ears, "…it lasted so long…she was so mad…")

One time Sam and I were driving home from a party. We were fighting. A couple of miles before our house, I stopped the car and told Sam to get out. "Get out? I'm not getting out!" It was December; I don't think he had a jacket on. "Oh yes you are! Get out of my car." He got out on the side of our dark dirt road miles from home. I drove the rest of the way feeling victorious. "Ha! I showed him," I thought. But when I pulled into our driveway alone, I came to my senses…what am I doing? I turned around and drove back down the hill to pick him up. He was nowhere to be found. Eventually, after searching for half an hour or so, I realized he didn't want to be found and I went home to bed. The next morning I found him sleeping peacefully in the basement. He had hidden in the woods whenever he saw the headlights. Sam, needless to say, is also pretty willful.

So, Quinn has it from both sides. And, if my math is right, that makes her twice as strong as either one of us.

If you've already had your kid(s) and they are grown and not in jail, you might not have had these troubles, or you might not remember them.

If you haven't had a kid, you might think I'm pathetic for being so easily cowed…I scoffed at people like me too, before I knew…

What I know now is that Quinn screams a lot of the time. When she can't do something, or communicate something, or have something…she screams. And I don't actually care whether she's happy or not in these moments, but I do care about my own sanity, and at this point I can't handle too many more of the screaming fits because they suck.

My point is this: all those times I saw parents and kids behaving badly, I didn't really know how bad it could be. Inevitably there was some other much-worse behavior that parents were trying to prevent. Sometimes, if Quinn and I are in the grocery store, I give her what she's screaming for just because I'm so embarrassed, and tired, and I give it to her in spite of the fact that I know it will just keep happening if I keep letting her win.

But we're at a turning point here, I can sense it. I'm done being embarrassed. I'm sorry to my friends in the grocery store. I'm sorry to my friends who might still call me on the phone. I'm sorry to everyone I know, but from now on, when Quinn throws a fit, I'm not going to rush to silence her, even though I will feel bad that you have to witness it.

I'm bigger than she is for god's sake! And I am determined to repossess my expectations and some basic self respect. But as I attempt to do so, I will do so without the burden of my former self-righteousness…I really had no idea what I was talking about...but, many of you knew that already, didn't you.

They are formidable despite their size. Q is no longer for Queen.

thanks for the photo Corey

*For the record, my other favorite time of the day, on most days, is 5:15 pm when I pick Quinn up from daycare and she runs over to me, climbs into my arms and immediately turns to wave to everyone else she's leaving behind, "Bye bye!" she yells…as if to say, See you later, Suckers! I'm outa here!

What Is At Stake

I used to think of myself as fairly adventurous. I jumped out of an airplane once, launched myself over a waterfall or two in my kayak, climbed eleven pitches of a rocky cliff in Mexico. Doing those kinds of things made me feel alive. At the peak of that time in my life, risk had more to do with what I would lose by not taking chances than what I might stand to lose by taking them.

I measure risk differently now.

A couple of weeks ago there was a memorial service for a young woman in a nearby town who was murdered by someone who plowed her driveway in the winter. The details of what happened to her are horrific, and yet what upsets me the most is that her two-year old son was in his car seat when she was pulled out of the car. Hours later, he was found by a friend who went looking for the mom. The little boy had been there in the dark by himself. He had cried himself to sleep.  The car was still running, and his mother was long gone.

My calculus of risk used to be fairly simple. I used the life is short method and usually went for it, whatever it was. Now it is more complicated. Now it involves a need, a physical need, to protect my kid. The thoughts of what could happen to me don't bother me so much. The thoughts of what could happen to Quinn are what keep me awake at night. No adventure that involves the real possibility of risk seems worth it to me anymore…or at least that's true for right now. Nothing seems worth it because it is life with Quinn, and life with Quinn is inevitably going to be even shorter than just plain life would have been.

And this way of thinking feels risky in and of itself. I want Quinn to know the best me, and my sense of who the best me is, is the one who hucked herself out of an airplane. At the same time, I don't want to miss a day in her life. I want to be within earshot when she calls out for her mama. To do this involves not taking risks. And herein lies the problem: I can't have it both ways.

Nineteen months into this project, I'm still trying to figure out who I am…whom I'm going to be. There are plenty of days when I miss my old life. And even though the mornings can be excruciating, and the temper tantrums embarrassing, and the sacrifice of self some days seems too much for this small family to ask of me, the fact is that the thing I care most about is being there when she needs me…or even just in case.

