The plan
Get married. Work. Save a nest egg. Start a family in three to five years.
Thirty-nine-ish years, two children, three granddaughters, and one very memorable family-planning surprise. Nathan interviews his mom about the job that doesn't end when the kids grow up.
Connie had also been a teacher and librarian, but motherhood was the career she always dreamed about. She and her husband married in August 1986, planning to save money for several years before starting a family. By September, their plans had changed.
Get married. Work. Save a nest egg. Start a family in three to five years.
A baby almost immediately. Connie's explanation? They tried natural family planning — and “naturally had a family.”
Her mother's response helped reframe the shock. The timing wasn't what Connie expected, but she chose to welcome it with joy.
“Just take it one day at a time.”
Exhaustion, exhilaration, overwhelming responsibility — and one small human depending on you around the clock.
Before Nathan was born, Connie wrote down what she hoped to teach him. Not fame. Not a spectacular résumé. Just four things.
So he could save himself around water.
So he could discover other lives and worlds.
A value the family practiced so often the kids could name it themselves.
Not as borrowed belief, but something he could choose for himself.
Connie loved the little-kid years: family dinners, scheduled vacations, and the wonderful simplicity of having everyone under one roof. Then came friends, sports, college, and the slow work of letting go.
Watching children make their own decisions — and face illness or suffering she couldn't prevent — was harder than any chore. She learned that loving somebody doesn't mean controlling their story.
“It's as though heaven meets earth.”
That's how Connie describes spending time with her granddaughters. Ava and Ella stretched her heart. Then Hallie somehow made it bigger again.
Connie pushes back on the familiar advice to cherish every second. Parents get tired and frustrated. They say things they wish they hadn't. That's part of being human.
What matters, she says, is coming back: apologizing, making amends, asking forgiveness, offering forgiveness, and teaching children that relationships can be repaired. Those habits echo into the next generation.
Gardening, reading, puzzles, a book club, antiquing with her husband, and precious time with grandchildren. But when asked what she'll leave behind, Connie isn't thinking about an heirloom quilt.
She wants a legacy in people — the care, attention, and love planted in lives long after she's gone. She also politely declines the obligatory podcast social-media plug. No TikTok strategy here.
“You and Natalie are my greatest delights.”
Some jobs don't come with a salary, a retirement date, or a LinkedIn headline. This one came with a lifetime of love.