Oral History

On Tuesday, Peter and I sat down for lunch with a table of lawyers. One worked for Tucker, another for Jones Day, still another that worked for a less familiar grouping of men's names, and finally a more jovial one who was in house at an e-discovery company. There was near table wide recognition of the company and product. Those unfamiliar with it, Peter and I, went back to eating our lunch. 

Besides a robust set of legal language, words that brought me back to dinnertime conversation growing up where I would quickly drift off to a world with more artistic thoughts, there was something else that these lawyers had in common. They had at one point, all clerked for my mother. They were all at lunch, and then at the following event, to celebrate my mother's career as a leading lawyer and then Federal Judge in Pittsburgh. 

To return to a conversation that I could follow, I asked them what it was like working for my mom. 

It was the best job I ever had, said the lawyer from Wheeling. 

She lets you do everything - criminal and civil cases. That's rare. She exposes you to as much as possible in your time as a clerk. 

She taught me so much. 

After lunch, the group of dark suited lawyers and my extended family made our way to the U.S. Courthouse, into my mom's chambers for her Oral History ceremony. I had never heard of such a thing before. All I knew is that it didn't have to do with dentistry, which an outsider might assume. 

The courtroom was filled, every seat taken, with maybe only a quarter of the people that my mom had touched in her storied career. All present carried at least two titles. Fellow judge and friend. Former law partner and friend. Boss and friend. Wife, Sister, Mother, Aunt and friend.  

Across two hours, the chief justice of the 3rd circuit federal court, two of her former legal partners, the former president of the Academy of Trial Lawyers of Allegheny County, her deputy clerk, and my mother all shared their versions of my mom's career history. Their speeches spanned her roots as a girl growing up in the steel town of Homestead, the values of hard work, academics and discipline instilled by her parents, her education at St. Mary's and Notre Dame, meeting the love of her life, her first job as a legal editor, the pristine academic record that got her hired as the first female attorney and equity partner at a law firm in Pittsburgh, balancing a newly minted motherhood and income generation before the concept of paid maternity leaves, the one time and person that made her lose her temper at work, her impact on the American Academy of Trial Lawyers, and all her judicial statistics: leadership of more than 65 law clerks and 150 interns, rulings on hundreds of civil and criminal cases, thousands of written opinions, and reaching a billion dollar verdict on a Carnegie Mellon computer chip case, the largest patent case in computer engineering. 

There was high esteem and warm emotion in the room. A couple tears, laughter, and my unfortunate cough. It was incredible to listen to the role model my mom has been to countless people, outside of our home. While I always knew it was case, hearing about it, in their words was something special, giving absolute validity to the fact that she was the original super mom. 

A couple days later, sitting by the fire at our house, my Uncle Jim, visiting from Florida started telling me and Peter about my Aunt Barb's career. 

She was so incredible, he began. She could have been the superintendent for the Boston school system. She was going to go down that path you know, but your grandma said she would have worked herself to death. Hmm, she could have done it. But she loved her school so much. Her kids and families loved her so much. She was the enviable principle. No one could do what she did. She had Barbara Bush reading stories to the kids. The number of children and parents that have written to her over the years about the impact she had in their lives is immense. She had, no has a way of listening, connecting, knowing what a kid needs before they can express it. He got emotional talking about her. The same way I could see my dad tear up during my Mom's Oral History. It was pride, love, and mutual understanding of just how hard it was to achieve what they did and just how much they supported each other throughout.  

On Thanksgiving Day, as we assembled around our traditional dinner, my Dad shared the history of the Thanksgiving meal he prepares. It was written to him in a letter, dated November 1982. It included instructions for dressing, stuffing and roasting the turkey, making the gravy, and molding the cranberries. The steps are now timed and choreographed down to the minute. While it's in my dad's head and heart, bringing out the letter again, provides companionship and comfort. My Dad has added to it over the years with some supplemental side dishes. But the heart of the meal: the turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing and cranberries have remained intact for decades. The legacy of my grandma's culinary prowess lives on.   

These three connected yet independent oral histories, made me think about how powerful this exercise is. It made me think about how many careers have come and gone with only words written at the end of them in a eulogy. This notion of a living oral history should be scaled I thought. It also forces reflection on what you want people to say after a career serving an industry, brand, or cause. 

I remember an executive of my company who had reached 50 years of service, who had an impact on so many across the U.S. business. There was a whole celebration webcast: remarks, videos of his goodbye tour, tears and hugs, cake and cocktails. He never reached the level of CEO or even U.S. President. But in his leadership role, he had an indelible impact on the brand, on talent throughout the system, and on company culture. He was a legend, deserving of an oral history.  

As I debate next steps in my career, in a somewhat perplexing chapter of decision making ahead, a Thanksgiving where oral history became a centerpiece made me think about what I'm aiming for. The obvious answer is the top. But I don't know if that's the right answer for me. Should it be about the title or rather the work, the people, and the impact I can have at any level of the organization? 

As I boasted about my mother on Instagram, one of my friends responded in all seriousness, 'Judge for President!' I snipped the conversation and sent it to my mom. She responded, 'thank you! but being a wife, mom, a nana and a semi-retired judge is more than rewarding.'

That sounded right. Too right. While discernment will come, for now I love the north star that Thanksgiving gave me. To have a career or rather a life deserving of an oral history as rich as my mother's. 

Lo. 