The Cure Cottage

I have come to value sleep over most things and, above all other pleasures, I long for slow and quiet mornings. With Quinn, each day begins quickly, her demands easily out pacing my capacity to move or think, her frustration voiced clearly in wordless whining—excruciating to the ear and vexatious to the early morning soul. And days started in this way, after many other similar days, leave me edgy to the irritants, quick to react and slow to recover.

For two months I've had planned a brief getaway with Char to her camp, to visit with her and also just to sleep, to follow my own course through a day or two. Sam will have his weekend next; it too is already planned. 

Tucked in the trees, on a hill above the shore of Saranac Lake, Char's camp is a haven of solitude and simplicity. Heated with wood, no running water, an incinerating toilet—it is roughing it, to a certain extent, but with the luxury of electricity, which means an electric blanket to sit under while the cabin heats up, and hot tea which comes quickly when it's needed. Chairs are situated by windows for a variety of views, all of them leading to the lake through the trees. It is a beautiful place, intentional in every detail.

In November, we went over for a day to cover the deck furniture, hang the insulated curtains for winter, stack the wood. That trip was an over-and-back, and on that trip I dreamed of staying and enjoying a rest. This weekend, as we re-folded tarps and put them away, brought wood in to burn, watched the ice melt before our eyes in summer-like heat, it seemed no time had passed at all. In November we jumped into the lake off the dock—one last swim before winter, one wild gesture to welcome our milestone birthdays—we were numb enough climbing out to not feel cold. This time, we settled for lounging in the sun on a dock…not hers, but one as yet unclaimed in this too-early spring, and one with a better blast of heat at midday.

Friday night, I was asleep by 9pm. I laid down by the woodstove to stretch out; I vaguely remember her talking from where she worked on her jigsaw puzzle, but never heard her wash the dishes, or close up for the night and go upstairs. In the morning I woke at the regular intervals that I am accustomed to at home—2 am in restlessness, 4 am waiting, 5 am to Quinn's cries before she gets carried to our bed, 6 am when she finally starts to climb around, testing her legs, poking her sleeping parents in the eye or the nose. At camp, without her, I woke up but didn't move, waited for sleep to settle on me again, stayed in bed until nine o'clock. It was 11:30 before we even set foot outside, and then only to take a walk and find a good place to lie down in the sun. We did that until 3:30 in the afternoon, walked back and made cocktails for the dock…just like a lazy, carefree summer day...with the exception of the still-frozen lake.

Char called it The Cure Cottage, a reference to Saranac's history as a destination for tuberculosis patients in the late 1800s and early part of the twentieth century…fresh air and bed rest to cure what ails you. By the time we packed up and headed back east on Sunday, across Lake Champlain and into our own Green Mountains, I was so relaxed I felt heavy. I hadn't slept particularly well, or even enjoyed that much quiet, with all the talking we had to do to plan our summer canoe trip, but I was rejuvenated by the absence of responsibility for two days, and the laughter and loving company of my dear friend.

In the two days since, the chaos has resumed. Short tempers still flare, school schedules still change, dish crews and papers must still be dealt with.

Today has been a fever day for Quinn. Home from school early, my job all afternoon was to hold her. She refused, koala-like, to be put down. In one coughing fit, she threw up her lunch all over me. I carried her to the tub and stripped us both out of the slime before taking her to my bed for a continuation of her afternoon nap.

She was disoriented and hot, in and out of sleep on the bed next to me, tossing and wrestling pillows and blankets until she found her way to the cradle provided by my extended legs. She rolled into the crease between them, her head toward my feet. Legs bent up underneath her, her feet flat against my stomach, I was amazed to realize that her torso alone stretches down to my shins, the rise of my kneecaps fitting just under her arms. She is long and kid-like already.

Asleep on my legs, with her hands behind her head, she held her pink lamb pressed against a closed eye. In her right hand, the corner of her velvety, pale pink blanket, paler still against her fever-flushed cheek. She slept fitfully, half-waking now and then to whimper or moan. In one cycle to the surface, she sat upright on my lap, her eyes looking at my face without seeing, until eventually I came into focus and she leaned down, pressed her nose to my nose and then flopped face down onto my chest, falling quickly back to sleep. The next time around, she smiled, stroked my jaw gently with her cupped open palm, touched my nose with her pointer finger, and then her own, as if to say: this is a nose, and we both have one. Tawny ringlets stood off her head in all directions. She flopped back down, back to sleep, four limp limbs hanging by my sides.

