Quinn Turns Four

The day before Quinn’s first birthday party was one of our worst days together. She behaved badly all day. She whined at me, pestered me, and bossed me around...a lot. She threw fits of screaming and flailing for seemingly no reason. I can’t count how many times I heard her say, “I can do whatever I want!” 

Between fights, I was working like mad to get ready for her party. Sam and I were fighting all day too--though already I cannot remember what we fought about. What I do remember is that I didn’t want to be near either one of them. I wanted to be alone, doing something for myself. But with ten of Quinn’s little friends due to arrive the next morning at 10am, along with their parents (with whom I hope to remain friends), I had a lot to do. 

It was a bit like her first birthday all over again, but this time I recognized the signs: constant list making, strategizing, ordering and reordering tasks in my mind, frantic shopping for supplies...anxiety. I tried, in advance, to warn Sam; I told him I had high expectations and that it was a sentimental event for me, in hopes that he would just put on a big smile and start anticipating my needs. When instead he wanted to argue with me, or roll his eyes at a request, I went from sane to incensed in record time.  I wanted our guests, little ones and big ones, to be well taken care of. I wanted the little ones to have fun and think Quinn’s party was a good one, and I wanted the adults to not be miserable. But throwing a birthday party for a four year old, it turns out, is really like throwing two different parties at the same time, in the same place. I made cheddar, bacon and sweet corn scones, as well as star-shaped peanut butter sandwiches. I made coffee and Bloody Mary’s, and kept a cold pitcher of water near the paper cups. I put wiffle balls and soccer balls and a crawl-through tunnel out on the lawn, and set up enough chairs on the deck for people to sit if they wanted to. I made cupcakes and cake. I made fruit salad, and I prayed and prayed for sun.

Until this year, Quinn’s birthday parties have always really been our parties...we’ve invited our friends over on her birthday, and we’ve all had a good time. But in this past year, Quinn has attended a bunch of other kids’ parties. She’s picked out and wrapped presents and shown up at bouncy houses, movie theaters and gymnastics gyms. She’s seen some real excitement (or chaos, depending on your point of view), and I feared she had high expectations of her own. 

I had a lot of criteria to consider as I planned. I wanted her party to be fun, but not chaotic. Most of all, I wanted her to be a gracious host, but I didn’t even know if that would be possible. I wasn’t comfortable having people bring gifts, but I was too afraid of her feeling gypped and freaking out, to tell guests to come without presents. I rationalized that it would be worse to have the embarrassment of her wondering why there were no presents, than the embarrassment of having people feel obligated to come with a gift. So, to make myself feel better about the fact that Quinn’s friends would, because I didn’t tell them not to, show up with presents, I bought bags and bags of party favors to send home with them.

I also worried about whether or not the party would be “cool” enough, so I got online and reserved a bouncy house rental for $250. But then, a day or so later, I started to come to my senses. I cancelled the bouncy house and I put the money toward swing set parts. We still have her baby swing hung up by the road. One day when I couldn’t find Quinn in the yard, I called her name. “I’m up here, Mom,” she replied, happily swinging in the baby swing which she had somehow climbed into and buckled up herself. A swing set, I imagined, would be fun for her on party day, and for months and years to come afterward--a better use of the money for sure. Sam and I got her swing set built two days before her party, and we threw a big tarp over it in the yard. It was huge and obvious, but when she asked what it was, Sam just told her it was a new tractor shed and she didn’t give it another thought. She’s used to seeing tarp-covered things in our yard, so this wasn’t a curiosity. 

For days leading up to the party, we tried to prep Quinn for what to expect and how, hopefully, to behave. It was my greatest source of anxiety. In the weeks prior to her birthday, I drilled her on her manners. She had developed the habit of complaining about her meals, and I imagined that transferring directly to her party. I could picture someone handing her a present and her starting to cry, “But I don’t like that!” or “I didn’t want that! I wanted something else…” Every night at dinner, as I put her plate in front of her, I started asking, “What’s the first word out of your mouth when someone hands you something?” If I saw her starting to construct an argument, I would cut her off. “First word?!?!?” I would press, until I heard “thank you.”

On the day of the party we were graced with perfect weather: the sky was cloudless blue. Quinn’s energy was off the charts. While she often refuses to take baths, on this day when we were scrambling to get ready, she decided she had to have a bath--a long and luxurious one at that. Eventually she was dressed, and we unveiled the swing set, again as part of a strategy to help avoid any embarrassing meltdowns. I was afraid she wouldn’t share the swings if she hadn’t had a chance to use them first herself. By ten o’clock, right on time, her friends started to arrive. We welcomed people in and right away the kids started to run around the yard and play. Quinn was beside herself--so happy to have all her friends at her house, so happy it was her birthday. 

