That Houston Cookie

(I know this is a very strange thing to write about, given I haven't posted in months. But about four times a day I think of something that I want to write about, and I decided if I don't start doing it on the fly, I won't be able to do it at all. So polished these new posts will not be, but at least they'll be here!)

Our daughter absolutely adores music. Her favorite toy right now is a rattle/maraca that she shakes constantly. Her entire body wiggles when I give it to her. At three/four months old, she used to "sing" when I sang to her...she doesn't so much anymore. Now, at seven months, she laughs when I sing to her. I like to think it's because she's happy to hear the song, not because I sound hilariously awful when I sing. I'm just going to continue to believe that.

Given all of this, I know the time will come when she will, like my sisters and cousins and friends and I did, create dance routines to our favorite songs, and re-create musicals in our playrooms and basements. I know Chad and I will wind up sitting on the couch, watching the carpet "stage" and our little girl belt out "Maybe" from Annie and "Doe, a deer" from The Sound of Music. And I'm actually excited about it.

My sisters and I did this all the time. And last month, it all came back to me when I heard that Whitney Houston passed away suddenly. Because there was nothing better to create hilarious dance routines to than Whitney's songs. Not only because, with such titles as "Run to You," "I Have Nothing," and "I Wanna Dance with Somebody," you could do literal interpretive dance to them, but because they were always on the radio, so you could drop everything while setting the table, and do your dance together. Always laughing so hard you can't finish, of course. (I wrote a poem about this, here.) When I was in the 5th grade, a few friends and I were going to start a Whitney cover band. We fully believed people would hire us. I think we even talked about how we would get our parents to carpool to gigs.

When I heard Whitney had died I talked to my sister and we laughed at our small, ridiculous selves. Then I got an email from my Mom asking if I remembered when she used to sing "I Will Always Love You" in the car, every DAY. And oh, did I remember. I was really glad I learned how to drive soon after that. I can't call myself a Whitney Houston fan these days, but it is amazing to me how she was a thread in the fabric of my tweenhood, as I'm sure she was for many, many girls (and boys, I'm sure) who could close their eyes and feel the heat of the spotlight on their faces as they gripped their wooden spoon mics. 

Amazing Cookies: Grace's Quilt

So many times every day I think of things I want to write about and post on this blog. And not until today have I sat down to do so. Right now there is laundry to be folded and a dishwasher to empty, a diaper genie to clean, and thank-you notes to write, but there is a very important story I need to tell, instead.

For almost six years I dealt with a horrendous pain disorder called Trigeminal Neuralgia. I have now been pain free for almost three years and I am thankful for every single one of those days. If I were not pain-free I do not know where I would be right now. I most certainly would not have my incredible daughter. I am more thankful than I can say.

I have tried to stay involved with the online support groups that I joined. I know how important it is to read positive outcomes and even just escape pain for a bit by reading about something happy, so I've tried to continue to chart my success story and write about my pregnancy and about Grace, so my online friends and I could share in the happiness.

About two months ago I got a package in the mail, from an address I did not recognize. Inside was a gift for Grace...a quilt, all different shades of green, with 12 diamonds with different animals in the center of each. It is so intricate and so, so beautiful.

This quilt was made for Grace by a woman named Ann, whom I have actually never met. Ann joined one of the online TN communities and found my blog. After reading my experience with TN and the surgery I had to correct it, she decided to have the same surgery. Now she is pain-free, as well, and has been feeling great for almost a year.

Ann included a square on the back of the quilt that says: "For Grace - May you have many angels in your life...your mommie is one of mine."

I can not express what this gift means to me. I hope to someday be able to explain to Grace what an important and special gift Ann has given to both of us. And I hope that Ann's gift inspires Grace to be someone else's angel someday.

But for now I just wanted to try to write down the story of Grace's Quilt, for inspiration, for motivation, as a simple reminder of the huge differences we can make in each others lives.

Our Little Cookie

A little more than three weeks ago, our Grace was born. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, full of quiet sunshine. As we drove over the bridge to the Birth Center, Chad told me to open my eyes and look at the sun on the ocean. It made diamonds on the surface.

Almost two hours later, she was born, in the water. We laughed and we cried at the same time; holding on to each other, we held her for hours before they weighed her and measured her and covered her tiny feet in ink.