An Education

Growing up, there was one part of the week created unequal. It would prompt groans of ennui and reflections on the whereabouts of normal, non-Catholic kids on Sunday mornings. After Father dismissed us, my siblings and I would begrudgingly trudge from the Church to the Parish School for CCD. CCDumb as we inconsiderately called it. It was the worst part of the week.   

When we moved back to Pittsburgh a couple years ago, we sent the kids to a non-Catholic school during the week, and on Sundays, we enrolled them in CCD. As a parent, $50 for a kids' Catholic education and peace and quiet for an hour and half after Mass for mom and dad seemed fantastic. How as a child I could have seen such misery in this charming activity, I couldn't understand. 

It took about two lessons for the kids to start complaining about what Catholic kids have hated for decades. Two years later, Mary, Bobby and Margaret were still crying out that CCDumb was the bane of their Sunday existence.

'NOOOO ... not CCD. CCD is the worst. I don't even learn anything!' A typical apres Mass rant. 

This year, I decided it was up to me to fix this. I was tired of hearing their complaints, especially that they weren't learning anything. So, when Mr. Mike asked for volunteers last spring, I felt called. I raised my hand, volunteered as tribute, and felt God's light shine upon me. This was my chance to turn dumb into delightful.  

Besides going through background checks and hours of preventing child abuse training, there was no formal training to be a Catholic educator. You got a wink and a prayer and a copy of the teacher's book versus the student version. So, much is left open to interpretation or the specific volunteer's leadership style. 

Mr, Mike said don't sweat it, just roll with it. Great coaching. My kids said past teachers were boring and too serious. Good to know, easy to fix. 

In this first year of my volunteer post, I was assigned 3rd, 4th and 5th grades. All of them. And by chance, Bobby's cohort. The general shortage of volunteers prompted a consolidation of classes, thus the turn of the century all-inclusive learning environment. I have roughly 15 kids each week with varying attention spans, underlying knowledge and motivation for being there. And one co-teacher who shows up roughly half the time and has a much quieter voice than mine.

Of all the kids, Bobby might hate CCD the most. This felt like the perfect experiment. 

In the 8 weeks that I have been doing this, and in the 8 Chapters that I have taught, we have walked in the footsteps of the cross as we talked about the Paschal Mystery. I made them role play as we talked about the sacrament of baptism, leveraging one of Margaret's baby dolls. I had them make an illustrated pathway of the Beatitudes and walk down it blindfolded with their classmates helping them find the way. We learned the Our Father in sign language and continue to practice it at the end of each class. We played 10 commandments charades. And I quiz them every week to make sure there is recall. See, not dumb. Delightful. 

Last week, we learned about Justice with a capital J in god's kingdom. It was an ironically timely topic on the heels of the U.S. election. And I embraced it as an opportunity to teach on both. 

We reflected on the parable (new fun Catholic word so remember it for the quiz next week) about the master who had hired laborers at different increments of the day. Those hired at 6:00 AM worked a full day, those hired at 5:00 PM only worked an hour. At the end of the day, the master paid them all the same amount of money. Jesus finished the parable by describing that in his kingdom, 'the last shall be first, and the first shall be last' 

What? That's not fair. There was a general state of paralysis and confusion across the classroom. The kids had just described what justice means to them, in this world. Right and wrong. Good and bad. And the bad ones being held accountable. Jesus' description did not compute. 

My co-teacher tried to explain using the textbook, but I intervened. It's like this, guys. God loves us all equally. Even if YOU take the pencil out of that kid's desk, or YOU continue to interrupt me, or YOU make distracting jokes instead of answered my questions seriously, even if you do all of that, God forgives you and loves you. And God wants us to live that away, accepting and loving everyone equally. Got it? 

So, let's think about it ... let's pretend you were the king or queen of Sacred Heart Land. What would the rules of justice be in your kingdom. How would you bring God's kingdom to life? 

I made them reflect and write down a couple sentences that described the rules of their kingdom. Then asked for three volunteers to debate why they should be king or queen based on their principles of justice. We would then vote for the best ruler. 

First, Senator Susan - in her kingdom, the classroom would live by the ten commandments and the beatitudes. We would love neighbor as self. And that's why you should vote me for. 

Second, Congressman Fred - in his kingdom, very similar. Commandments, beatitudes, and the rules would be God's rules. Won't you join my kingdom.  

Finally, Businessman Bobby took the floor. He would lower taxes, improve the roads, oh yeah, we'd be kind to each other, and, and, and ... we'd have a great time. So that's why you should pick me.  

I asked the audience of this legendary CCDebate to go stand by the ruler they wanted to live by. 64% of the young ladies in the class stood by Susan. The rest, including Congressman Fred, stood by Bobby. Jesus' parable turned into a social experiment was slightly unnerving. 

As always, we ended the class saying the Our Father in sign language, and with Mary peaking in requesting that she get to be part of my classroom next week. 

As I prepare to teach about the Holy Spirit tomorrow, I can't help but pray that the Holy Spirit be with America right now as we brace for several years of probable chaos. I pray that we are a land of just and free. And I pray, like we do in class, Thy Kingdom Come. While I'm an eternal optimist, always seeking to understand the other side of my perspective more completely, I don't have a lot of hope that America will be improved by our soon to be ruler. All I can do is start at home ... by making CCD great again. 

Lo.  