We let them run around for a while, encouraged them to eat fruit and star sandwiches, we refreshed coffee cups and eventually made Bloody Marys, and when there was a tiny lull in the action, we sang happy birthday and ate cupcakes. Once the cupcakes were done, Quinn organized everyone for a scavenger hunt. First Desmond, then Oliver came to ask me if they could be on Quinn’s team, so they joined her and all the girls. Robby wanted to be with Mason, “because,” he said, “he’s nice and I like him.” Seve wanted to be with Sam and the big boys. Quinn handed out bags to all the kids and then, when the teams were all gathered around, Sam and I gave them their first clues, sending them in opposite directions around the yard to retrieve their treasures: M&Ms, toy cars and necklaces up by the swing, star-shaped sunglasses out by the wood shed, paddle-balls down by the tractor, and jump ropes in the red wheelbarrow. 

With all their loot collected, it was present opening time...the time I had been dreading for days. I brought a blanket out to lay on the grass in the shade, and we brought the pile of beautifully wrapped presents out too. I took one last opportunity to pull Quinn aside, “what’s the first word out of your mouth?” It was more a command than a question. Whether it was that reminder or Quinn’s own good heart, I will never know, but what I do know is that as we proceeded through the presents, I felt more and more at ease. I had seen the present part of others’ parties get totally out of hand, so I was determined to control the pace. And with that control, all the kids seemed to relax. One at a time someone would hand her a present, or I would pick one up for her and tell her who it was from and, before she tore any paper, she found that friend’s face among the many faces and said thank you...and then she opened things up and marveled quietly over her gifts. And her friends explained what they picked for her, or just stood back and watched. With each additional thank you delivered, I grew more and more proud. And I started to feel bad for underestimating her.

As soon as the presents were all opened, it was like the whole party spell was broken at once. The clock struck noon and ten little people started to look exhausted all at once, so they packed up and we handed out balloons and we waved and yelled goodbye and suddenly everyone was gone. Quinn was asleep in her bed moments later.

In the afternoon, Corey and Kellam came, as they have every year, only this year Fielding came too. And Char surprised us all, dropping in just in time for another round of cake. The party kept going all day.  And at the end of the day, when I laid on Quinn’s bed with her and asked what her favorite part of her birthday was, she said, “all of it,” and I think that was the truth. She also said she loved having all her friends here to play on her swings with her, and she loved “the scabenger hunt.” 

Thanks for the birthday photo Corey Hendrickson

Thanks for the birthday photo Corey Hendrickson

As we relived the joys of the day, Quinn’s thoughts somehow went back to our bad day, the day before. “Do you know why I wasn’t behaving yesterday, Mom?” she asked. “Because all you did was work, work, work. We didn’t do any playing.” She was right, for the most part, and I had to think for a moment about how to respond. I told her “Sometimes before you have a big play day, you have to have a big work day.” She thought for a moment too, and then said, “Oh!” with a sort of genuine surprise, “I didn’t know about that.” It was funny to hear her say, as that was how I was feeling about things too. I didn’t know about her bad behavior being connected to my working too much. And I didn’t know about trusting her to do the right thing with the presents and the thank yous. I thought it was my job to train her, but learned it is also my job to have faith in her. I couldn't have been more proud...the whole day was fun, but her demonstration of genuine gratitude was the biggest, shiniest gift of the day.

Each year on her birthday, I think back to her actual birth day. And I think back to those quiet hours in the middle of the night when Sam was asleep in the bed next to mine, and I was awake holding Quinn, looking into her eyes thanking her over and over again. At the time I was thanking her for making her journey into the world safely, for arriving in tact and okay. What I didn’t know was how much she would be helping me to grow in the years ahead and how grateful I would be to have her in my life.

Happy Birthday Quinn.

I love you.

The Bobcat Kitty

I usually react with skepticism to unsolicited advice people give me. It's a side effect, I think, of my problems with authority. When Quinn was brand new, everyone I encountered who had already had a kid told me to "enjoy every minute," because, they said, "it goes by so fast." Those first days didn’t go by so fast, but these days...these days definitely do. 

The highlight of our brief summer was the much anticipated arrival of our dear friends from Wyoming whom we visited last year. That visit was a huge success on many levels. Quinn and Eloise were adorable together, but also always on the brink of some small violence. Either giggling wildly, or crying. We spent the visit on guard, to be sure there would be no regrettable incidents.