I had thought about those moments for so, so long, since back when she was just an idea. Those moments were more beautiful than I was prepared for. It just felt like it happened the way it was supposed to: during my labor, Susan, one of the midwives, said we would have a morning baby and a Sunday baby, and "Sunday's baby is full of grace." Susan didn't know Grace was one of our name choices. We didn't even know she was a she. But Grace, she was.

Our daughter's birth was beautiful. But one thing surprised me. Grace was placed in my arms, kicking and yelling, eyes closed, slippery and wet. I couldn't have loved her any more at that moment. But I had never seen her before. I didn't recognize her face. And I thought I should have; hadn't she been the one with her foot in my ribs, wasn't she the one who pummeled my insides when she was hungry, who got the hiccups at least once a day? How could I not recognize her?

Hours later, we were alone in our room, in the quiet dark, as we had been so many nights together. She was asleep in my arms. And then she sneezed, and then she hiccuped. And she hiccuped again. And I started to cry. I had known those hiccups for so many months. She really was my Grace.

No longer a part of me, she is her own person. She has become her own person more and more every day, and she will do great things. I don't know what those things will be, but they will happen the way they are supposed to. With diamonds and hiccups and grace.


Grace Lennon Cotter
July 31, 2011
9:43 AM
7 pounds, 8 ounces
19 inches long








(taken by Kaela Tierney)


(taken by Kaela Tierney)

Mothers bake cookies....right?

Not surprisingly, I've been thinking a lot about motherhood lately.

When you're pregnant, you spend a lot of time focusing on this being inside of you--the fact that it IS inside of you, the fact that you are responsible for keeping it healthy and safe, and reading each week about how and what is developing. Your life changes completely as people begin to see your belly and it becomes the sole topic of conversation between you and family, co-workers, strangers, and friends. You also read about and talk about and think about and take actual classes about the big birth...how, when, how much will it hurt and why.

But. Where is all the talk about afterwards? Where and when do you learn how to be a mother? As much as I wish being a mother was all about wearing an apron and baking cookies, it so, so is not.

I've never known myself as a mother. I've known myself as a daughter, as a sister, as a friend, as...me. Even being a live-in nanny was something totally and completely different than being a mother. Being a mother feels so much bigger than all of those things, like I need a diploma, a badge, a monthly pass, AND a government background check. But they're just going to let me go home with a little tiny baby and try my best to do what I think is best. They might check the car seat installation. And then we'll drive away.

And here is where the appreciation for my mother comes in. In fact, she is the one who has been preparing me for this job my entire life. She probably didn't plan on doing that; she was just being herself. She was just being the best mother she knew how to be, and teaching me how to do it in the process.

Being a mother is innate to my mother. She has three biological daughters. But the number of children she has mothered over the years is innumerable. She is the type of person who envelops you in her warmth, who knows the right questions to ask so you can answer the questions that you're struggling with, who truly enjoys the role of motherhood and takes it very seriously. She can schedule like nobody's business. And she is now a grandmother to 4 (and a half) babies, which is the only role that she might enjoy more than mothering.

My mother is only human. Like everyone on earth, she has strengths and weaknesses and both of those things have only made her an amazing role model. And as proof of this, I have two sisters who have slipped into motherhood like a pair of 6 inch Louboutins--soft, powerful, sexy, capable, strong.

I've always been too tall to wear heels. I find this worrisome.

I never knew my mother's mother. To me, she's always been this beautiful young woman, poised and serene in her wedding dress, framed, on a bookshelf. The resemblance between my mother, her mother, and one of my sisters is almost spooky. Her name was Marion, and over the years I've learned bits and pieces about the woman she was. I think the qualities I see in my mother and my sisters originated in my grandmother Marion, evidenced mainly in the look in my mother's eyes when I ask about her mom. They smile and cry at the same time. My grandmother wasn't around to see my mom raise us, to give my mom advice, to reassure her she was doing the right thing. I know how proud Marion would be of my mom, and I know how lucky I am to have a mother to look to, to learn from.

I have moments when I know I can do this. And I have moments when I couldn't be more scared. I have incredible role models. I have always imagined myself as a mother. But I've never done it before. And I hope this little one, someday, will understand that I want nothing more than to do my best. I will even wear an apron and bake cookies. A lot. I'll probably burn some, but I promise that I will get a few batches just right.