My Mid-Life Calf Crisis

It's an early Monday morning in seat 8B. The middle seat. The seat that signifies that my admin didn't put proper effort into making my reservation. At least it's in the front of the plane, easy on and off. 

If only.

That was simply a hopeful vision of what could have been. Where I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to be doing, if only I could get off the couch. But I can't. 8B is empty right now. Waiting for its owner, being celebrated as an empty middle seat for other groggy eyed Chicago bound 8th row passengers. United just called wondering my whereabouts. Will you be making it, Miss? No, no, I say with tears in my eyes, I won't. And let me tell you why ...  

This weekend, while playing in the semi-finals of the club championships, I pulled my calf. This match was my entrance into a rematch the whole club had been waiting for. I had spent a year training, seeking additional strength and accuracy in my forehand, a consistent first serve, an approach to net game that could carve out clean winners, and the mental fortitude to beat the fiercest competitor in club history. I was almost there. I had won the first set 6-3, I was up in the second 5-4. I just needed to finish. I ran left to grab a ball, then was running to the right side of the court when out of nowhere it felt like someone sniped me in the back of the leg. 

I was down after a yelp heard round the club. 

I looked up at one of the houses behind the courts, at the guy who had been hacking and coughing all afternoon, wondering if he had indeed shot me, a lifetime of frustration with PGC tennis finally getting the best of him. And then I looked at court 2. The ethereal reigning club champion was warming up. Could she have slammed a ball at me? A rehashed Harding / Kerrigan incident that would go down as country club sabotage? As I tried to piece together what had happened while scanning the court for my assailant, people started coming over, denying there was any wrongdoing. BS. What, I had done this to myself? No. Not possible. Scratch that, IMPOSSIBLE.  

I looked around again for probable cause. Or was it possible? And if so, this couldn't be good. I tried to get up. Nope, this is really bad. 

I called for a medical time out because that's what you do when you're playing tennis in the most competitive event of your adult life. Maybe it's just a cramp. Get me some ice, a stretch, I'm good. I had just finished reading Andre Agassi's memoir in prep for this weekend of matches. He worked through cramps, he played through back pain, I could too. I tried to move my leg again. Ouuuuuuuuuuch. Five minutes later, there was no sign of better, only worser, so I forfeited, crushing my spirit as hard as I had crushed my calf.  

I was friend assisted off the court. And then most humiliating of all, men's tennis team carried to my car and driven home where Peter scooped me up and carried me into the house, to the couch, his 13-year bride, dirty with court sand and sweat, too shaken up to thank him for bearing my weight on his bad knee. 

The texts started streaming in. The whole club offering advice, well wishes, referrals, one of my besties even dropping off her compression socks to suction my pain and strain. I debated the advice to seek medical care, but ultimately decided to go. Peter deposited me at the ER 30 minutes later. 

There, I waited in a wheelchair with Pittsburgh's most infirmed. Someone who looked like he had sawed off his toes, a child who looked to be suffering from day 4 of really bad Covid, and a guy who probably stumbled in from the homeless camp downtown too high to understand where he was.  

I was admitted and told my story at registration, then to Seth the nurse, then to Dr. So and So. No one cared about how close I was to the championship this year. That it was my chance to win it all. Quite frankly, they didn't even really care about my injury. I was there for an hour and half in total, in the trenches of Pittsburgh's hospital system. They took my blood pressure, laid me in a bed in the hallway, I watched medical people milling about talking about what snacks they brought today, I heard beeping that sounded like someone was about to die, I stared into a bed wheeling by that appeared to be hosting a war casualty, nurse Seth felt my calf, so did Dr. So and So. I peed in a cup because they wanted to know if I was pregnant only to make me hold said cup for a while, not test it, and discard it. Finally, after ruling out pregnancy and insanity, Dr. So and So told me it was a gastrocnemius strain, and said I could go. After reminding Nurse Seth that I couldn't walk, I got some crutches, a few remedial recommendations on stretching, and paperwork. I immediately leveraged connections to get an actual orthopedic appointment on Wednesday.  

Sunday was a day of rest, compression, icing, boredom, and unnerved reflections on how crazy I might turn in this period of recovery. I sat in bed on Sunday evening, tears pooling in my PJs, wondering why this was so hard to process. Every existential exercise thought went running through my head. I was asking for this - this was God's way to make me demonstrate vulnerability and humility. I was never going to be able to run or play sports the way I wanted. I couldn't do my job to its fullest - how would I run through airports and onto the stage at my summit? I have no time to fit in a dentist appointment let alone the doctor's appointments I might need. My energy and enthusiasm for life would be left to fizzle and die. I would never be the same. I went back to what I told nurse Seth. 'This must be the most inconvenient thing that could have happened to me.' 

And then I paused to think about his response, 'I don't know ... could be worse.' 

At first, I brushed his remark aside. But after over processing the emotions that come from mixing motrin with a glass of wine, the comment settled. I pulled myself together. Composure. Maybe a little more compression. 

Yesterday I finished the day less depressed, filled instead with a little more wonder. What will come of this forced expression of sedentary behavior? What will I find in myself, in others, in my routines that could and must shift? What will get better, not worse? Will I come back stronger in mind and in body? Or not caring that my body needs to do what it once did? I'm now in a mindset where I'm imagining alternate endings, and I like them.  

As ridiculous as this all might seem, this injury is weighty for me. And I know my fellow athletes who still dream of physical triumph, of a life steeped in and strengthened by play, understand it. At this point though, I'm choosing to turn my mid-life calf crisis into a positive. 