This time was different. The girls talked. They negotiated. They teased and encouraged each other.They still fought some, and pouted some, but they played a lot, and ran off on their own to do things. Eloise has continued to grow into a tolerant older sister type for Quinn, smiling knowingly with a roll of her eyes when Quinn demands to “be the leader!” or choose her bowl first. And Quinn was happy to be the host this time--she has a lot of ideas and a lot she gets excited about; she was eager to share her world with her friend.

Before their arrival, Quinn and I assembled a “summer bag” for Eloise, and I assembled one just like it for Quinn. Nail polish in multiple colors, new markers and paper, some books to read, some beads for necklace making, glow sticks, matching lunch bags for our planned picnics, and some new fairy wings. 

It poured rain for the first twenty-four hours of their visit, so we painted finger nails and toe nails, played with sticker books, watched Eloise run outside to dance in the rain. We cooked dinner, made cocktails, talked fast and loud, our conversations scattered in the chaos and punctuated with laughter. And over the course of the week, we went for hikes, and picked berries, and had bbqs, and played hide-and-seek, and had dance parties, and went to the farmer's market and for night walks, and roasted two marshmallows. And the days went by too fast.

When we said goodbye last July, it felt like we wouldn’t see them again for an eternity. But when they arrived at the end of this July, it felt like only five minutes had passed. Except we noticed, right away, how much time had passed. Last year at this time, the girls, who are 7 months apart in age, looked like this:

...No edges, just soft, round, fleshy faces. Now there are cheekbones where baby faces used to be. And dimpled cheeks and chins. Their noses crinkle. The angles are taking shape. All the days go by too fast.

I still catch myself saying my daughter is a toddler...but she’s not anymore. She’s a little kid. A beautiful, intense, smart, funny little kid. And she is in the midst of some big change right now...some new developmental leap, again. They seem to happen so quickly. Just when I think I’m getting to know her, she evolves into someone totally new. And the Quinn who is emerging right now is amazing me.

She’s still the girl who will go to blows with anyone who wrongs her. Last summer, at an outdoor festival in town, she was playing with a pile of giant blocks. Two five or six year old boys came along and grabbed one out of her hands and walked away. She knew one of the boys from her daycare; she didn’t know the other one, and she didn’t care to. I watched her scream at them as they walked away, and then I watched her run at them. She grabbed hold of the block and gave it her all trying to get it back. Soon she was on the ground, wrestling a much older, much bigger kid; Quinn had not yet turned three. When I went in to break it up, she was outraged that I was pulling her away. She knew the boys had been in the wrong and she was determined to make it right. I’ve watched this play out many times with other kids over this past year too. And I’ve also watched her be the one in the wrong, grabbing something she wants away from someone else. 

Some of her rages, usually directed at us, have been nothing short of incredible...like the two times we had to go to the doctor this year, when she thrashed and kicked and screamed, at the top of her lungs, “Don’t touch me!!!” Or the time recently when she screamed at me because I was making her leave her daycare before she wanted to...she screamed out the door, to the car, into her seat, all the way home, out of her seat, and up to the porch. And she sat there screaming, at the top of her lungs, while I went inside and opened and drank an entire beer...and still when I went upstairs and took a hot bath. She screamed for over an hour and was still screaming after I got dried off and dressed. At that point, I kneeled down on the floor and she came over to me, still screaming and flapping her arms like a deranged bird. Then she sat on the floor in front of me and took a couple of spastic breaths. I asked her if she was ready to talk about it. She nodded, yes. Within a minute, she admitted to having been wrong, apologized for screaming at me, told me she loved me and gave me a hug. Then we went down and cooked dinner. 

That’s what’s new: her capacity for self-awareness and her willingness to accept responsibility for her actions. Her ability to talk things through.

On another day when I picked her up, she ran over to give one of her friends a goodbye hug. One of her other little buddies ran up and said, "I want a hug too!" I was surprised and disappointed when she told him, "No thanks. I'm only giving one hug today." She tried to walk away, but I stopped her. I tried to coax her, feeling bad for the little guy who waited expectantly, a little smirk on his face. She never gave in. I apologized on her behalf to the little friend, tried to make light of it for him. He just turned and ran off to play--no lasting damage it seemed. When we were out of the backyard and out of earshot, Quinn turned and looked at me. "Mom," she said, "I don't want to give hugs to people who are mean..." I felt so surprised and stupid; why hadn't I trusted her? "I'm happy to give hugs to friends who are nice to me, but that friend wasn't nice to me today. Okay?" She seemed surprised too, like she couldn't believe she had to explain something so obvious to me. Sometimes, she's so grown up.