Expectant Cookies

It's been a really long time since I sat down and wrote something to post on this page. What has happened in the last few months?

We are currently buried under several feet of snow, like a layer cake of white, gritty frosting, ice, more fluffy white, grit, and ice. My snow boots are now molded to my feet.


In the mornings, I've been wandering into our guest room, the windows bright and almost blinding with the sun reflecting off the snow in the backyard. The ceiling in this little bedroom slopes down to the short wall, and my kitty loves it because the window sill is only a few inches off the floor. The wide-plank wood floors gleam with polish and age--each plank just one inch shy of what was thought of as "king's wood"; one inch shy of being sent back to England.

I love the glow and the silence of this room. Lately, I've been sitting on the bed and dreaming of how this room will look this summer, when it is transformed into a nursery for our little baby.

There is a small little ball of light glowing and growing under my heart. A teeny tiny baby, who, every week, astonishes me with how much it has accomplished. I am such a proud parent already and its eyes aren’t even in the right place yet.

Chad and I have been living with this pride for months (4 of them), and yet it doesn't always seem completely real. But I know this time is special and it is going so fast. In no time we will be tiptoeing into the guest room to listen to tiny breaths. It will be very hot then, the sun won't set until long after dinner, and we will spend a lot of time on the deck, turning our faces to the breeze. It's hard to imagine, in many, many ways.

Until then, I will wear my boots, trudge through the biting wind, and spend my mornings in the sunshiney room, dreaming of what, and who, will be.

S'mores in the Fire Pit: Summers in the Berkshires

Still inspired by my last post, I decided to write about the other set of Grandparents. This piece I wrote about two years ago and came back to it this weekend. This is a home my Grandfather has owned for upwards of 55 years, in an area where he grew up. There is no running water, no shower, no indoor toilet, but there is laughter and memories from my mother's childhood and ours. And I love it there.

This piece is something I'd love to perfect, because I know it's not quite there. So any advice would be very welcome!! (Photo credit goes to my Aunt Pam and Uncle Sean.)


North Chester, Massachusetts

As you arrive you have to honk the horn so everyone knows you’re there, even though yours is the only car to have passed by that afternoon. You honk and everyone puts down their books or their rakes or the wood they’re collecting for the fire and comes up from the yard or out the screen door that closes hard against the doorframe, BAM, which echoes across the road and gets soaked up in the field of ferns.


Grandpa says Heeellllllloooooooooo! And waves and smiles, just as you knew he would. And you can’t help but grin, because that means you’re really there, finally arrived. You pull onto the grass and turn off the motor and the quiet pours in through the car windows. Suddenly even being near the car feels wrong, like you’ve brought some newfangled contraption into a time and place where it doesn’t belong.

The grass smells damp and Grandma takes off her gardening gloves and gives you a kiss, saying ooooooooooh, it’s good to see you! And Grandpa holds your shoulders tight and tells you how good you look and calls you honey. You carry in your bags and your cooler and you fill up the fridge, so old it has a long handle and round door. You bring your bags upstairs, the wooden handrail rattling with each step, the smell of mothballs and cedar and stovepipe surprisingly satisfying.

Later, once people have picked up their books again and settled back into the chairs on the porch, you wander out to join them, still not used to the lull, the calm that covers the field in front of you, slips off the apple trees down by the outhouse.

You sit and hold your hands together to slow yourself, take deep breaths and sip lemonade from a paper cup.

Grandpa holds his hands together in his lap, as you are, and asks you questions. You tell him about your work, about your love, about your drive up, and he nods strongly and says Good. Good. He smiles his proud smile, because he can’t help but be proud, and that makes you glow warm inside, makes you want to go home and do even better.

He points out past the meadow and tells you they saw turkeys, and a porcupine. Your Mom, petting the lab’s head, tracing his nose with her finger, fills in the rest of the story as Grandpa nods. An ant crawls over the tablecloth. You ask if the river is cold, and everyone makes excuses, saying that it’s not so cold once you get in.

You all go down to the river later, out the screen door, BAM, and down the dirt road to the swimming hole. You listen to the water streaming through the dam, the rocks gently knocking against each other in the current. The dogs wade into the swimming hole, lapping the water, stirring up the moss.