Lo.  

Dimensional

A couple weeks ago, I capped off another long week of traveling around the region with one more Operator visit right in my backyard. Given the proximity to my house and my determination to spend a little extra time with my kids, I asked if any of them wanted to join me. The promise of fries for their afternoon snack was reason enough. Hands raised, Bobby and Margaret ran out the door and into my car. 

As we drove down Fifth, Bobby turned to Margaret and said, 'take my lead. I'm a pro at these meetings.' She nodded her head, subservient to the expert.  

I chuckled in the front, but it was the truth - Bobby was nothing less than a master at my McMeetings since spending a couple days with me, traveling to and from Dayton on business.

With my summer travel schedule and an increased sense of comfort in doing the job, I thought I could combine one-on-one time with my kids, teaching moments and work over their break. Turns out that I only got to do it with Bobby, but I'm glad it happened. We planned a trip to Dayton. 75% of the time we were on market visits to influence and enrich how my franchisees think about and drive their business. And the other 25% of the time, we were doing what Bobby wanted to do - tour the Airforce Museum and swim in the Marriott pool. 

On the first day, Bobby visited three restaurants and three different franchisees with me. He tasted with discernment a lunch of nuggets and fries, and then our newest ice cream treat on his progressive fast food tour of Dayton. He played in the bounds of two play places. He ensured marketing and merchandising elements were up, and that the Crew was promoting our latest value offering. He observed customers and their behaviors, relaying that one had said a bad word. He commented on cleanliness, food quality, service speed, and which operator he liked best. He sipped a Shirley Temple while I had a stronger drink with one of my leadership franchisees at the hotel bar. He listened as I called members of my team with guidance, coaching and ultimately direction. He absorbed snippets of how I talk about the business and influence my stakeholders. He got a slice of system politics and negotiations. And he looked out the window a lot, taking in the Ohio countryside, reflecting on how much of it I've seen. 

At the hotel, he swam in the 1990's era indoor / outdoor pool. A total novelty to him that was met with initial fear, then fascination, then fun, especially as he paired up with another kid, just his age. Colton going into grade four in small town Indiana was an instant match for Bobby's zeal. For a couple hours, Colton and Bobby were best friends, watching planes fly overhead, playing with a nerf ball, seeing how high their cannonball splashes could reach, talking about their own personal war heroes - Colton's dad and Bobby's cousin Meghan.  

The next day, Bobby was up with me at 5:30 AM to grab a coffee, work out, and start the work day. One more visit, and then it was his time - a three hour tour of the Airforce Museum, which might have been the most impressive museum I've experienced. In total, Bobby and I walked three miles through the history of aviation and the planes used in War World 2, the Korean War, Vietnam, and in the Middle East. There were also ICMBs and Air Force Ones. It was massive and mesmerizing, and Bobby soaked up every second of it, not wanting to leave. 

On the way back home, we stopped in Mt. Vernon, Ohio to see a museum dedicated to all the toys that have ever been given out in kids meals. The founding father of this mecca, is one of my most senior operators in the region, celebrating 60 years with the brand next year, and one of the most gracious and genuinely kind people I've interacted with. Bobby was in awe looking through the generation of toys, some that I would have collected, some that he collected, others we hadn't seen before. 

The way home from Mt. Vernon was off the interstate, on the windy and rural state roads reserved for the fiercest of road warriors. Bobby stared out the window for a lot of it, first at the farms and crops, then at the dramatic vistas along the stretch of 250 that runs through Tappan Lake. I asked what he thought about the past couple days - what he learned - what he thought about my job. 

It was slow in coming. He remembered the names of the people we had met and could recite just about all of them. Bobby is a people person first and foremost - faces and names stick. He reflected on the museums. Total make his life moments. I reached for more though. 'Anything you learned in the conversations you overheard?' I lost him. He seemed stumped.

I helped him grasp the takeaways. 'Come on, buddy ... you've sat through conversations about marketing, real estate development, construction, franchise terms, carrying on the legacy of a family run business and the transfer of assets, finance, talent development, and operations. You heard me negotiate. You saw me stand tall next to taller businessmen. You listened as I navigated a crisis situation. You literally experienced the entire application of my MBA.' 

'Oh ... yeah.'  

I didn't stop. 'What else did you notice? How about the way I communicated with people? Did you notice something about every conversation I had?' 

'You're good at them?'

'Okay ... well what else? What did I tell you going in.'

'You listened ... more than you talked?' 

'That's right.' 

He went back to looking at Ohio from the window. I could force the lessons learned, but I imagine he got what he wanted. Which was time with me and some tales that he would make taller as he returns to school next week.  

I'm not as home as much as I want to be. I'm not there to shape popular household opinion of the state of my motherhood. And I often wonder how my kids perceive me. I'm their mom yes - a rock, a source of love and attention, a sounding board, their waffle maker on Saturday mornings. But do they grasp all the dimensions, all the roles I play, and the effort that comes from trying to juggle them? I wanted Bobby to see the angles of my job, the quick thinking and problem solving, the skills and tactics, the fact that a woman could have tough conversations with businessmen and come out with the upper hand. I wanted him to see that outside of being the mom I am at home, I'm a mom with a mission at work. I wanted him to know that I love and respect all the sides of my identity, that they are integral to who I am. I wanted him to realize how much I've got going on, that I'll never be a perfect mom, but I'm doing my best to do it all. 