Eventually she was awake for another dose of medicine, some warm milk with syrup, and Sam's arrival home. She climbed from my arms to his, waved to me sweetly, "bye bye," she said, indicating that she was ready to be put to bed. After only half an hour awake, she went to her crib without complaint.

I type now in the dark on my front porch, sitting in Corey's rocking chair, salvaged from Irene's mud, a hot cup of tea within arm's reach. Dowsville Brook is a steady rush of water not far away. There are no bugs. There are many stars. Moses lies at my feet on the porch, earning his forgiveness for the morning's adventures. Boone is on the muddy ground beneath, the new and irresistible earth. It is 65 degrees tonight in these woods. Snow remains only in tree wells, otherwise black garden soil beckons, green tips of tulips and daffodils, tight red curls of rhubarb, all making their way to the sun. It is too early, by a month or more, but like many things you aren't supposed to have, the temptation of it proves too much and I savor this warm and early spring. My own cure cottage. Happy to be within earshot of my sick and sleeping babe.

Finding Words

Quinn's speech is like bad handwriting. It is hard to decipher, yet you know the words are there. A handful of them are clear, but most have to be decoded, teased out sound-by-sound, letter-by-letter. Everyone tells me that the phases of her young life will pass by quickly…too quickly, most people will say. But for me, a talker by nature, Quinn's language cannot develop fast enough. One of the mysteries of my life is why I would choose to marry a man who doesn't talk. In fact, when Sam and I are at war, his silence is the weapon he wields. And so Quinn's entry into the conversation is eagerly anticipated.

When my sister was a baby, as the family stories go, I was eager to know what her voice would sound like. Then, as now, I looked forward to having someone new to talk to. When she finally found her voice, Amy was a little person who never shut up. In jest, everyone blamed me; be careful what you ask for, they said. But I can't imagine not wanting to hear the sound of Quinn's voice, so I'm not afraid to ask.

This is not just about looking forward to hearing what cute things she might say; it's more serious than that. I very much believe that the strength and quality of your voice are of the utmost importance. A yes should be resounding. A no should be wholly lacking in ambiguity. I love you and I'm sorry should be used with great care. A young woman's ability to speak her mind, to give voice to her life, can be one of her most vital acts of living.

This is the political me speaking here: the woman who grew up encouraged to stand up for what she believes, to do right and be proud. This woman is also the mother of a daughter, determined to protect my girl as best I can as she travels to her own womanhood, to arm her with self-confidence, courage, a clear voice.

I'm sure that boys have their own challenges as they grow, but to be honest, the path just doesn't seem as treacherous. I could be wrong, but it seems to me the obstacles for boys are fairly straightforward, fairly easy to navigate. Recently, talking with one of the boys at school about eating disorders, the boy admitted he struggled to understand. I admired his honesty, and thought his comment about it was illuminating: "I don't know why girls just won't eat. I'm always hungry!" I like boys for this reason—they are generally uncomplicated. I like girls for this reason too—they are complicated. But some of that complexity opens us to vulnerability.

At Quinn's 15-month doctor's appointment, her pediatrician told us that while she wasn't really worried, she would like to see Quinn gain weight. She was 19 pounds and only in the fifth percentile, twenty-fifth for height. In the time since that appointment, I've vacillated between two opposing thoughts: First, someone has to be in the fifth percentile, so what's the problem? Having seen photos of Sam as a child, I know where the chicken legs come from. His brother Josh recently told me that their mother called them The Anatomy Lessons when they were small. So, it's genetic; part of me believes she is doing just fine.

Then there is the other part of me. Oh god…what if something's wrong with her? Why won't she eat anything? Why does she have that bloated, malnourished-looking belly? What if we're not trying hard enough, or feeding her the right things? What if this sets her up for a lifelong problem with food? At almost 18 months, after a bout of stomach virus, Quinn still only weighs twenty pounds...

I know and care about girls who have nearly starved themselves. I worry about them all the time. I worry about my teenaged Quinn and she's still years away. And I worry about the work that I have to do on myself to be sure that Quinn grows up hearing the right narrative. Occasionally I hear myself saying that I'm old, or fat, and I know I'm already late in correcting this behavior, this incredibly bad habit. Quinn isn't telling stories yet, but she's hearing them, and understanding. I owe her, and myself, a different story if there is to be any hope that she'll continue to love the sight of herself in the mirror.

