Thanksgiving

For a short period of time after college, I worked in a corporate library at a management consulting firm at Copley Place. I was commuting into the city, trying on a working girl’s life, missing the mountains and open spaces of Vermont. At lunch time I would go to the Boston Public Library, to sit on a bench in the inner sanctuary of the open air courtyard. It was a magical place, somehow impervious to the city sounds just over the walls. 

For the past four years, I have been trying on a working mother’s life, no longer commuting, but navigating other challenges instead. None of them insurmountable, so far, and none without the balancing effect of joy, but always on the run nevertheless, trying to catch each day’s “next train.” And so this morning, after waking up rested in a Boston hotel, I find myself trying to prolong the last hours of this brief sojourn, tucked in from the weather here in the Bates Room of the public library, this still and still-magical place. 

In a room full of people, there is silence, save the occasional hum of a wooden chair sliding in or out from a long oak table. The arched windows glow with pre-storm light from the city outside. And I sit here trying to imagine what my life might have been had I stayed in the city all those years ago.

It is a great privilege, I realize, to have passed through forty-three years of phases without a single substantial regret. I regret not learning Spanish when I was a kid. I regret not taking a Bible as literature class in college. But these are regrets I can still address. All the other decisions I’ve made have led me to good places and good people. Each step has been forward. Each step has brought me great joy. How lucky I have been.

These past two days here in the city were planned months ago as part of a determined effort to hold back the unexplainable blues that still somehow, in spite of it all, rise up for me in the grey transition of November, and to celebrate the many good fortunes of my life. In previous years, I’ve scheduled doctors’ appointments and done chores. I’ve watched another anniversary and yet another birthday pass by, and I’ve often felt lonely in my reflections on the inexorable advance of time. That is one of the risks of feeling so lucky; it’s easy to feel vulnerable too. 

Last year I decided I would do this November differently. I would use this time not for tasks that remind me how short life is, but instead to slow it down and breathe it in. Our first planned stop was a couple of weeks ago: a spa weekend with Quinn. She had never stayed in a hotel before, and had a hard time believing there could be such a place: with three pools, indoors and out, and two restaurants all under one roof. She couldn’t believe her good luck when she heard there would only be one big bed and we’d all have to sleep in it together. In advance, I bought her a white spa bathrobe and scheduled her first pedicure. I asked her how she thought she would feel having a lady she didn’t know touch her feet. She thought about her answer before giving it. A smile spread over her face, “I think I’m going to like it,” she said, with a smirk. For weeks leading up to our check-in day, she would ask me when she woke up, “Is today spa day?” And eventually it was.

On the night when we returned home from the spa, lying with her in the dark, after her books were read, I thanked her for going with me. She popped up off the pillow surprised, “Thank you, Mom, for taking me!” I asked her if she wanted to know what my favorite part of our weekend had been. I told her I most loved the time after her toenails were painted when she was sitting on my lap in the big chair, and she laid back in my arms, warm and relaxed, and let me snuggle her while the lady painted my toes. “Do you want to know my favorite part?” she asked. “My favorite part was when I was sitting on your lap and getting my toes painted!” That one memory was the highlight for us both, which of course made it sweeter still.

This week, the adventure has been for just Sam and me--a brief return to life before Quinn, thanks to many incredible generosities: My dad and Louise have been watching Quinn. We stayed two nights in a lovely hotel, which was a gift from friends. And we got to see a Bruins game from the Reebok box at center ice with my cousin Paul and his daughter Jen--an experience I will enjoy again and again, for as long as I have a memory to hold it. “Thank you” never seems to really do the trick at times like these. 

We’ve wandered the city feeling grateful for two days. We visited a favorite former student who is now at BU. We tried on hats in a hat shop and laughed as we haven’t done in weeks, and we made a spontaneous stop in a basement bar on Newbury Street for lunch. Last night we ate at an amazing restaurant, slurping oysters harvested from the coastal waters of my childhood, and sipping champagne from who-knows-where. This morning we sat in bed reading, drinking coffee and eating scones, savoring each slow second of quiet as it passed by.

That is what I still miss about my pre-Quinn life: the slow, quiet mornings I used to enjoy. The endless hours of reading...But if I’m remembering those times honestly, I remember also feeling as if there must’ve been something else I was supposed to be doing. I felt, oftentimes, a little guilty for indulging in prolonged stillness, and a little anxious about what I might be missing. Now, when I have the chance to sit quietly and read, I do so gratefully. And I know exactly what I’m missing...that’s what makes it so easy, eventually, to put the book down and head home. 

I have so many things to be thankful for that I've lost count, and in spite of all the words piling up here, none of them really communicate the gratitude I feel every day.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. 

xo

Her Sense of Self

“You’re a crazy young woman!” I heard Quinn say to herself this morning. 