Just like last year at this time, as she was getting ready to move into the older kids’ room at her daycare, Quinn is primed right now for change. And the timing is good because this week she started pre-school, two days a week. 

Back in March, when I took her to her pre-school screening, I wasn’t sure she would be ready. She’s been in the same daycare for three years. She is safe there, and she loves her people. Most days, she won’t leave without giving her teachers (and sometimes her friends) goodbye hugs. When she entered the pre-school room at the screening, and was invited to play with the other kid who was being screened at the same time, she instead clung to me. She climbed on and around my chair for the whole length of my parent interview and, by the time they asked me if I had any concerns about her development or behavior, I’m pretty sure she was draped over my head. “No concerns other than this one, obviously.”

With that memory still fresh, I was nervous about her start at Spring Hill School--a place that has a cult following in our community, and a reputation for “magic." I’ve heard that word countless times from starry-eyed teenagers and adults who seem to get lost in their memories of the place. Quinn isn’t usually starry-eyed...she tends to be a bit more piercing and direct. I worried she’d treat her new teachers like her doctor. Or have a first day throw down with one of the starry-eyed classmates of her future. 

In preparation for the year, Quinn had to choose a name symbol. When I asked her about it one day, without looking up from what she was doing, she said, off the cuff: “sheep.” But then we found out the director of the school is the sheep. Quinn’s next choice was bobcat (having just seen one at her grandparents’ house in Pennsylvania). She's been telling everyone, proudly, "I'm the bobcat kitty!" When we met the director on the first day, I was sure to warn her: sheep and bobcats don’t typically get along.

But they did get along. In fact, Quinn’s first day of pre-school was epic...for both of us. I was worked up like I had been on her first birthday...determined that everything should be perfect, and eager to soak in every single sentimental second of it. Sam, on the other hand, treated it as he does every other day--nothing new, no big deal. But when we picked her up at the end of the day, it was clear it was a big deal...in fact, it was a very big deal.

We pulled into the parking lot and heard her scream to us from the swings. She ran across the playground and up the stone steps and stopped at the top where our paths intersected. She threw her arms open wide and screamed out with joy, “I HAD A GREAT DAY TODAY!!!!” She talked a million miles an hour, nonstop. She wanted to play some more and wanted to show us around. She handed us a drawing she did and explained, "I made it to celebrate you." It was hard to get her out of there, but we eventually did, and she talked about it for the rest of the night, telling us over and over again, “I had a GREAT day Mom and Dad!!! A great day! A really great day! I had such a great day.” 

She was still talking about it this morning when she went back to her regular daycare for her Friday schedule. Alanna was there to greet her, her first teacher and someone I will always love for the way she’s loved my girl. Quinn screamed her news: “I had so much fun! And I didn’t do none cryin’! And I wasn’t shy with anyone! I just talked and talked and talked. I was so good! Actually...I was great!” 

She was still talking when I noticed Alanna’s eyes filling up with tears, and then mine spilled over too. “I’m so proud of her,” Alanna said, “I could cry!”  And I’m so grateful, I thought (but didn't manage to say), for all the people and experiences that are helping her shine.

"...So much sunshine to the square inch." -Walt Whitman

Ripe, Sweet Fruit

When I was teaching liberal arts classes at the New England Culinary Institute, I read a book with my students called Epitaph for a Peach. It was written by David Mas Masumoto, a second generation peach farmer from California. One of the students who read the book with me, a young man named Michael, was from the same area as Masumoto’s farm and, after completing his six-month internship back home, he returned, with the rest of his class, for graduation. I have a vivid memory of Michael running toward me that day. He had gathered his classmates before me and assembled us on the sidewalk outside the inn. Then, with great care, he pulled a peach out of a brown paper bag. He had held the bag on his lap for his entire cross-country journey, hoping the peaches would make it to our hands unbruised. As he explained the story, he pulled out another peach, and another, and handed them out. They were the very peaches we’d all read about together--Masumoto's peaches. They were softball-sized and heavy with juice, and we ate them right there in the middle of the celebration, each of us hinged forward, trying in vain not to get juice all over our clothes. It was a ripe and delicious moment that comes to mind vividly even now. 

