Mother's Day

Quinn's 8th grade graduation, June 2025

Existing in a family means existing in a near-constant conflict of interest. You come into the world with no choice in the matter, and you spend the rest of your life trying to exercise agency in the pursuit of your own survival. Mothers and their children are in some ways biologically at odds, with the mother’s job to hold on and protect, and the child's to extricate herself from the hold, lest she suffocate. It all feels primordial to me, with my “intense” and “ferocious” love for Quinn (words that Sam used to describe me this morning), and her tangibly growing capacity for a life of her own. 

Thinking of Quinn this morning, I felt grateful that her arrival in the world made me a mother. And yet I realized, in the instant after that thought, that she had had no say in the matter. If I had really been able to objectively, and with informed foresight, think about what kind of world I was bringing her into, and ultimately leaving her to deal with, I’m not sure I would’ve thought it was a smart (or fair) idea. And I’m not sure I would’ve been able to say honestly that she’d be getting a good deal. 

The world looked different in early 2010 when she was embryonic. The cursed iPhone was only 2.5 years old at that time and no one had yet imagined the world we see now—where kids grow up staring at phones, probably in the company, or shadow, of parents who do so as well. We didn’t see that their lives would become an online minefield of too much information and exposure. Instagram was unveiled a month after Quinn was born, and we didn’t know how that kind of technology would change the way we all experience the world—how we would come to see (and judge) others and, even more destructively, ourselves. We didn’t know how it would overwhelm, and distract our efforts, and habits, as parents and those of our kids. We just didn’t know what it would all mean. 

I feel sort of okay, but not great, about how long we held out on a phone for Quinn. She was thirteen when she got hers, at the start of 7th grade in 2023. She was one of the last two kids in her peer group and plans were no longer being made by moms; it was a way for her to communicate, and be included. Her first social media didn’t enter until two and half years later, halfway through 9th grade (this winter), and that was, and is still, only one messaging app (Snapchat). I wanted to hold out forever, but there is always the nagging question of what is worse—to have the phone and enter the fray, or not have it and be isolated and left behind. For my only child, who lives in the woods, isolation is one of my worries (and hers). And for my only child who endured the isolation of Covid for two masked years, I will probably always feel a desire to pay her back for that—for the worry, for the solitude, for the lost time with friends and family, for the metastasized tendency to feel she’s failed or done something wrong. 

She asked for the app politely and then waited patiently for months while I gave it deep consideration. Ultimately, that process allowed me to realize, slowly, that she was ready—she understood that I needed time and she kindly waited, without ever nagging or complaining. It was that maturity that convinced me when I eventually succumbed. That particular conflict of interest Quinn won by avoiding conflict; sometimes you win by ceding control.

There are other things too, besides the phone, that were beyond my comprehension when I was contemplating motherhood, including the political landscape we find ourselves in now. And the climate crisis. I can’t say much about these realities without succumbing to rage or despair, but certainly I didn’t imagine raising a daughter in a world that seems more sexist and bigoted than any I’ve ever known, and where natural disasters happen nearby rather than somewhere far away. And where people’s rights and dignities are disregarded, and basic needs overlooked. All of this is not really what I had imagined the future to look like; and if I had, I probably wouldn’t have thought reproducing was a good idea.

And yet Quinn was, and is, a good idea. The best idea really. The best idea I’ve ever had.

At this point in time, I recognize Quinn may only have three more years at home. And she is reaching (in often thoughtful, and compassionate, and responsible ways) toward that world beyond my grasp. She has a job (since last summer, when she was 14 and just out of 8th grade). She is learning to drive. She does good work in school and has earned the recognition and admiration of her teachers, and she is playing high school sports—soccer last fall and lacrosse this spring. She is a gracious co-host when we have dinner guests, an attentive cousin when the boys (from either side) are around, and she is usually a compassionate and insightful partner in our family of three—capable of empathy for those who need it (me) and also capable of defending those who occasionally need that (Sam).

Recently Sam decided to give away Quinn’s swing set, to a guy who was looking for one for his daughter. He invited the guy over to check it out, and then (after the fact) asked me if that was okay. As has been true with many projects, the swing set was something I envisioned for Quinn, researched, shopped for, and had all planned out. And then Sam built it and made it real. We covered it with a giant blue tarp and told her it was a storage shed for the tractor. We kept it hidden until her 5th birthday—a day when we had a giant inflatable castle delivered to the front yard and invited a million little friends and their parents over for an afternoon scavenger hunt, tea party, bouncey house and swing set good time. It was so busy I don’t have any photos of the unveiling of the swings, and probably also because I did not yet have an iPhone in my pocket. Still, I do remember Quinn joyfully grabbing air with her legs and pumping her way toward freedom. 