And then I heard her respond, in a slightly different voice:

 “I’m not a crazy young woman. I’m Batgirl!”

One of the ironies here is that before I got out of bed this morning I was trying to think of what stories I wanted to preserve from this past month, and one that came immediately to mind was Halloween. The other irony, obviously, is that in talking to herself, as she walked around the house, she was demonstrating her craziness, which was also kind of batty. Quinn’s evolution continues to entertain, inspire and challenge us, and I hope it always will. 

Sometime last month we had our first parent-teacher conference, and we were eager to hear what her primary teacher at her new school would have to say. We were eager and a little nervous; she is a powerful force--for better and for worse. Fortunately, her new teacher is known for dealing well with kids like Quinn, the especially strong-willed girls. And from the first minutes of our meeting, I knew she understood our girl. “Quinn is really smart,” she said, “And she really likes routine. And, she’s a little bit tattle-taley.” 

She grinned at that last part while we laughed and processed. I reminded her that Sam and I are both teachers, and that we can handle the truth. “You don’t have to code it for us; you can say manipulative instead of smart.” But she didn’t modify. We talked through the details, and agreed on it all. One of the details was that Quinn spends much of her time telling other kids what they should and should not do. Her teacher painted a funny picture: she will be doing something in the kitchen, for example, and Quinn will show up by her side. “So-and-so is doing xyz!” she’ll say, waiting for her teacher to be horrified and jump into action. Instead, her teacher will casually look down at her. “I know,” she’ll say, as she absorbs Quinn’s shock at her indifference. “I’ve got it under control, Quinn, you don’t have to worry.” Her goal for Quinn, she told us, is for her to “work on just being a kid.”

The problem is, Quinn doesn’t really think of herself as just a kid.

Last year for Halloween, Quinn wanted to be a butterfly. She didn’t really get what Halloween was all about, so I bought her some wings and pants in the same color and she was satisfied. She looked pretty and sweet, but the butterfly didn’t really match her personality. This year she wanted to be Batgirl. This year when she put her costume on, I felt like I was looking at her inner being shining out...a little dark, a little bit alarming in her confidence, ready to take flight to fight for what she believes is right. 

The emphasis here is on fight. She is a fighter and, while I don’t always love having to fight with her, I love that she is not afraid, love that she has strong beliefs, and love that she will let no one walk on her, or on anyone she is determined to protect. 

On Halloween this year, we took Quinn to the local trick-or-treating mecca. The town closes the road to traffic, except for the tractor-pulled wagon that hauls kids from one end of the road to the other so they can trick-or-treat their way back to the beginning. We went with friends: Quinn’s pseudo-sibling and his parents. As soon as we were off the wagon, we reminded the superheroes of the drill: go to the door, say trick-or-treat, hold out your bag, say thank you. They only needed to be told once. 

For the rest of the night, the two kids were at a full sprint. While other kids walked down driveways with their parents, Quinn and her buddy cut across lawns at full speed. His mom and I could barely keep up, and we didn’t know whether to panic or laugh as we watched, from a distance, as our kids would burst through people’s front doors and disappear into their living rooms. The dads walked slowly behind, drinking beer, happy in their own conversation. I think I laughed the entire way back to the car. 

Afterward, we all went out for pizza. A little hopped up on candy and adrenaline, a little close to bedtime, the kids were wired. But, we made it through dinner without any blow ups between them. The only blow up was theirs directed at me toward the end. I made a rookie move and gave them each a piece of candy after dinner was done--I thought both families were on the same plan: eat some real food, then you can have one treat. But we weren’t on the same plan and when Quinn’s friend was told no, he burst into tears. And so did she. Tears were inevitable at some point, so at least they happened as we were all getting ready to leave. I kept trying to calm her down, “Why are you crying?” I whispered, “you can still have your treat in the car!” Batgirl was outraged, “I’m crying because he’s crying!” she demanded, incredulous that I had to ask. Quinn lectured me all the way home about the importance of checking with moms and dads first. 

I know she’s just a kid, and I want her to enjoy being a kid, but I also want to appreciate her for who she is. She has strong intuition, she understands things, and more and more when she encounters frustration or difficulties, she’s willing to “talk it out.” And if I’m organized, and can help her prepare for what’s coming at her, she shines. 

And the best news of all, is that when she sees herself, she sees herself smiling.

One of my many hopes, as I imagine her into the future, is that she will keep learning to use her powers for good.

Weddings & Funerals

In late August, a few weeks before Sam and I flew to Wyoming for a dear friend’s wedding, I got a call from that dear friend. I hadn’t talked to him in a while; ours is a friendship that has lasted seventeen years on sporadic phone calls and cryptic notes. It is a long history of laughter and meaningful conversations, mostly disguised in teasing and practical jokes. Like the one I thought he was playing when he asked me, that night on the phone, “Do you want to marry us? It’s okay if you don’t, but if you don’t, you can’t come to the wedding.” He burst out laughing then, the obvious thing to do after saying something so absurd. But then there was a weird silence. “Well?” he asked.

