It was October 20, 1995, and I was walking around Triangle Lake at Camp Jewell with my mom and my very stubborn daughter, Bridget — who, at that point, was refusing to be born.
She didn’t care that my mom and dad had flown in for the “main event,” expecting her to arrive neatly on schedule. As we were about to learn, babies rarely follow calendars. The days slipped by — one, two, three, four… then a week overdue. My dad, weary of waiting and bound for work, reluctantly flew back to Minnesota without meeting his first granddaughter. My mom, though, was steadfast. She wasn’t going anywhere until Bridget did.
After a fruitless doctor’s visit and some vague advice to “take a walk to get things moving,” we returned to my home at Camp Jewell and set out around the lake.
As my mom tells it, I chose the worst possible shoes for our little expedition — slip-on clogs that slid off with nearly every step. But at that stage of pregnancy, they were all I could bear. Our timing wasn’t great either. The sun slipped behind the mountain as we rounded the far side of the lake, and soon we were swallowed by darkness, stumbling over roots and rocks, guided only by the faint shimmer of moonlight — and my mother’s rising panic.
At one point — because I’ve never been known for perfect timing — I mentioned that rabid raccoons were fairly common in the wilds of Connecticut. My mom immediately grabbed a massive branch and began swinging it at every rustle in the woods. More than once, I had to duck to avoid being clocked by her makeshift weapon. I realized pretty quickly that sharing that detail might not have been my best idea.
Eventually, we made it back safely. To this day, on Bridget’s birthday, my mom still reminds me of that night — the walk, the dark, the ridiculous shoes, and the very pregnant daughter who set off every Mama Bear alarm in her body. She had to muster every ounce of strength to protect her baby (me) from every imagined danger in those woods.
The next morning — in a story for another day — my beautiful Bridget finally arrived, in a spectacular and dramatic fashion that once again tested my mother’s courage and resolve. She still says the memory haunts her.
And there I was — October 2025 — almost thirty years later. Waiting. Wondering. Standing in the same emotional space my mom once occupied as I waited for the arrival of my grandson, Rowan, who was due any minute.
The fear and tenderness were so close they nearly blurred together. I found myself overcome as I watched Bridget cross a street or navigate a crowded sidewalk — wanting to reach out, to protect her, knowing I can’t protect her from what lies ahead. I finally understand what my mom must have felt — that wild mix of helplessness and fierce love, the deep, primal ache to keep your child safe.
My mom, of course, delights in reminding me of the karmic justice of it all — and she’s not wrong. I could not wait to meet my grandson, and knew all would be well. But when you love someone as much as I love Bridget, worry is simply part of the job description. Sending her to Chimney Corners and watching her grow into the remarkable, steady, and wise woman she’s become has taught me the art of letting go — of trusting her strength, her instincts, her courage.
And that practice — that slow, steady loosening — has prepared me for this moment. To stand close, but not hover. To support, but not steer. To marvel, more than manage.
We’ve been held by so many wonderful people along the way — friends, mentors, and family who have wrapped us in kindness, wisdom, and love. For that, I am deeply grateful.
Jackie Kennedy once said that having a child is like letting your heart walk around outside your body. Bridget can now understand just how true that is.
And through it all, I’ll be right there beside her, watching her discover what I now know to be true: that love doesn’t divide with each generation — it multiplies.