I've just finished reading Louise Erdrich's memoir, The Blue Jay's Dance, which I discovered serendipitously.  In one section she writes, "A woman needs to tell her own story, to tell the bloody version of the fairy tale. A woman has to be her own hero. The princess cuts off her hair...rushes wildly toward the mouth of the dragon, sets off on her own quest. She crushes her crown beneath her foot, eats dirt, eats roses, deals with the humility and grandeur of her own human life." So much of the stories we women tell are the stories someone else has fed to us: you are old, you are fat, you are not beautiful, you can't...but Erdrich is right, we need to tell our own stories.

When Quinn starts looking for words to express herself, I want her to have ready access to a rich vocabulary. It's hard not to simply comment on her beauty, because of course I think she is perfect, but still I try to give her options; Quinn is already smart, strong, resourceful, and good, among many many other things. I hope these words come to her soon, and stay with her through life, and I hope she is constantly collecting new words with which to tell her story. I also hope that she will be impervious to the voices that will try to speak for her, or limit her in their language, a different one hopefully than the one she will speak. I want her to rush at the mouth of the dragon, even if the dragon has somehow found its way into her own thoughts...Especially then. 

In the same section of Erdrich's book, I read this: "Love is an infinite feeling in a finite container." On the morning of Valentine's Day just last week, I was getting ready to give Quinn a bath. Our tub is too deep to lean over and too slippery to let her be in there by herself. Quinn loves taking a bath, and as I organized wash cloths and shampoo and stacking cups, and the water started to collect, she excitedly put her arms up into the air to be lifted up and it was then that she first said, "Mama." 

Not wanting to get my hopes up, I dismissed it…she's just mumbling, I thought, just playing with sounds. But then, when I was scrubbing her dirty face a few minutes later, she was exasperated: "Mama!" she squawked, and swatted me away. I let that one in, knowing it was definitely meant for me. 

But it was the third time that it truly became real. Sam had come in to help us get out of the tub. He had wrapped her in a towel and was holding her while I climbed out myself. I was standing on the bath mat, drying off, and I looked up to see her pointing at me, "Mama," she said in an almost shy little voice.  A smile of recognition lit up her face, as if we were old friends reunited, and then she said it again, Mama. I couldn't stop the tears from coming, or the relieved laughter; it's been a long 17 months waiting for that word, and I've worked hard to earn it. I've never been so happy to hear anything in my life; I have literally never heard a sweeter sound. ...An infinite feeling, in a finite container.

Since then, Quinn's been saying mama with some regularity, and each time it is as completely wonderful as the others. But sometimes I think she is starting to call me when I realize the syllables have become something else: Ma-ma-ma-mine. I'm struck by this irony--Mama, my, mine--the sounds so close, so nearly interchangeable. They keep me alert to my responsibilities. My weaknesses will be her own if I let them, and yet strength of character, and self-confidence are possibilities too. There is so much work to do, but to protect her total absence of self-consciousness, her sassy confidence, is worthwhile. 

It is everything.

It is the work of the mother, still collecting words for her own story, to also provide the language the daughter will need to be her own hero. That is the new everything.

Another First

I smelled something dangerously wrong as soon as I slid Quinn's bedroom doors open. She was standing in her crib screaming. I reached for her in the dark, to comfort her and find her body to pick her up. I touched the back of her head, my mind quickening to answer what is this smell? I felt her hair, covered in slime. Her shoulders, slime. Her face and hands. Everywhere I touched she was covered in vomit. She was screaming and confused.

Sam had just come home ten minutes prior to her waking up. His first night out in weeks, or months, and he had traveled a long way. Everything is a long way from here, so it is amazing he was home, and somehow I think he was meant to be. Other than the occasional baby spit-up, Quinn had never vomited. She had never experienced anything, in seventeen months, like this.

I picked her up and stood her on her changing pad, turned on the light and saw clearly the horror of it all. I called to Sam, desperate for his help. She steadied herself on my shoulders while I stripped her of her saturated clothes. The smell, of course, was unmistakable now that I was awake, slowly processing what I needed to do. I turned on the shower, stepped in and took her from Sam, while he waited with a towel. Her hair was matted and twisted around pieces of carrot and other unidentifiable chunks. She clung to me, arms around my neck, still so confused by the violence of it all: The middle of the night. Her first throw up. And no words to explain it to her.