We went back and forth for a while: Wade insisting he was serious, between peals of laughter, and me mostly saying things like: Shut the hell up!...You’re not funny...No really, how are you? 

As the “discussion” went on, I was silently scrolling back through seventeen years of memories, many of them from the time when we lived in neighboring condos at a ski resort. Like the morning I went to go to work and found a giant snowman built in the bed of my truck. Or the many nights he would throw snowballs at my windows, as if I didn’t know it was him. Or all the stupid things he’d ask me to do because he knew I would want to prove that I could--like paddling his metal canoe down the snowmelt-swollen river around midnight with at least a six pack of beer, or the time I drove my truck straight up a grassy hill while he fell over laughing. 

There were other times when I saved him and his roommates from themselves, like the night Wade and Corey and Todd all sat around feeling grumpy with headaches after they built a wall of snow bricks, sealing in their porch from the outside world, and sealing in, as well, the exhaust pipe from their propane heater. When we left that “lord of the flies”-like existence, it surprised me and pleased me that our friendships persisted. Wade and Corey would go off and have big adventures, and then randomly one or the other would call, or show up. When they showed up together, it was trouble. Like the time I went to go to work and found the 20 ft. Christmas wreath that had been on the front window of the bank, now on the front of my house. 

Once I started thinking back, the memories just kept coming. Like the time Wade showed up and handed me a dead grouse that he had just run over in my driveway and suggested we have dinner together. Or the time when he was driving from Vermont to Colorado for the winter and he asked me if I wanted to keep him company on the ride. I agreed on the condition that we drive through the Badlands on the way--well, not exactly on the way--a decision I momentarily regretted when we got pulled over in South Dakota and told to stand on the side of the road while the cop and his dog searched Wade’s van. Wade barely moved his lips as he whispered to me, “If he asks you any questions, don’t say a word.” On that same trip, we argued over whether or not we should go an additional forty-five minutes out of the way to see Mount Rushmore. Wade insisted it would be dark. I insisted it was the kind of thing that would be lit up. It was January, and late at night, and we drove to the top of an empty parking garage and sat in his van and looked at the stone faces all lit up. A security guard came to see what we were doing. He was nice and we talked for a few minutes, but then he said goodbye, he had to go “turn off the lights.” As we drove away ourselves, we wondered out loud, “did he mean those lights?” And in the rearview mirror, we watched Mount Rushmore disappear one stone face at a time.

By the end of the phone call in August, I was 95% sure that Wade wasn’t kidding and he really was wondering if I would officiate his wedding. I had been looking forward to relaxing on this trip, to having absolutely no responsibilities. We were leaving Quinn with my dad and Louise for five days. I was so desperate for the break, I was even looking forward to the air travel--something normally stressful seemed heavenly when I imagined I wouldn’t have to keep track of Quinn, and I could read a book, uninterrupted, all day long. At the wedding I imagined being invisible--watching the festivities from a comfortable chair in the back, Sam on one side, Corey on the other, nothing to do but smile and soak it all in. But with this, I was in the hot seat again--a job to do, out of my comfort zone, wondering at what point I would be exposed, again, for having fallen for the latest of Wade’s practical jokes.

I went through a predictable pattern: disbelief, frustration, anxiety and then, eventually, a determined resolve. I got my “credentials” online, I pulled out and studied the wedding ceremony our neighbor Stephanie wrote for us, I emailed the bride and groom a bunch of questions, I enlisted Corey’s help and moral support. Two days before the wedding we were en route to Jackson, after saying goodbye to Quinn and my dad who, at the time, was waiting for news of his brother, my Uncle Dean, who was in the hospital and hadn’t woken up in two days. It was a hard time to leave him. My dad and my uncle were close; he loved him of course, but admired and respected him too. I had seen it my whole life, but especially last summer when they visited together in Vermont. I hoped Quinn would provide some humor for him in those difficult days, and not prove to be an added burden. I felt guilty for leaving, but he insisted we go.

We took a bus from NH to Boston to catch our flight. My head was in two places--trying to think of what I would say in Wade’s ceremony, and thinking of my Uncle Dean and my Aunt Marion and cousins. Because they were coexisting in my thoughts, I wondered what advice my aunt and uncle would suggest I pass on to my friend. Their marriage was a long one, almost sixty years long and, by virtue of time alone, it was a great success. In all of my memories of them, they are laughing and making jokes...even when life was hard. Wade and my uncle would have gotten along well. We had a three hour layover at JFK and before our next flight, the ceremony was written.