Slicing peaches in my kitchen the other night, for a peach and raspberry pie I baked for visiting friends, I was struck by how many lives we live in this one short life, and how chronological time gets somehow reconfigured in the scope of our memories. My culinary school job seems like a lifetime ago, but I can still taste that peach on my tongue. On the other hand, it feels like only a year or two has passed since Sam and I built this house, yet recently, driving down our road, I noticed all the neighbors’ dogs seemed suddenly old. When did their muzzles all go white? Thinking it over, I realized: we’ve been running this gauntlet of dogs for seven years now. And that means I’ve lived longer in this house than any other place I’ve lived. For someone who has craved a sense of rootedness all her life, this milestone feels meaningful. The memories I make here daily feel ripe and sweet too.

There is a spot up the road where a microburst blew down a section of woods a few years ago, leaving behind a sunny open place that has produced a seemingly endless raspberry patch. There are more perfect berries than you could ever pick. Standing in the rain, filling a two quart bowl the other day, the savory-sweet taste of raspberries brought me back, as it always does, to the patch behind my grandparents’ house on the lake--the patch we would pass before going down the stairs to the dock. Eating them, I am young again, my sister even younger, and my mother and grandmother are nearby. Somehow they come back to me here the more this place becomes home.

And home for me now is as much about Quinn as it is me. The memories we create here will be what she carries with her into her future. I want them to be sweet and just right. I want them to be happy, as mine are. 

Last week I took her on her first hike. I have hiked many places, with many kids, and I have loved each experience--even the cold, wet, scary ones, in the end. But hiking with my own kid was something entirely different. Following the advice of a friend, I took her on a day when we had nothing else to do, so we could take as long as we needed to. I gave her the choice of going to school, or going on a girls’ adventure with me, and I packed a picnic to eat at the top of Sunset Ledge. The hike is just over a mile each way, which seems long considering Quinn barely makes it to the end of our driveway most days before she asks for a “hug-carry.” Fortunately, when we arrived at the trailhead, the mountain-magic kicked in: Quinn motored up the trail, scrambling up and over rocks and roots, and was determined to do it all on her own. I followed behind her, most of the time with my hand held out just behind her back. If I accidentally touched her, she scolded me, “I’ve got it, Mom! I can do it myself.” Halfway up, she said, “I love it here, Mom! Thanks for taking me.” I smiled the whole way, totally unable to contain how proud I was of her.

A couple of nights later, we took her out in the canoe for an evening paddle. We hadn’t gotten her in a canoe for any length of time since the first time we took her when she was ten months old. As a baby, and since, she’s refused to wear a life jacket, but after three years, I’ve learned a few tricks. I allowed her to pick out her own new life jacket. She picked a hot pink one with a shark fin on the back because, she said, “it’s funny.” Fortunately it also seems to float. 

I also packed a lot of snacks for the ride, and padded out her seat on the bottom of the boat.  The night of our paddle on Blueberry Lake, Quinn told us, “Hiking and canoeing are my life!” Given what the world is like, given the chaos and the clutter, I would love to think this will somehow prove true. For now, I’m savoring the sweetness that is, trying to make this version of my life last as long as possible.

For Father's Day, I'll Let Him Speak for Himself

Sam’s lacrosse team has gone to the championship game of the state tournament three times in the past four years. Always his team is a mixed bag of boys who have played some lacrosse before, and many who never have. Because of the ski season, they start playing two to three weeks later than all the other teams in the league. And because we are a boarding school, these boys play together as a team for the first time here, unlike some of our opponents who have been playing together for years. In recent years, the team has tripled in size from what it was when Sam first arrived at our school. And while he usually has one other young ski coach around to help drive vans, and keep the stats in the book, maybe do some drills with the kids, Sam coaches by himself. Other teams we’ve met in the championship game have had a sideline full of coaches. We just have Sam.

Photo credit: Jill Maynard Nolan

Two years ago, we won the state title in a game that was, literally, unbelievable. We’d had a great season. We’d lost only one game in the regular season and then beat that same team in the semi-finals. The year before, the boys lost by one in the final game, and so in 2012, they were primed to win. But we were down by one goal as the clock started to run out; I couldn’t believe it was happening again. I couldn’t believe we’d made it to the championship a second year in a row, only to lose again by one goal. But then the unfathomable happened: with only 1/100^th of a second left on the clock, one of the boys put the ball in the net and tied it up. We lost our minds. And the momentum of that tying goal was enough...with almost no time elapsed in the sudden death overtime, we scored and won the game. It makes me tear up just thinking about it. 

Last year, we lost in the semi-final, but that was a minor hiccup in the long view of these past four years. When this season began, last year’s season-ending loss faded in the distance as we won game after game after game. We won all eleven games of our regular season this year. And then we won the first two of the championship tournament. In our semi-final game, against another strong team, we won with ease; the boys played beautifully, connecting with each other as if they’d been playing together for years. Our record going into the championship final was 13-0...an accomplishment the school has never seen before.