You lay your towel on one of the rocks, longways or sideways depending on how you feel about the sun. You sit and open your book and a dog comes over, coming closer and closer as you tell him no, no, go back! He loves the attention, licks your face and shakes water and sand and dog all over. Your sisters and your love laugh.

When your soaked suit is finally dry, when there are no more snacks in the canvas bag, when the light moves from yellow to a deeper orange, you decide to trek back up to the house, where dinner, like an inside picnic, is waiting on the other side of the screen door, BAM.

As always, Grandpa says, Gooood dinner, Ruthie. And even though Grandma has plates full of cookies, everyone knows its time for s’mores. And as always, Grandpa says the fire is just right now, but he slowly rises to go make sure.

Your arms full of graham crackers and marshmallow, you head out the screen door, BAM, and find Grandpa across the road at the fire pit, carving long green branches to a point. They have to be green, he says, then they won’t catch. You all roast marshmallows in the fading light, swatting mosquitoes, blowing out marshmallow infernos, tummies and eyelids getting heavier, until the only light is from the embers and the rivers of stars overhead.

And it feels like midnight but really it’s not so you all snuggle back on the screened porch with candles and flashlights and books and a faded deck of cards. And you have been doing this for as long as you can remember, since before there was even a screened porch to sit on, since before you remembered to remember the sound of the screen door closing hard against the doorframe, BAM.

A visit with Grandpa. And Grandma.

My grandfather is 92. He moved last week into an acute care facility, from his apartment in an assisted living home. He was getting disoriented, falling down, and landing himself in the hospital time and again.

My grandfather's name is Bernie. Bernard Stanton Crone. He's a funny man, and spent most of his years as a traveling salesman. My father has stacks of postcards from my Grandfather's travels. Grandpa Bernie had the most meticulous garage I've ever seen. I remember visiting him, sitting in the garage with him, looking at every tool, every nail, every nut, tucked into a jar or hanging on a peg board. I remember exactly how the garage smelled--like a mixture of oil and wood and pine needles. Grandpa Bernie had a martini every single day, at 5 o'clock. He used to keep his gin, vermouth, and olives in a little gray carrying case with a black handle. He calls us sweethearts, and has the most distinct voice: low and soft and gravelly.

My grandmother, named Margaret but known to my sisters and me as Muma, passed away about 10 years ago. When I think of my Muma, I think of her softness. Everything physical about my Muma was soft: her graying red hair, her hands, her smile and eyes. But she was strong-willed, had strong opinions, a spirited giggle, and a fierce love for chocolate. She wore a lot of amethyst, and had several diamond rings that she would point to and tell me would someday belong to me and my sisters. Muma did a lot of needlepoint, and had a love of birds. Especially Cardinals. She had Cardinals on her sweatshirts, on her window thermometer, on her needlepoint. She gave amazing hugs.

My grandparents met, around 1935 or so, when Muma got a job at a department store. She began to walk to her bus stop every morning, which was on a corner with a gas station. My Grandpa Bernie worked at this gas station. And she caught his eye, getting on and off the bus each day. He finally asked her on a date, and they eventually married and had two sons.

I'm not sure Grandpa Bernie remembers any of this right now. I know he does in his heart. But I'm not sure what is in his head.

I went to visit him yesterday. He asked me, often, what time it was. I would tell him and he would seem surprised, but would nod. I joked that I would try to sneak him a martini at 5 o'clock. And he smiled and laughed.

He said, several times, "So much has happened...".

And it has. But I don't think he knows exactly what.

I held his hand, and he would sometimes turn to look at me. Sometimes he was surprised and confused as to who I was. But twice, twice, he looked at me and squeezed my hand. He said, "thank you, sweetheart." Or "love you, dear." And he would squeeze my hand. And I would squeeze back. That's pretty much all I can do right now. That, and not letting him see me cry.

This morning was gray, and cold, and I made tea and toast and sat at the table, looking out the window into the backyard. Seconds after I sat down, a brilliant red cardinal landed in a bush, directly in my eyeline. It was stunning. It sat there, looking at me, looking away, and back at me.


I know that was my Muma. I know it was.
And because of that, I know Grandpa is going to be OK. Whatever happens, it will be OK. She will hold his hand, and he will call her sweetheart. And they will fly off, together.