What scared me most was the fact that she must've slept through the actual act of throwing up. She must have been sleeping in the mess for some time. How else would it have gotten on the back of her head? And everywhere else? Why didn't she wake up?

Thank god she didn't choke. Thank god she did wake up.

While Sam dried her hair with a towel, I stripped her bed, wrapped her pink blankets up in a ball and carried them to the basement to start the wash. We brought her to our bed, willing to risk having her throw up on us rather than go through it again, alone. But from then on, she was fine. She slept on my chest or pressed against my side for hours. I laid there awake, staring at the profiles of my two loves sleeping…just enough moonlight to make it all clear.

There are plenty of days when I tally my complaints in life. Sam's imperfections among them. I'd like to not be the kind of person who keeps track, but sometimes I am. That's why a night like last night is important: it gets me back to a zero balance…nothing owed. One of the reasons I've always wanted Sam in my life is that he is steady…the steadiest person I've ever known. When he sees me starting to spin out of control, he gets a little more alert, a little more tuned in, and a lot more calm. When Quinn is screaming and covered in vomit and I'm nervously pleading for him to help me get the shampoo, he is quietly doing what I need him to do. He never tells me to calm down. He never tells me I'm being hysterical or ridiculous. He just helps…he takes care of things.

Last week an issue of Vanity Fair showed up with George Clooney and two other guys on the cover. Inside, the three actors answered a series of questions. I read Clooney's first. I compared his answers to the other guys. He made the other guys look like boys. He seems like a class act.

I was struck by the fact that some of his answers sounded like answers Sam might give to the same questions. So, as Quinn settled into sleep upstairs, and Sam made us tea, I started asking him the questions and casually jotting down his answers…right away it struck me as the kind of information I would like to save…

Clooney got a portrait that made him look like a stud, so I
thought Sam deserved one too...Corey took this one
back when we were still clearing our land.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

A morning to sleep in with my wife.

What is your greatest fear?

Letting you and Quinnie down.

Which living person do you most admire?

My dad. My mom. My wife.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

My temper.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Entitlement.

What is your favorite journey?

My favorite journey? This marriage and our kid.

My favorite trip? I'm still trying to find it.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Patience…and, well, thrift crosses my mind too, but no, I like thrift, thrift is good; I'm starting to get on board.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?

My nose.

Which living person do you most despise?

I don't like to think about despising people.

Clooney said the President of Northern Sudan.

Oh, yeah! Good for him. I despise the President of Sudan too…And George Bush wouldn't be far behind. And Cheney! I despise Cheney more than the Sudanese President, even though that's a bit illogical.

Which talent would you most like to have?

Singing. Musical talent.

What is your current state of mind?

Tired.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

My temper. I'd be kinder…less given to getting angry.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?

Nothing. Really, nothing…I'd make my siblings wealthier so they'd have more peace of mind.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

The small beast upstairs.

What is your most treasured possession?

I'm not that into possessions.

Where would you like to live?

All over.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Kindness and a sense of humor.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Kindness and a sense of humor.

What do you most value in your friends?

Kindness. Intelligence. Loyalty.

Who are your favorite writers?

David James Duncan. John McPhee…hmm…

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?

Mr. Fox.

Who are your heroes in real life?

Martin Luther King. Pat Tillman…

What is it that you most dislike?

Bullies. Loud-mouthed bullies.

How would you like to die?

Either quickly and painlessly doing something I enjoy, or in my sleep.

I like Sam better than George Clooney. 

I do not like the smell of vomit. 

I'm glad that Quinn got my nose and that she did not, last night, die in her sleep.

The college years are going to be hard on me, aren't they?

On Children

Halfway down the stairs, hanging on the wall in our house when I was growing up, was a framed copy of Kahlil Gibran's poem "On Children." I never understood what it meant. How could it be that your children are not your children? How could I not be my mother's daughter? My father's child?


Quinn's nascent vocabulary gives me small glimpses at what is going on in her growing world. Hi! Wow. Woof woof woof. Moo. More? Beeee (baby)! Baba (her name for the dogs). Pea (the beginning of please). 'Tank (the start of tatanka, the buffalo photographed and framed on our wall).


