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It Started With a Little Girl Named Elliot Carter

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From the moment my first granddaughter, Elliot Carter, was born, I was completely, hopelessly obsessed. I had loved before, of course. I had raised children of my own. But becoming her NaNa changed the way I saw childhood and, if I'm truthful, the way I looked back on my own years as a mother.

I began noticing everything. The little expressions. The funny quirks. The wonder over things adults don't even see anymore. The tiny accomplishments that made her impossibly proud. The moments that seemed ordinary until I imagined never getting to see them again.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something that hurt a little: I hadn't always noticed those moments the first time around. I was a single mom trying to make a living and raise my children. I loved them fiercely. I celebrated them. I showed up. But I was busy surviving.

And when you're in the middle of raising children, nobody tells you which ordinary Tuesday will become a memory you'd give anything to visit again. You don't know that this laugh is one you'll someday struggle to remember the sound of.

That this little face will change.

That this season will end.

You think you'll remember it all. You won't.

 

Then I Became NaNa.

Maybe that's part of the magic of grandchildren. We finally understand how fast it goes.

With my grandchildren, I have the perspective I didn't have when I was raising my own children. I notice the little things now, the things I once might have walked right past.

And with Ellie, sports gave me a front-row seat to so many of them. When she competes, I can see the nervousness before anyone else would notice it. She shifts her weight from foot to foot. There are tiny nervous habits her family knows because we know her.

Then the judge salutes. And something changes. She puts the nerves somewhere else and does the thing she loves.

Afterward, I can tell how she thinks she did before anyone tells me a score.

If she isn't happy with herself, there's the slightest drop in her shoulders. Her smile comes quickly, almost like she's putting it there because she knows she should.

But when she knows she gave it everything, and she's proud of herself?

That smile is Elliot Carter.

That's the moment.

Not the score.

Not the medal.

Not whether every toe was pointed.

Her.

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Did You See Me?

Years before Ellie ever stepped onto a competition floor, my son played basketball.

I can still picture the day he made his first three-pointer. What I remember most isn't the shot.

It's what happened immediately afterward. He found me in the stands. Our eyes met, and his face lit up with a smile that said everything:

Did you see that, Mom? Did you see me? Are you proud of me?

I saw him.

And all these years later, I can still remember that look.

But I can't replay the moment.

There was no phone recording every second of our lives back then. No video waiting in my camera roll. No way to bottle that little boy, that smile, and that exact second before life carried us both forward. I would love to see it again.

And maybe that's why I feel so strongly about what I create now.

Because our children's biggest moments aren't always the ones that look big to us.

Sometimes they're big simply because they were big to them.

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The Moments That Make Them

Sports have a beautiful way of giving us those moments over and over.

The tears.

The falls.

The “I'm not good at this.”

The getting back up.

The hours of practice nobody applauds.

The frustration just before something finally clicks.

The fire in their eyes when they talk about the sport they love.

The pride when they accomplish something they weren't sure they could do.

The exhausted smile that says, That was hard, but I did it.

Those moments are doing more than creating athletes.

They're creating people.

Confidence. Resilience. Courage. Discipline. Joy. Character.

And while we're driving to practices, packing bags, sitting through meets, juggling schedules, finding uniforms, buying snacks and trying to get everybody where they're supposed to be on time, it's incredibly easy to miss what's happening right in front of us.

They're becoming who they're going to be.

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Why Elliot Carter Exists

My life didn't follow the path I expected.

For years, I believed I knew exactly who I was and what I was supposed to be doing.

Then one chapter ended.

At the time, I couldn't see where that ending was leading me.

I can now.

I believe things happen for a reason. And I believe with my whole heart that everything I've been - the mother trying to make it through, the teacher, the woman whose plans changed, and finally this completely smitten NaNa - was leading me here.

Because now I see the moments.

And I can't unsee them.

I see the ones a tired mom might not realize she'll miss someday.

I see the expression on an athlete's face that says more than the medal around her neck ever could.

I see the seconds parents and grandparents assume they'll remember forever.

And I know how quickly forever becomes "I wish I could see that one more time".

That's why I make what I make.

Not simply to display an achievement.

Not just to hold a medal, a photograph, or a video.

I create them because the moment will be gone.

The child will grow.

The uniform won't fit.

There will be another season, another level, another team, another chapter.

And eventually, what once filled your entire week will become a story that begins:

“Remember when...?”

I want to give families a way back.

Back to the nervous feet before the salute.

Back to the smile after the first big accomplishment.

Back to the routine they practiced a thousand times.

Back to the little voice saying, without actually saying it:

Did you see me?

Yes, baby.

We saw you.

We were there.

We were so incredibly proud of you.

And this time, we remembered to keep the moment.

 

Jennifer
NaNa, maker, and the heart behind Elliot Carter