Despite the various dimensions of Bobby though, he is simple. Sure, he gets when I need to be gone, but his takeaway was that spending time with mom was awesome and that he wants to do it again.   

At the end of another week of travel, on my favorite day of the week, I'm just fine with my kids walking down the stairs after they wake up to see their mom, as flatly and as squarely as they want to define me. Because like Bobby, they just want their rock, their source of love and attention, their sounding board, and their waffle maker. And I want them to know that I am their mom first and foremost, and that job will always take priority. 

Lo. 

Gait Ways

The East End of Pittsburgh is a familiar, even familial place. I know the Sycamore trees, bumps and cracks in the pavement of the sidewalk, front doors, steeples and synagogues, segments where you need to run a little faster, and others where you can take your time. These are the roads I call home - the pathways I know my heart.   

As I grew up here as an observer and then as a participant in the chase, there were faces and gaits that became impressionable and then memorable. Their patterned runs became a part of our daily routine, commuting up and down Shady Avenue, commenting on the who's who of the Pittsburgh running world. 

There was a Judge. We would see him run in what could best be described as brisk hobble. 1-twooo, 1-twooo, 1-twooo. Heavy breathing innnnnnn and out. It was a syncopated rhythm, and he'd carry a slight pain in his expression. Maybe like a mellow base player whose music had turned more melancholy with age. My mom would implore us to consider his senior status, his ability to keep doing what he was doing despite the awkwardness in the approach. As kids we found it funny. 

There was a Sacred Heart dad. A legitimate racer who had been running for a lifetime. His girls were runners as well. My parents would talk about the races he'd done, the miles he'd put on, the feat of marathoning, which seemed extraordinary at the time. He was tall but light as a feather, his long strides able to gobble up two pavement blocks of Howe Street at a time. 

My parents' neighbor was a step above the other guy. He was elite, effortless. You would see his slight frame leaping across the city at a pace that seemed ethereal. No pain, all gains, no bravado. He flew like superman. I dared to chase him in my 20s.  

There was a woman who went to our pool. She had two kids, one with special needs - the most kind, caring, patient mom in the water with her sweet children. She was in incredible shape, washboard abs and running as part of her routine. She wore a bandana around her head, and she'd move at a decent clip. She seemed like someone who could have gone faster if there wasn't worry in her eyes. 

Returning to my hometown a couple years ago, I became part of the regiment of runners that call the parks and blocks of the East End their workout. And I've discovered new runners that are part of the cast I grew up with. There is now a gray-haired man that passes by my porch every day. He keeps a healthy pace, one arm and hand in a motion that simulates that he's rapping the whole way. At first, I thought he was listening to Eminem, dancing his was through a run. But the more I studied it, the more I clued in to it being part of his gait. 

There's a short Hawaiian looking woman who pounds the pavement low to the ground, all the Pitt runners whose lanky bodies carry them high above the Earth, an Eastern European looking girl who runs like a doe, smooth, silky strides, and a girl I went to high school with, someone I don't remember well enough to say hi - she is actually a power walker, but I swear one day she will burst into a run. It's a silent community that knows the others exist, but respects the solitude and reflection of an un-interrupted routine.

Last week though, I was running on Highland, and saw one of the old guard. I hadn't seen him in years. He wasn't running or maybe he was, just slightly. His legs were more bow legged than I remember. His face no longer as carefree. I could sense in his mind, that his legs were somewhere else though. On a marathon route, running with his daughters, free and fleeting. It pained me to see him unable to do what likely defined him for so much of his lifetime. 

Like him, I've spotted the other runners from my past in recent months. All of them have legs and bodies that are fifteen years older than I remember. They aren't as fast, and some are a little feeble. I've talked to a couple and we've traded battle wounds. A stingy torn hamstring, knees that aren't what they were, spirits that aren't as competitive. 

But deep inside, in our minds, we are as fast as we've always been.  

It got me thinking about reality and self-perception, the divide that often exists between the two, and the inability for people to discern it at times. It's what I see frequently in my business. And so much of my job is to bring people into state of better awareness. 

We're going through a challenging cycle. The accelerated growth rate that we realized over the past three years went from normalization to contraction in about six months, and we are executing a hurry up offense to build back momentum. We are facing multi-dimensional headwinds: consumer discretionary income waning, competitive pressure mounting, economic and political volatility impacting customer mindset, and some players on my very big team aren't playing like they used to. 

Yes, there are macro elements out of our control; some of those things merit a national response. But as I assess the individual contributions, I challenge my players to see what pace they are running these days. Are they still elite, still gritty, still giving it their all? Or are they slower, hobbling along, worse, are they even in the race? 

Last week, at a regional meeting focused on continued education and benchmarking, I delivered pace-provoking opening remarks. I had been asked if our 'All In' mantra was still relevant. The question came from a man who believed the rally cry was tired, that people were bored of hearing it, that we needed something fresh. My public response was that only 65% of the region were at this meeting. Only 50% attended our global convention. A percentage in between is who attended our regional rally last fall. I said being 'All In' wasn't just as relevant as it's ever been, it's even more necessary in this environment. I said 'All In' would remain our most valuable problem to solve until 100% of our players have their heads and hearts in this race.

The room got quiet. The statement forced self-reflection and a deeper look in the mirror. I had gotten my point across.    