This was Quinn's 5th birthday, when we gave her her swing set.

This was her 6th birthday, a year later, but it's the only photo I can find of the swings!

Yesterday morning, Sam loaded up the disassembled swings and hauled them away. Quinn was off to a lacrosse game—the first one I felt I had to miss, in order to get caught up on grading. I was alone in the cabin. Sam sent a note: “Swing delivered. Hope I never see it again!” Admittedly his “good riddance” was the result of dropping it on his achilles tendon while attempting to take it down and nearly breaking his own leg. Still, there it was again—the sharp contrast of views we experience as parents. Sam excited to keep moving forward, and me wanting to stop time. My own Achilles.

The reality is that this ninth grade version of Quinn is probably my favorite version yet. I suppose I have felt that way at every stage, but this time I really mean it! She is an amazing young woman and there’s no one I’d rather be with. It’s hard for me to imagine how I’ll go on without her once she goes. And yet, all the things she is experiencing now, and approaching soon, are some of my favorite moments from life. While I wasn’t particularly fond of my high school, I felt so powerful in those years. My early fragmented sense of self finally coalesced and I felt kind of, well, superhuman. “Try to stop me,” I thought often, “I dare you!” And getting my driver’s license, toward the end of high school, was my first taste of real freedom, the most delicious and exhilarating joy! I drove with the music loud and the windows open and in my memory of it, I was always smiling…smiling like a slam dunk. And then there was college…life just got better and better.

That’s the thing—I loved it all. I had a ravenous desire to consume the world and every experience I could possibly have. We didn’t have phones to distract us then. And our parents weren’t crippled by the heavy burden of too much information, about too much tragedy. My dad’s philosophy for parenting was “what I don’t know won’t hurt me,” and that worked just fine for me. And my mom gave me luggage as a graduation gift after high school—easy come, easy go. Though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t quite so easy for her; I'll never know. What I do know is that I feel dread mounting by the day--my fingers curling around each good conversation, or funny story, or day on the sidelines watching her play. I know I’m experiencing anticipatory grief. Three more years is not enough, not even close, and I don’t want to let her go. And yet I also want Quinn to experience all the thrills and wild joy that I had. Her own money in the bank, her own music playing loud, the windows open, the road stretching out in front of her, all of it—pumping her legs to grab the air, leaning back to look at the sky, higher and higher, ready to launch. I want her to have it all. 

I just might die when she goes.

(But I probably shouldn't tell her that.

I don't want her to worry. Or feel guilty.

I should probably just buy her luggage, 

when the time comes.)

To Be Honest...

2024 started last January on the heels of a very strange Christmas of 2023 with my family. I was in the basement with my sister, cleaning things up as we both prepared to leave with our kids and husbands, and I saw my childhood Christmas stocking sitting on a dresser. It was curious—my stocking had always been hung up somewhere in my dad’s houses. In fact, it had been a topic in an earlier year when Sam and I first had our own house—the first home since I had last lived at home. I casually mentioned that I might bring my stocking to Vermont so I could hang it alongside Sam’s, and maybe Quinn’s too; I can’t remember the exact year. The idea upset my dad, and the question seemed to offend him. I had thought of the stocking as mine and hadn’t realized it meant something to him too—of course it did, I see that now. He told me that he thought our stockings from all those happy Christmases as a family should stay together, and with him, and we would see them when we visited. Fair enough. I liked that it mattered to him; I was happy to leave it. But in the Christmas of 2023, it was in a ball in a basement. I assumed they had just forgotten about it as they unpacked all the other holiday decorations—no big deal. I mentioned it to him, joking around—something about my being relegated to the basement, or being chopped liver, who knows. But he froze. And he looked at Louise. And it was weird, for a moment.

A short while later, as we were getting ready to say goodbye, my dad tried to hand me the stocking. “Here, take it with you,” he offered, but I was confused. I didn’t want it. I was just joking about it. I liked that he had wanted to keep it all these years—no need to change that. We went back and forth awkwardly, as we sometimes do when we’re having a hard time communicating what we’re really thinking or feeling with each other. He was holding it out to me. I refused to touch it. My eyes started to water and I walked away—outside to catch my breath. I think he followed me. Said something vague about Louise not being herself lately. I was more confused and felt the expiration on our visit. I hustled Quinn and Sam and Buddy along to the car. Everyone came to the driveway, as they always do, to say good bye. From one to the other we move along, say goodbye, get one last hug. My dad. Amy. Scott. The three boys. Then Louise. I can’t remember where her arms were—either by her sides, or bent with her hands in her pockets—but I remember distinctly that she froze. I leaned in to hug her and saw her stern face out of the corner of my eye, felt the stiffness in her frame. It was brief, but undeniable. I got behind the wheel, confused and upset, and drove away in tears trying to breathe. Sam and Quinn rode silently while I experienced whatever I was experiencing.