When we eventually made it to Jackson on Friday afternoon, the ranch was bustling with people getting things ready. Siblings and friends all had jobs and ours was to rehearse the ceremony. We drove down the road and walked out to where the ceremony would be, next to the Snake River, in the cottonwoods, with the Tetons as background. Corey, Sam, Natasha and Wade and I went out there and pieced things together. A while later, Corey and I drove a van to the airport to drop it off for another of Wade’s friends arriving later that night. On the way, I tried to practice what I’d written, but I couldn’t get through the line where I imagined telling Natasha, “you’ve chosen a man who will be a loyal friend.” Or the part where I would try to say something about how marriage is sometimes work, but that “it is good and meaningful work. Work you will feel lucky to have.” Gratitude is one of the few things that renders me speechless, and just about everything makes me cry.

Saturday was a perfect day. The sun was shining as Corey and I set up the chairs by the river for our friend’s wedding. We had the place to ourselves for a while, and being there with him helped me get over my nerves. And we had Natasha and Wade to ourselves for a while in the morning too, and being with them as they rushed around, doing their final tasks, laughing and loving each other as they do, I felt fully the honor that it was to be asked to be part of their important day.

A few hours later I helped my trickster friend marry his beloved, and I felt renewed in my own marriage having given such careful thought to what it all means.

Later in the day I was talking with Wade’s sister Melanie, someone I had long heard stories about but had never actually met. We were standing on the periphery of the activity, looking out over the family and friends who had gathered from so many places. I felt a connection to her right away, and was eager to know her firsthand. “I’m so glad to be getting older,” she told me, as we talked about the many phases of life. It was an observation that made me think. Usually the advance of time causes me some anxiety. Everyone gets older at the same time; the babies are suddenly no longer babies, and the elders advance precipitously. But something in her comment rung true for me as well. Life is, undeniably, too short, but the older I get, the more I am able to appreciate the moments that make it up. The person I was twenty years ago, even ten years ago, would have seen it all so differently, with a much lesser sense of just how much it all means.

After the wedding, Sam and I drove from the high Wyoming plains south toward Salt Lake City to fly home. As we wound down through Logan Canyon, through sagebrush country and high rock cliffs, my thoughts were once again back east with my family. My Uncle Dean’s life support was stopped that day and it was hard not to think of him slipping away as the miles slipped by on our drive.

When I had a private moment with my cousin Paul a few days later at his father’s wake, I was surprised by his perspective. “It was such a privilege to be there with him,” he told me, “such a privilege to be present for that, you know?” When I sat next to my mother as she was dying, I didn’t think it was a privilege; I was angry and scared. But I was younger then and now I am better equipped to understand what Paul was saying; I used to see everything through my own lens, but more and more I see what’s going on around me as what is going on for others. I too am glad to be getting older.

The day before my Uncle Dean didn’t wake up, he had visitors with him all day. My aunt was there, of course, and some other family and friends. They played games in the hospital room. They laughed. It was the first day he’d been so upbeat in weeks. He smiled a lot, felt happy, insisted on doing things for himself. When he said good night that night, the future was brighter for all of them. A nurse saw him late in the evening and again in the early hours before sunrise. She noted that he was still glowing from his joyful day. A few hours later, when she went to check on him again, he was still sleeping, and after that he never woke up.

My cousin Paul told that and other stories from the alter at my uncle’s funeral. He tried hard to do it without crying, but he didn’t make it. It is the curse and the blessing of the family genes; the Litchfields feel things deeply. While it’s messy sometimes, I see it as a wonderful gift. And how funny to have this gene coupled with the family's sense of humor. As Paul tried to compose himself, his wife, and his uncles (my dad among them), made wise cracks from their pews to lighten his load. Just when I thought I would die of sadness watching my aunt cry, my Uncle Du leaned up and offered her a tissue, and he promised her "it's not even a dirty one!" As we mourned together, we laughed together too. It’s the only funeral I’ve ever been to that felt a bit like a comedy show--with my uncle’s grandchildren walking the wrong way down the aisle, my cousin Brian and my Aunt Marion returning to the wrong pew after receiving communion, my cousin Colette not knowing the words to the prayer she was supposed to read (and was supposed to have had provided for her!), and Paul’s wife Mary making political wise cracks about her father-in-law just loud enough to be heard and appreciated by the family in the first few rows. I have no doubt my Uncle Dean would’ve had a good time.

When I was younger I was so obsessed with proving my own independence that I was reluctant, if not unwilling, to follow any pre-determined paths. I didn't see the value in these rituals and I thought I would always be happy doing things my own way, in my own time. From where I stand now, I’m really grateful for the fact that I’m not doing things on my own, and grateful too for all the rituals I’ve been allowed to participate in. It really is a privilege to be present in other people's lives, and to bear witness, to every wedding, every funeral, every life well and kindly lived.

Wade & Natasha, congratulations!

And Uncle Dean...

We miss you. xo

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