Being All In defies age and pace though, it's about character, grit, and ambition. And if you aren't as fast as you used to be, it takes an assessment and game plan of how to account for your deficiencies. You can either:

- Become acutely self-aware of your pitfalls and close the gaps by yourself. 

- You can hire talent around you to make up for the shortcomings, leading and teaching, but letting the experience and expertise of the next generation provide the fresh legs. 

- Or you can step aside and leave the race. I liken it to that moment when you come to the realization that you are now a walker, but will always fondly remember the days of being fast as hell. And there should be nothing short of pride and appreciation for the legs, runs, grit and determination of the past. 

As I assess my pace, personally and professionally, I still consider myself a runner and a pretty quick one, despite a nagging hamstring injury. I don't really know how I look running, but it's probably a little more effort filled than what appears in my mind. Slower than I used to be. Less effortless. But I still smile a lot when I'm on the trails and on the roads. If I'm listening to music, I occasionally insert a dance move. I attack the hills, and exhale as I fly down them. I wave or nod to everyone I run past. I love the rhythm, the push, the joy of it all. My gait is similar to how I lead, and my runs are integral in how I show up every day. But there will come a day when my body tells me it's done. There will be signals on the trails and in my job, that something isn't right. I'll join the club of those that walk while dreaming of their glory days.  

But for now, I'll keep running. 

Lo.      

The Trust Equation

In an installment of continued management education I attended last year, I was taught a new equation. In the style of behavioral science, there were no numbers, just the addition and division of buzz words. Jargon aside, the math in the equation resonated. 

Trust = credibility + reliability +intimacy / self-orientation. 

(And to define the buzz words ....)  

Credibility: I know what I'm talking about 

Reliability: I deliver on what I said I would do 

Intimacy: I make the audience feel safe 

Self-orientation: It's about me, not them (it's a bad thing, so it's on the bottom of the equation.) 

Last year, my company moved through a mass reorganization cycle that aimed to make a behemoth enterprise more efficient, more agile, and more innovative. There was a countdown, then a go day, and we are still in the middle of reorienting and evolving. 

To achieve the lofty ambitions defined by our restructure, there has been a reset on ways of working, roles and responsibilities, gate keeping, cultural norms, even incentive structures. And the underpinning to all of this, is trust. The corporation and all of its tentacles need to trust the vision, the future orientation, and the leaders at the helm. So, us leaders, learned about the trust equation. 

The first two elements of the equation are things good leaders typically do well. Quite frankly, if you aren't credible and reliable in today's marketplace you have bigger problems than solving the trust equation. It's the third point of addition and the divisor that are tricky. After many long-standing, tenured employees were laid off, and after key constituents like franchisees started sensing a power shift, it's harder to underscore psychological safety and a lack of self-orientation. But these are crucial elements in building a culture of partnership, accountability and excellence where your stakeholders want to work harder and smarter for you.

Intimacy and psychological safety are close kin. Leaders need to deliver a feeling of belonging, acceptance, championship, even familial ties in their working relationships. The definition we studied described a feeling of protection against surrounding risk. My company used to be known for such familiarity and safety. We even called the system, a family. In today's culture, this level of intimacy is more fleeting and fractured. As a leader you have to hold people accountable but also create an environment where you assert care. It's an art, never a science. I listen but I also judge. I express vulnerability but impress a strong will. I advocate for balance but have expectations that when the business demands it you find harmony another time. I fight for me people, but they have to give me something to fight for. Art riddled with polarities.   

Lack of self-orientation is humility and lack of ego. It's the underlying intent and demonstration that it's not all about you. I often tell my teams we have to do what's right for the customer and for the system. I assert that that I am thinking aloud, this isn't direction, I don't have all the answers. We do private collection before meetings so I can see the variance of response from the room and how we enrich our solutions. I co-create. I make it about them. I steer aways from 'I' sentences and start with 'we'. I've expressed my own frailty - things that I could have done better, lessons learned through a career. As someone who never really thought I'd be where I am, this comes easily to me.     

In big business, and one with varying incentive systems, despite efforts you make to do the math, there is continuous skepticism that fragments trust and trustworthiness. I have built my career on being authentic and trustworthy, but as I became more and more associated with the decision-making arm of the enterprise, I have found that my integrity can be questioned. 

So I posed a question during an executive meeting several months ago to a most senior executive. 'Yes, Lo ... question.' 

'Thanks ... so ... we are operating in an environment rooted in distrust. And I've even been coached to have a healthy distrust. What is our role fulfilling the trust equation that is being taught across the organization?' 

The answer I received was 'to build it - assume it - lead with it. You have to ... but also ... be a skeptic.' 

Clear as mud. 

As I navigate trust in corporate America at the mid-stage of my life, my daughter is navigating the same topic at a much younger stage. 

She turned 11 last month. Another milestone that seems remarkable She's in fifth grade and she is experiencing a bevy of different emotions as she forges new frontiers of friends and frenemies. 

She is experiencing friendships where there is reliability and credibility, but where self-orientation is getting in the way of true trust. There is suddenly competition in everything Mary is doing. In sports, clothes, taste in music, skincare routines, and academics, and I can see the stress that comes with it, impacting Mary's mindset.  

She has also started to understand human vulnerability. That she's not as invincible as she might have thought a year ago. During an active shooter drill at her school recently, the reality of the situation sunk in. She came into my bed that night unable to sleep, fearful that the world could turn ugly. Fearful that she wasn't safe at home or at school, her two havens. 