Two years ago, when we won the title, I was determined to write about the victory here, but somehow I never did. I wanted to record the story, for the future Quinn, of what a great coach her dad is, and what a good luck charm she seemed to be: since her arrival in the Gumby fan base, they had gone to the tournament both years. That year, 2012, the only game they lost was the one she didn’t attend. When they won that emotional championship game, after the boys dumped a cooler of water over Sam’s head, after Sam, who is relatively unemotional on the field, hugged players all around him, I handed the not-yet-two year old Quinn over the fence to our Athletic Director who set her down on the turf, and I watched as she worked her way through the legs of giants to find the legs of her dad. He picked her up and held her in his arms when the team posed for photos, and he held her in his arms as the team accepted its trophy. 

Amazingly, she seemed to know what had just been done.

This year, the championship game had a different feel. We hadn’t lost a game all year. We had already beaten the team we were playing, but still we knew it could be a tough game. What we didn’t know going into it is how things outside of our control would affect the outcome of the game. We didn’t know that we wouldn’t get credit for one of the critical goals we would score, because we never could’ve imagined that with four referees on the field, it would be possible for such a goal to go unseen. Evidently, it was. And evidently, the ample photo and video evidence, and the reaction of the stadium full of people would not count for anything. Evidently the goalie for the other team was never asked whether he’d let one it, and evidently he didn’t feel compelled to tell anyone. The game was tied with three seconds left on the clock when the other team scored a goal. It was the 7^th goal they scored in the game. We “scored” one for them by having a ball fall out of our goalie’s stick and drop in behind him; so the scoreboard, for our opponents, said 8. We scored 8 goals, but only got credit for 7. 

In the days since this game, I’ve been struggling to make sense of the disappointment and my sense of the injustice of it all. Struggling to deal with my frustration for the lack of accountability for the refs who altered that game. Sam has been going over it again and again too, but he has done so with the composure that so many people who encounter him on a lacrosse field always notice. When he asked me to proofread the letter he wrote to his boys, the night after the game, I knew immediately I wanted Sam’s thoughts to be the thoughts saved here for the future Quinn (with his permission):

Guys,
I’m assuming lots of you are still feeling some of the sting from last night--I know I am. I also know, from my time on a lot of lacrosse fields, in a lot of places, over a long period of time, and also from life in general, that this sort of disappointment is part and parcel of being an athlete and being a human.  Things don’t always work out--we don’t always get the results we want, or even the results we deserve. The goal that the officials missed last night hurt us--through no fault of our own.  That’s deeply frustrating, but it’s also part of being alive and being a competitor.  There will always be factors that are out of your control.   

And the truth is, before we start crying too hard over our fate, there were a lot of factors in our control, factors that we didn’t turn to our advantage.  It’s hard to make sure that every factor you can control works out for you in every game, over a fourteen game season; you guys did an incredible job of doing this for thirteen straight games--in the end, the one game where we didn’t do our job as well as we could have is also the game where some other factors came into play.  Unfortunately, this game is the one we wanted the most. 

It’s clear that the officials (or at least the person who is responsible for the officials) are well aware that factors beyond our control impacted last night’s outcome, but it’s also clear that that is not going to change the result.  Perhaps knowing that will change how you feel about it--that’s something each of you will process in your own way, individually. 

What I am feeling is just an enormous sense of gratitude for having had the opportunity to work with all of you and to go on the sort of run that we went on this spring. I imagine that each of you will undertake future endeavors that will follow a similar sort of trajectory--a whole lot of hard work, leading to a whole lot of success, but in the end, the ultimate goal might (or will) prove elusive.  Would you go back to the beginning and stop yourself from starting in the first place? I hope not.  This is where we learn resiliency, determination, toughness. It’s also where we learn about the value of the relationships we form with teammates.  Those relationships are far more important than whether we won or lost last night. Looking at how that game, and its result, unfolded, each of you should be able to see that a single game’s outcome can be totally arbitrary (up to the gods, if you will) but the work you and your teammates share is not.  That’s the real result I hope you’ll focus on.   

Again, thank you for giving me the chance to work with all of you guys this year. I’ll leave you with two quotes, from a couple of my favorite people--one is a former president, the other is a spaced out kayaker who has done some incredible things on this planet. 

Take care of yourselves, and each other, 

Sam 

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”  -Theodore Roosevelt

"You've got to be big enough to be small enough to let the world be awesome and it will"  -Jim Snyder

Photo credit: Jill Maynard Nolan

Congratulations team, on an incredible season. You made us all proud.