Sometime in January my sister called. Somehow it was her job to tell me the news that Louise had been convinced, since October, that I had stolen something from her—a book…and maybe some other things…maybe a lot of things…maybe it had been going on for some time. My first thought was: WHAT!?! And my second thought was: Oh god! She must have a brain tumor. Something is obviously wrong. Amy agreed. We each talked to my dad. And I spent the next few weeks trying to figure out how to proceed—I was worried about her, even more worried about my dad trying to deal with whatever was happening on his own (as he insisted he try to do), and also worried about her perception of me.

Back in late October or early November, my dad had called to ask me, sort of casually, whether or not I’d inadvertently picked up a book of Louise’s when I visited for his birthday. “No,” I responded quickly, knowing I had not brought any books home, and knowing too that I would never borrow a book without asking. The book was Where the Crawdad’s Sing he told me and with that I was even more emphatic. “Oh, no, I hated that book and already have a copy; I wouldn’t have picked that one up.” Until January, the topic never came up again. But Thanksgiving had been a little bit weird, and Christmas had been very weird, so clearly the topic had been plaguing them. 

My dad and Louise had been arguing over this for months without my knowing, and the arguing continued. I felt glad to know my dad had never doubted me—he knows me well and knows that I’m a terrible liar (and therefore don’t lie), and I had never been a thief. The irony of the accusation is that for my whole life one of the criticisms I heard most often from people was that I am “too honest”—a concept that is hard for me to understand. There is honest and not honest, and I have always been honest. In relationships, both casual and not, both personal and professional, it turns out people prefer a little “less honest” or are less eager for me to say out loud the honest thoughts I have in my head. In my good humored moments, I’m able to laugh at this irony. I’ve spent much of my life hearing that I’m too honest, and now I was being accused of lying. As much as I appreciated that my dad had been going to bat for me, trying to defend my honor, it was increasingly clear that doing so was tearing them up and apart, and I didn’t want that either. 

In the early part of 2024, I felt sad for him and for Louise. Dementia has long been among my top three greatest fears and I imagined it must be terrifying for her. In mid February, one day when I was in my cabin looking at my books, I spotted my copy of Where the Crawdad’s Sing. I really had hated the book, but I pulled it off the shelf to leaf through it. Inside the front cover there was a handwritten note from Louise, on Sugarbush stationery, thanking me for loaning it to her. I remembered the August a few years back (before Covid) when they had come up to spend time with Quinn as Sam and I started back at school. I arranged a condo for them up at the resort so they could spend time at the pool with Quinn and easily walk to restaurants for meals if they wanted to. She must’ve needed a book to read while she was here for the week. When I found the note, proof that her memory of my connection to this book in her life was confused, that I had loaned my copy to her, rather than stealing her copy from her, I almost drove to New Hampshire straight away, but I realized that it wasn’t going to matter. I did convince my dad to let me come down to try to talk with her though. 

I considered the idea that I might just tell her I took it by accident and give her my copy, but really I am not someone who can lie, and I didn’t think that would make things better anyway. Instead I tried to be compassionate, even while being honest, and in the face of that, sitting with her and my dad at their dining room table in the middle of a weekday in February, I watched her vacillate between anger and restraint. In the course of the conversation I reminded her of what she had once said to me when she and my father were dating, or perhaps newly married, and living in her condo. She told me I was a bad guest because I hadn’t adequately cleaned up after myself, and I tried to use that in my defense—to point out that I was never too casual or too comfortable in her house. She was shocked I would accuse her of such an ungracious thing, but it was a turning point in my life that I remembered clearly.

I can’t remember what precipitated her giving me that feedback, but I was caught off guard when it came—I always made my bed, but apparently she had expected me to strip it, or something more, and I had fallen short. When that “bad guest” accusation was delivered I realized I would never be “going home” to see my dad again; from then on I would just be visiting him—an invisible rubicon had been crossed. And ever since then I have been a somewhat neurotic guest, stripping sheets, bringing used towels (if I use a towel) to the laundry room, always jumping up to do the dishes, and being hyper-vigilant with my husband and daughter to be sure they don’t move or leave anything out of place. But my defense strategy didn’t work (likely too honest) and instead she accused me of having been stealing things from her for years, and even telling me I had a disease: “It’s called kleptomania and for a long time I have been thinking you need a doctor!” 