A month of so ago, the emotions of fear, distrust, and anxiety were laid out in front of me around 9:30 PM, in the middle of the late shift of my job. My mom mind wasn't ready for the heft of this conversation. Without the proper reading or coaching on how to respond, I reached for my business language and rationale. I listened to Mary first and all that her brain was trying to process. And then I feigned a response that was most likely unsatisfactory, but at least it was there.

On competition ...  

First, you are enough. Being the best version of you is the only competition you need to win. 

On friendships ... 

You have to keep the bad apples out. If someone is bringing you and the group down, it will spoil the whole. Walk away. Don't engage. Tell the person they aren't being cool. (I don't know how relevant or realistic that advice is for middle school, but it's what I would do.) 

On connectivity and communication ... 

Talk about how you are feeling. I'm always willing to listen, your teachers want to listen, and your friends and faux friends should hear how you are feeling as well. Often when people put a face to the hurt, things change.

And on trust in the face of feeling vulnerable ... 

Finally, sometimes you just have to lean in and believe in humanity. I think this is what my big boss was trying to tell me. Despite fear and skepticism, seeds of distrust and distaste, you need to build trust and lead with it. Assume best intention, assume those around you are making the decisions to keep you safe, have faith. 

Mary and I keep talking about the social dilemmas of fifth grade. She has been journeying through it with grace and maturity - skills that I didn't have at that age. And she's figured out who she can really trust and have fun with, and who makes her uncomfortable. I like that she trusts her mom most of all. 

In the past two years, as I've navigated new frontiers of trust in Corporate America, I've used the advice I gave to Mary, I've stuck by facts, I've proven I can get things done, I've been transparent and direct, I've brought people along into a feeling of security, and I've tried to mute any ego. It's a time in my business though, where despite my company's strength, we are feeling a little vulnerable. But as we reached a critical decision last week, aligning company, franchisee and supplier around common cause and resolution, I regained the energy that comes with trust and better yet, faith in our ability to collaborate. Being friend over foe, dare I say family, is what has always made me love my company.   

Lo. 

  

Windows

I love the early hours of the morning. The quieter, darker, more premature the better. I love my cup of coffee, the companionship of my computer, the silent solitude, and how fresh my mind is. With caffeine in hand, I do what I feel called to do every day. Work. Produce. Achieve.  

It's routine, no regimen. Or perhaps, all just a bad habit. My body and mind are wired to assimilate into a working professional by 5:00 AM - in thought pattern, in language, in tone. Before the sun rises, before the C-suite on central time awakes, I'm charting my day, putting yesterday's notes into action, driving the result, owning my accountability. Once in position, fingers curved slightly over my keys evoking how I played Turkish March in a piano playing era of my life, I don't often break character. My work depends on concentration and rhythm. Locked in, during the early morning hours, I produce great work. 

The one or optimistically two hours that I get are finite and fleeting. I know any minute I will hear the tiptoe of tiny feet coming down the stairs to distract me. I wonder how much more I could get done if I didn't get interrupted. I find myself mid-thought, mid-reach for the right word, and I look up. The view up, not down toward my computer, is a lead paned window that looks out toward the Cathedral of Learning. At first, it's dark and moody with only a blue light streaming from the top of its tower. Then its silhouette starts to emerge as the world warms up, ultimately turning pink when the sun peaks over the horizon. If I look up long enough it can become a moment of awe that forces reflection. Deep thoughts that I swear off so I can keep producing.   

There they are. The interruption that I knew was approaching. Those are definitely Caroline's footsteps, not Jacquelines. They are heavier a little more emphatic and ruthless than her twin. I hear her cough as well. Like anything that comes out of her mouth, her hacking is louder than Jacqueline's, louder than just about anyone in the family. 

For the past three, maybe even four months, someone in our household has been sick. Peter is now stay at home dad, pharmacist, nurse, and launderer, dealing out doses of Amoxicillin and Tylenol, cleaning eyes with sterilized wipes and medicated eye drops, waking up at all hours of the night to get glasses of water, washing sheets over and over again to eradicate every disease five school age children bring into the house. 

I've been under the weather as well this week. Peter rode his bike to CVS to get me extra strength Tylenol on Valentine's Day. It was terribly romantic. I need the peace and quiet of this morning more than ever, but Caroline, in typical form interrupts me without reservation and tells me to make room for her. She wedges her way in, demands breakfast, and my full attention. The prose that was flowing freely into my 6:15 AM email loses its polish. It will be a rushed, frenetic request by 8:00 AM when I finally get to finish it off.      

With water and a bowl of cheerios in hand, she watches me type in a disapproving fashion. Her feedback is raw. She is my 3EO. A three-year-old, big girl boss baby with the mission to rule our household. It's her way or the highway. No one knows that as well as Jacqueline. 

Right, wrong, indifferent, all of my kids are developing leadership qualities. Perhaps innately, perhaps with some inspiration from me. Mary has the most stereotypical set of skills. She is a diligent, hard worker that settles for nothing less than perfection in her pursuit of academia. Her stalwart focus and ability to get others to work as hard as she does has made her a leader at her school, so much so that they named her Lead Girl earlier this school year. Bobby has the charisma, enthusiasm and zeal of life that encourages anyone to follow him. If Bobby says it's cool, the whole school will catch onto the trend. We are talking with him about using his powers for good. Margaret's kindness, care and pure love wraps you around her finger. Oh, that Margaret. What a sweetheart. The teachers have succumbed to her spell as well. And the twins will just bulldoze you into submission by their temper. We'll need to work on their leadership posture. 