Within the past month, she has become excited about books. She waddles to her shelves all day, choosing new ones and carrying them back across the room to hand to a reader. She grunts her wordless plea for you to sit where she can climb or be lifted into your lap. She reclines against you with a thud, waiting for you to read. She listens. She points. Occasionally, she offers an "Oh!" When you go too slowly, she turns the pages for you--impatiently.

While she is occupied with her books, I can squeeze her as much as I want, trying, admittedly with some desperation, to imprint her tinyness, her smell, her soft skin into my memory. How soon will she be grown?

Your children are not your children...

At school other people's daughters are also in our care. Daily they impress and inspire me, as well as leave me sick with worry. How to protect them all from this world? From each other and from themselves?

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.


Watching my baby grow into a toddler, so much like a kid already, I imagine so many victories for her. I imagine her to be kind and thoughtful. And yet, already, she shows signs of mischief, squinting her eyes at me menacingly when I attempt to prevent her from feeding her food to the dogs. She is cunning. She'll put something halfway in her mouth, look at me sweetly, as if to say, "Thank you. This is delicious." And then she'll turn a shoulder to me, believing herself to be out of my sight. She withdraws the food, walks quietly to the dogs' bed, looks back over her shoulder once more--victorious and threatening.

They come through you but not from you...

This is not the type of victory I imagine. I imagine she has nice friends. I imagine that people like her without fearing her; they admire her for her kindness, her intelligence, her athleticism, her artistry. As the first-time mother, I am in awe of her great potential, enjoying this time that predates whatever reality she turns out to be.

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Somehow, I have great faith that she will live a good and healthy life. That she will be happy and will make others happy. I have this faith despite the fact that she screams when she's frustrated, or bites me in a rage now and then, or looks me in the eye when she is throwing her dinner on the floor, or doesn't look me in the eye at all when I'm trying to extract some form, any form, of love.

Somehow I imagine Quinn growing into the woman I would like to be. And yet, I have no desire to dictate her course. I am eager to find out whom she wants to be...what she wants to do.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 


For they have their own thoughts.


You may strive to be like them, 


but seek not to make them like you.


And I'm sure the mothers of all of the borrowed daughters had these feelings too. That life would be good to their babies.

But, sometimes, life has not been good to them. They have been tested by worries, and cancers, and self-doubt. They have been left motherless. And fatherless. In some cases the babies themselves have been stolen away altogether. My heart aches for these mothers who must have all begun, as I have, in this place of confidence and hope and faith. This place with a view to a bright and cloudless future.

You may house their bodies

but not their souls,


For their souls dwell

in the house of tomorrow, 


which you cannot visit,

not even in your dreams.


And so with these borrowed daughters, I do my best to bolster them. I do my best to help them be strong. I do my best to hide my own worries and weakness in hopes they will believe it's possible to believe in themselves…In hopes I will have practiced enough times to be convincing when it's my time to model these things for Quinn.

You are the bows

from which your children




as living arrows

are sent forth.


I want them all to have a clear path.

Evolution

If I look at a single year in my life, in any of a number of relatively recent years, it's hard to tell whether a lot happened or not much at all. Much of each year, for me, has in recent years been the same: the routines of work, and the routines of home, and the routines of my relationship have become fairly predictable. Somedays I find the patterns comforting. Other days, depressing. With the exception of an occasional trip or the birth of a child, my years, of late, have tended to blend together.

But watching Quinn's evolution in the course of a single year reminds me of what is possible: evolution itself. Human sea change.

I've been writing stories here since the beginning of 2011 and, to my great surprise, a number of friends and family (and even some people I don't know) have been reading them. Thank you for reading them. Having an audience has helped motivate me in this project to document, ultimately for Quinn, some of the stories that led to her existence, and some of the details of her coming to be.

What's becoming more clear to me every day is that Quinn is already doing a good job expressing herself, and little by little I am becoming an outside observer of her life, rather than the sole creator and voice for that life. And, little by little, as Quinn evolves, it is becoming clear to me that I must as well if I am to stand any chance of keeping up with her. As I look back on 2011, I am struck by the number of distinct phases we passed through together. This was not a year of mundane routines, or of one day blending seamlessly into another. This was a year of sea change.

Earlier this month, I found this quote in the back of The Sun magazine: 

"The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." -Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

And it seems to me that passing through a year, with a child, is an experience of each day also being absolutely new. I've been writing and planning stories for Quinn in hopes that someday she'd find some inspiration in them, or some insight into the world. What I realize now, at the end of this unbelievable year, is that I am gaining more insight than I have insight to give.