It was an incredibly tense conversation, but by the end she offered that we would “just need to find a way to move through it,” and I agreed. After about ninety minutes, it was time for me to go; I asked if I could hug her and she said yes. I told her I loved her. It was better than the Christmas hug and I left there feeling hopeful, though not exceedingly so.

As the year continued on, Louise underwent a number of doctors’ visits and cognitive and psychological tests. In all of them, evidently, she has passed with flying colors. She is intelligent and high functioning and, with everyone other than me, including my sister and even my husband, she is warm and sociable and charming. With me she is guarded and suspicious. We went from Christmas to Easter without seeing them. At Easter I brought Quinn and Buddy down for a visit. I have not told Quinn the extent of what’s going on, other than to say Louise has had a few confused memories, in an attempt to preserve her grandparents for her. But Easter was difficult. Louise barely looked at me and certainly didn’t speak to me. It was very hard to be in someone else’s home when clearly I wasn’t welcomed there. I tried to give Quinn and Louise space to enjoy each other’s company, but it was strained for all. My dad felt terrible and that was hard for me to see. Buddy stuck to me like glue and I was incredibly grateful for that. If I moved from the table to the sink, he moved with me. If I went to the bedroom, he went too. He was a sentinel at my side at all times—both a comfort and a validation that the energy in the house was indeed way off. 

The next date on the calendar was Father's Day. Amy and I talked about going to see him, just us, and simply taking him out for lunch—something simple that wouldn’t require work and wouldn’t, hopefully, upset Louise, but he asked us not to come. The price he would pay in arguing with her was evidently too high a cost. That is probably the time when my own perspective started to shift. The empathy and compassion I felt, for the most part, up until then, started to give way to anger. I’ve endured long periods of silence, and also surprise phone calls while I’ve been at work with her insisting that my dishonesty is ruining her life and my father’s life and their marriage and I had better fess up. For the most part I’ve stayed away and just looked forward to the clandestine phone calls I’ll get occasionally from my dad when Louise is out of the house for a short period of time. He calls whenever he can, but he’s warned me that with a shared computer, emails are not private and when she’s home he can’t speak to me openly. 

At the end of October, having missed his birthday, Sam and Quinn and I were driving by their house on a Monday morning, on the way home from a spontaneous concert in Boston the previous night, and I suggested we stop in to just give my dad a hug. I miss him all the time. He was surprised to see Quinn at the front door, but he welcomed us in for coffee and a visit. Louise was in the shower and he seemed nervous. I insisted we couldn’t stay and though I stepped inside the front door, I never left the doormat. After a few minutes, Louise appeared on the other side of the room. She was stern and never fully came into the room. Her hands were crossed in front of her hips. She was curt, told us she had to be on her way, she was headed to a doctor’s appointment. I ran out to move my car out of her way and left Quinn and Sam to try to insert something of a pleasantness to our surprise visit. Then I returned and rushed them out and we were on our way. Later that day, or maybe the next, I got an email from her—she couldn’t believe that I was unable to honor her “simple request” that I never show up unannounced…I only vaguely remembered that she asked for that and likely because I wasn’t thinking it applied to a “we were passing by and just thought we’d say hello” kind of visit. It was meant to be a nice surprise for my dad—an unexpected hug, a reminder that he is loved. Even that is no longer allowed. And while we just made it through Thanksgiving and Christmas relatively unscathed, at this point I mostly resent her and the fact that she is holding my father hostage. Rationally, I know this is a precursor to something difficult in her health, and I want to be compassionate. I also know that I have spent a lot of time wondering what I could have done, in earlier times, to plant this seed of distrust in her. She is not experiencing this with anyone else, so maybe it is my fault?

Almost two weeks ago Quinn and I were on the interstate headed north to walk around Burlington and take in the Christmas spirit. Sam was driving students to the airport for break, and it was snowing. We were going slower than usual—probably 50-60 mph—and driving in the righthand lane. Out of nowhere a white SUV came flying up on our left, swerved in and crashed into my side of the car with a sudden smack, and then went careening off the road into a deep ditch. I kept us on course but watched as the other car was about to flip over. I thought, oh no, that person is about to get very hurt! But then they didn’t flip, and the car somehow sped up, climbed back out of the ditch and came flying back onto the interstate like something out of a movie. It fishtailed for a moment, almost hitting us again, before straightening out and speeding up to take off out of sight. I flashed my lights over and over, no longer worried but now mad. Calmly I told Quinn to pick up my phone and write down: KKA 627. Then I was pissed. We drove to the next exit, in Williston, and went to the State Police barracks. From the parking lot, in the snow, I assessed my smashed mirror, scratched door and the small dent. I made the call and reported the accident. The police officer said, to confirm, “and you exchanged insurance information with the other driver, correct?” Ha! No. That maniac, I told him, never stopped. 