"You're Good at Vacuuming"

"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, 

but people will never forget how you made them feel." -Maya Angelou

We were finishing up dinner one night last week, having some homemade chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Sam was drying dishes and putting them away. Quinn was on a stool at the island in our kitchen. I was somewhere in between. “You make good cookies, Mom,” she said. “I do,” I agreed, shamelessly. “I’m the best cookie baker you’ll ever meet!” 

“Yeah, you’re good at cookies Mom. And, Dad...you’re good at vacuuming!”

This stopped us in our tracks. I let out a surprised laugh. Sam looked confused, at best. Then I started thinking: Quinn meant it as a compliment, genuinely. And Sam’s face seemed to say, “Geez, that’s all I’m good at?” Almost instantly I realized how great this was. I explained it to Sam: growing up with a dad who is good at vacuuming (as well as a number of other things), means Quinn will grow up with the expectation that dads, and therefore men, vacuum. And maybe they even do the dishes, and a few other household chores. It means she will be less likely to end up with a man who believes it’s entirely her responsibility to do those household chores. It means she’ll grow up expecting a partner, not a boss.  It may even mean that she grows up challenging preconceived gender roles. Pretty soon, Sam seemed okay being the guy who was good at vacuuming. And, ironically, soon after that conversation, I found an article online titled, “Dads who do chores raise daughters who aspire to high-paying careers.” 

The next day, I was still thinking about it all, and I started thinking about my own dad. I don’t remember him vacuuming exactly, but I’m sure he did, along with plenty of other things around the house. One of our rules was that the person who made dinner didn’t have to do the dishes. And I remember a lot of summer evenings when my parents would leave together after dinner to go play tennis while my sister and I cleaned up. Not only did they share the work, my parents were also active together. And they encouraged us to get out and do things too. When we moved to a town with no girls’ swim team, both my parents encouraged me to join the boys’ team. I knew they were proud of me when I swam against the boys, and perhaps especially so when I beat them. I never felt like there was anything I couldn’t do just because I was a girl. And I always felt like it was worth fighting for my place in the world. That’s how I was raised.

And I’ve been working to raise Quinn that way too. When a recent Atlantic magazine arrived with two women on the cover, and an article called “Closing the Confidence Gap,” it made its way to the bathroom where most of our magazines spend some time. Quinn, like her dad, enjoys a good magazine in there, and when she spotted the picture of the two women, she wanted to know all about them. We’ve been talking about what it means to be confident for weeks. I’ve been telling her that being confident means knowing that you are smart, and strong, and independent, which means you’re good at doing things by yourself. When I heard her in the bathroom the other day, I went upstairs to see if she needed any help. When I arrived, she told me, “I did it myself Mom, because I’m confident.”

I’ve been reading her books with female characters, telling her she’s strong and smart instead of always pretty, and I’ve been working on myself too to be sure she sees me leading a healthy, happy life at home, at work and in my free time. But I realize that no matter how much I try to tell her that she just needs to be confident in herself, there’s the rest of the world she has to deal with too--all the people who will try to limit her or make her feel bad for possessing those very traits I want her to have. 

The timing this week was ironic: it was the same week a young man went on a killing spree in California, targeting women, because they had never done what he wanted them to do.  No matter how confident those young women may have been, they couldn't compensate for the killer's lack of confidence. It was the same week our school's campus blew up in a hot mess over some student-written op-ed pieces in which kids tried to make sense of their feelings about sexism, and which soon descended into kids making public attacks on each other--boys attacking girls because they felt attacked. Soon they were right back where they started: he said-she said, and us against them...some kids left frustrated they didn't make any progress, but not realizing their effort was progress itself. This week was also, ironically, the week the indomitable Maya Angelou died--a beautiful and powerful voice for the beauty and power of all people.

Quinn needs such voices (we all do), and she needs to be able to see examples of how things should be. This is where Sam’s vacuuming is so important.That and her own instincts. Today we had a birthday party to go to for a four year old boy from her daycare. I asked Quinn what she thought her friend would like for a present and she said, “Well, he loves snuggle buddies!” I thought about it and realized that nearly every time I see this little boy, he’s squeezing a stuffed animal in the crook of his arm. Still, I was thinking trucks or something like that would be a better (more well-received) gift. But, when I brought Quinn to the store, I decided to just let her choose--he’s her friend after all. 