Don't Postpone Joy

Lately my mind has been doing laps around a friendship that went south this year. I'm embarrassed to admit this because, on a rational level, I know that a friendship that falls apart so easily is not one worth having in the first place. I know that. I also know that this minor change in my social landscape is insignificant in the broader expanse of things that matter. So why the mental gymnastics trying to make sense of something that is really better left alone?

It might be the Year in Review mentality that has me dwelling on the one thing that went wrong in my life this year. It might also be that in 2011, in my community, many things were lost by many people, and that general sense of loss has me thinking about this one thing that I lost. Just the other day, in the same neighboring town that is still rebuilding after the flood, many of the houses still dark and empty at night…in this same town, just the other day, a great grandmother veered across the center line with her two great grandbabies in tow. In that impossibly brief moment, a propane truck. All three are gone. And every time I drive by the spot, sand still thick on the road, absorbing all the things that were spilled, I start to cry. I think of the babies first. And then I think of the mother, who is also the granddaughter, and I cannot breathe.

In light of this, I feel particularly ridiculous for continuing to think about something that pales to invisibility in comparison. And yet thoughts of it lately fill into the space that empties, in brief moments, in my mind.

Gratitude and vulnerability are closely linked. 2011 has been an incredible year for me, for us. The joy of our healthy baby, the growing confidence in her steps, the increasing number she's willing to take, the words that are now starting to come—Hi. Uh-oh. Woof woof woof.—these things are gifts that are hard to express. And yet, in this place, at this time, in public, I temper my joy with a reverence for the hardships 2011 has wrought on so many others, so close by.

Perhaps my inability to move beyond this failed friendship is some form of survivor's guilt. I didn't have a break up. I didn't lose a home. Or a storage unit. Or a life that wasn't meant to be lost. I have everything I could possibly want and so much more and in my residual Catholicism, I feel like I can't possibly deserve it. And, worse yet, I worry that it can't possibly last.

Fortunately, right on the heels of the Year in Review, we tend to wipe the slate clean and decide our resolutions for the new year ahead. For me, more yoga, more water, more play, more guilt-free snuggly naps with my kid whenever possible, more love for Sam, and more time with friends.

For my birthday, Char gave me a Don't Postpone Joy bumper sticker from a friend's cafe in Asheville. It's a good reminder. Life is short…sometimes devastatingly so. Dwelling on the negatives fills up mental space that could be used to celebrate the positives. Admittedly, I'm entering here into some easier said than done territory, but I have to start somewhere.

My friend Jean sent me a birthday card for my fortieth in which she thanked me for being a loyal friend over the twenty years we've known each other. When I read her note, I couldn't believe she was thanking me…Jean taught at UVM and was the Director of the Writing Center when I was nominated to be a writing tutor. She taught me how to do that work: how to have something to say about writing, and how to help people improve their own writing. That's just the very beginning of what I've learned from her. On the surface, Jean is a petite, soft-spoken woman, but to know her is to know her clear voice and her ferocious dedication to the people and things she believes in. She lives more gently on this earth than anyone else I know. Over the course of these last two decades, I've been lucky to share countless afternoon teas with Jean, and to walk through her garden with her over and over again. I've received so many insights and inspirations and kindnesses that I can't enumerate them all. Inevitably, much of who I am is linked to the people I come from, but much of who I aim to be is linked to Jean.

It seems to me that there are few people you encounter in life who actually manage to influence the course your life takes. Jean and Char are two such people in mine. In the past month, I turned 40, Char turned 60, and Jean turned 70. Somehow I find that wonderfully symbolic.

A week-long canoe trip down the Raquette River in the Adirondacks,
in the spring of 1999. There is so much about this picture I love...
Char's expression...Jean's concentration...and the many other
hilarious memories it conjures from that trip.

...I made it to yoga today for the first time since August. It's hard to believe how quickly the time goes, and yet, that is the thing to believe: time goes quickly. Don't Postpone Joy. The yoga teacher closed with a mediation that seemed perfect for today, the winter solstice, the day after which the light of each other day grows and expands. "Body like a mountain," she said, "Breath like the wind. Mind like the sky."

Be steady and strong. Be light and free. Be limitless.

Always be grateful.