On Christmas Eve as we headed to Montpelier for dinner with Sam’s family, the state police called to let me know they had located the other car and they planned to knock on the owner’s door that evening; they would keep me posted. I hung up feeling terrible. What if the driver was the father of young kids? Why did they have to do it on Christmas Eve? Certainly it could wait a couple of days. I felt sad the rest of the evening, thinking about the other family. The day after Christmas my insurance agent called me to let me know the other driver’s story was a bit different from mine. When confronted by the police, he said I had swerved into his lane, knocked him off the road, and in spite of his having gotten to a safe place to pull over, I never stopped. He accused me of the hit and run! I couldn’t believe it! But Trevor, my insurance agent and a former state police officer himself for thirty years, said, “Ah, don’t be surprised. I mean what choice did he have at that point?” The choice to be honest, I thought. Honesty is always a choice. 

And yet, the following day, when I was driving to Burlington to get my haircut, I kept replaying the event over and over in my head. Had I swerved into his lane? Was I to blame? Did he stop? I did the forensics in my head for miles: did the marks on my car show that I hit him, or that he hit me? I’m not sure why I’m so prone to feeling guilty, but I am. Fortunately Quinn was with me and her memory of the event was clear. “No Mom, you didn’t hit him. He hit you.” In the moment when it happened, as she watched the road ahead of us, she asked “Did we just get hit!?” If I had swerved, my fourteen year old daughter, quick to be disgusted with me, would have told me so. 

2024 hasn’t been easy, but there has been so much more to it than these two things. 

Quinn finished 7th grade and started 8th. She has continued boxing with King, she had a good spring soccer season and was then invited to play on a select team in early summer. She has continued to spend time with a big group of friends and has started to see that group expand a bit (and evolve a bit) too. 

In April we watched the full solar eclipse from our backyard, as we were right in the line of Totality—an event that drew more than 160,000 people to Vermont. I took an exercise class in Stowe and met Tammy—my now physical trainer who is helping me move my body again. Soon after that, we went to Miami for a week and, in spite of all of my efforts to make it fun, Quinn mostly resented the fact that she was missing school to be there. 

In May I drove to Maine and bought myself a puppy for Mother's Day. Because we had a family of bears living on and around our school campus all spring, it seemed obvious to name him Bear.

In June, after another teary annual visit to the doctor, I finally started using an estrogen patch and for the first time in 8 years started to sleep again. In July, on the anniversary of last year’s devastating flood, Vermont endured another one—though this time the Dowsville headwaters (streams and brooks that surround our house) were among the hardest hit. We lost multiple culverts and bridges and about 20% of our road, though our house and our nearest neighbors’ houses were fine. 

Soon after that, Quinn and I visited Amy and the boys in Plymouth and then we took Quinn and 7 of her friends to a lake house in Quebec for 3 days…another thing that I screwed up, but that actually worked out alright. 

In August I spent time at Char's lake with Quinn (one perfect day) and with Char. 

In September Quinn turned 14 and had a house full of girls to celebrate her, and I was Char’s +1 for a beautiful wedding in the Adirondacks. I also managed to get both reluctant husband and recalcitrant daughter into a canoe for one blissful paddle on Green River Reservoir, that even they had to admit they enjoyed. Bear and I loved it!

October was a blur of school and Quinn’s soccer games, which culminated in a 2024 highlight: the spontaneous trip to Boston, on a Sunday night, to see David Kushner in concert—Quinn’s first concert of an artist she loves. And we loved it too—it was loud and exciting and packed with people and we ate tacos at 11:30 pm afterward. We sang his songs all the way home to Vermont the next day until we dropped Quinn off at school at lunchtime and made it to our afternoon commitments, smiling.

In early November I went to Colorado for school before returning home to celebrate my 17th wedding anniversary, and my 53rd birthday by going to Quebec City with Sam and Quinn…again, some resentment from the teenager, but also some brilliant and happy moments too. 

For Christmas this year I asked my family for coupons for family adventures and they both obliged. I’m determined to use them all—to force us to be together, if that’s what it takes, to make memories, to have some laughs in the midst of the crazy that the world is and will continue to be, and to try to enjoy the time we have while we have it. That’s what I’m taking from 2024.