There was a huge display of perfectly sized stuffed animals. Bears, monkeys, weird looking gremlins...and there was one white kitten with pink ears. When it was present opening time, the birthday boy was inundated by kids eager to give him their presents. About halfway through, after a bunch of trucks and light sabers had already been unwrapped, Quinn worked her way to the front of the pack and handed him her gift. She stood next to him as he opened it and all the other kids looked on. I looked on nervously too. When he got the paper opened up, he immediately squeezed the kitten to his chest. Then he brought it over to his mom to show it to her; she had to remind him he had more presents to open. Quinn found me in the crowd, with a big proud smile on her face. I picked her up and squeezed her, “He liked his snuggle buddy, Mom,” she said, pleased with her gift. I was pleased to know that she hasn't yet left that happy, safe time in life when each person gets to just be who she and he wants to be.

For half of the party we watched a new Disney documentary about grizzly bears. I was sitting on a couch between two moms, with four little kids stretched out on our laps, watching contentedly for an impressive amount of time. Eventually they started moving around in the open space of the theater. The footage on the screen was spectacular: massive wide angle views of Alaska--mountains, rivers, forests, ocean--close-ups of bears, wolves, eagles, and fish. It was mesmerizing. The kids kept getting closer and closer to the screen. After a while, one and then the others climbed onto the little stage directly below it. They got as close as they could and looked up at what must’ve been, from that angle, massive and breathtaking. I could see Quinn in among them. At one point, she stood with her arms reaching up over her head, as if to touch all that wild nature towering above her. It was a stunning image...all those tiny people, girls and boys, still unhindered by expectations and limitations, staring up at big wilderness...all of it uncharted territory. So much possibility.

"Nothing will work unless you do." - Maya Angelou

Your Mother's House

It’s Friday morning and I’m in class. My seniors are doing their weekly forty-five minute writing exercise. Each time we do it, I give them a prompt to start from. Today, two days before Mother’s Day, I’ve given them this: Write about your mom. What do you appreciate about her? What do you miss when you’re not with her? Describe the times when you call her, or find her in the house to talk. 

As an afterthought, I’ve allowed for this possibility: Maybe you and your mother are not close...why do you think that is the case?

I sit here wondering what they are writing about their moms, and I wonder too how Quinn might respond to this question ten or twelve years from now. I hope she won’t choose the afterthought.

Inevitably, I’m sitting here thinking too about the conceptual intersection between my daughter and my mother. As I always am.

Soon after we returned from our April roadtrip, with stops at her grandparents’ house on our way to and from the beach, Quinn asked me, “What is your mom’s name?” I reminded her. “Claire. Remember? You have her name in your name.” I showed Quinn her picture again. In the past when the subject of my mother has come up, Quinn’s questions have been limited to what she can see: why is she holding that puppy? what color is her hair? This time was different. “When can we go to your mom’s house?”

It was funny, in the absurd way, to think about the possibility that I simply hadn’t chosen to bring Quinn to visit my mom--as if I had never gotten around to it, or for some reason didn’t want to go. But her question was sincere, and she waited for my answer. I didn’t really have one prepared.

“She doesn’t have a house anymore.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t live anywhere anymore…”

Obviously, Quinn didn’t understand. I offered up heaven, but that didn’t really work; perhaps she could tell even I didn’t know what I was talking about.

In another conversation recently, Quinn said, “Remember that time we went to the movie with your mom?” I was surprised by that question too. “Yeah! Mom! Remember? It was the movie about the planes.” Sam and I looked at each other across the counter. The movie about the planes was the first movie we took her to see. I loved the idea of my mom being there with us, looking on, smiling as she always is when I dream about her. The dreamer in me allowed for the possibility that my mother had been there with Quinn and Quinn knew it--that the two of them had found a way to meet in some sphere beyond what the skeptics could perceive. 

Wanting proof, I asked more questions. I was hopeful. But eventually I realized what Quinn was probably remembering.  “Was it the movie we saw with Mary?” I asked, “And her daughter Claire?” 

“Oh! Yeah,” she smiled, “that was it.”

This time, as I tried to explain where heaven was, things started to fall apart. My eyes watered against my will. Quinn studied my face, concerned. I said, “heaven is kind of everywhere,” but even I could hear my statement sounding like more of a question than an answer. She didn’t understand, of course, and I didn’t really expect her to. How do you explain to someone who is just starting to appreciate what it means to be alive that everyone who is alive must also die? How do you explain to your child that her mother won’t always be there? 

Maybe you don’t. 

“I don’t know how to say good bye,” I told my mom in the hospital. “You don’t,” she told me. “When you love someone this much, you don’t say goodbye.”