My hope is that each of them fuel their blossoming competencies to become purpose driven leaders, change makers, shapers of culture and society. My hope is that they see their potential, that they are inspired by what I'm trying to do in my career, and they go seek their leadership adventure.  

I am entering a new year, yesterday turned a more mature age, and am increasingly aware that I could achieve heights in my career that I never really believed possible. In the past month, there have been glimpses of what could lie ahead.      

At the beginning of January, the CEO of my company came to visit my region. I spent two days sharing the state of my business, showing him around the territory, introducing him to the talent in the area, and positioning myself as a confident, competent Vice President. During the pressure cooker visit, I was able to sit down with him and talk about my career. He asked two things: how I felt in my current role and what I ultimately wanted to do.

I shared personal reflections and accomplishments, and I leaned in, saying I had the goal of reaching the top. He shared insights about his career journey and underscored my ambition with a couple pieces of advice:  

- First, he said, 'no one cares more about your career than you.' 

- Second, 'you should always take on roles that accelerate learning.'

- Third, 'when you run a country you have really landed as a general manager - that's when recruiters start to call.' 

- Fourth, 'there are windows of opportunity to get into the C-Suite. If you are not there by age 50-55, you probably won't get there.'   

After his departure, and on my drive home from Kentucky to Pennsylvania that evening, I thought about his counsel. Both what it meant for my career and what it meant for my family. 

I had heard the first piece of advice before and learned it the hard way earlier in my career. The second and third nuggets directed me to take on an international assignment next. And the fourth is the one I'm still thinking about. Still looking out the window in the morning about weeks later. 

The notion of windows of time is real. There are windows in a career - windows to grow, to accelerate, to lead, and then clearly to land in the highest positions of corporate America. I have roughly ten years to get there, which arguably is feasible and plausible. 'So I'm good on timing,' I asked my CEO. 'You're good,' he said back to me. 

Ten years is also the span of time where my kids will go from preschool and elementary school to high school and college. This is the other window of time that I know is fragile and fleeting. In a decade of formative years, will I be missing things, present, even energetic enough to be a mother and spouse first and foremost? Will I be closing one window to open the other one? 

These windows, framing theoretically divergent pursuits, are another way to make you feel like you have to sacrifice one thing to achieve something else. That it's impossible to go after one part of life while cherishing the other one. Like any other paralyzing paradox though, there isn't linear logic on how to manage the conundrum. But what I've found, or at least what I've resolved to do this year, is to stay in check with myself, my peers and team, and most importantly my spouse to assess if I've got life framed up the right way. I spend time reflecting each week on how I could have done better. I've found myself asking Peter a little more often, how are you doing? No, really, how are you doing? I seek constant feedback from my team as well. The answers aren't always rosy, but they aren't telling me to stop what I'm doing. So, I figure there's still a chance I can balance two windows in one and keep everyone around me satisfied with the roles I try my best to juggle. I'll keep trying to do the seemingly impossible if those around me believe I can.   

After all, yes, I could probably get a little more done in the morning if the pitter patter of feet and please Mommy please didn't take me on tangents. But that and the many other interruptions of motherhood also force me to stay grounded, humble, relatable, and dare I say motherly as a leader. 

Lo.

A Look Back

One of the things Pittsburgh is known for is a network of bridges that connect and unify the city and its disparate neighborhoods. The bridges add an edgy beauty, topographical texture, and stalwart symbolism to a city seeking its present-day fame.

More so than I can remember, the bridges of Pittsburgh's modern era are painted in fragmented narratives, inscribed by mischievous authors. They are not the markers of the industrial titans and Works Progress Administration that forged them in iron, steel, and stone. In fact, the historic plaques paying homage to art and industry seem muddied or washed out next to new brazen sentences scribbled into beams, rails, and concrete. The words carry laments of war, politics, and an increasingly unfriendly existence. They express anger and uprising. They make you miss a step as you evaluate their gravity, lurching forward with a heavier heart. 

Yet in contrast, on one bridge in particular, there is an ironic intersection of interlaced locks that glisten in the morning light. Locks that lovers, families, spouses, or friends have opened and shut forever on the chain link of the fence. Rising all around graffiti's inner monologue are symbols of love - love that has the power to conquer the words written underneath them.  

I run these bridges a lot, reflecting on the sketchily sprayed yet poetic words being pounded by my feet to create rhythm and occasional rhyme. One such bridge connects East Liberty to Shadyside. It was a bridge that marked the first frontier into the redevelopment of East Liberty - an effort that has since taken off at an unprecedented rate. I mostly run under this bridge versus over it. Down Ellsworth Avenue, along the busway, past the comedy club, under the bridge and onward toward Shady Avenue. 20 years ago, I walked under it in the opposite way, heading to my job which was playing host to the East End's elite at Soba Lounge. I can literally see the ghost of Lo past listening to her iPod, shuffling to the next step of life. 

Like the other bridges around town, this one has been tattooed and locked with love as well. Despite its petite stature, it's well traversed by car, bike and pedestrian. It's seen new buildings rise around it yet it remains firmly plastered to the ground. It has the appearance of a body and an arm and with it a sleeve that carries words and animations stretching down its stairway connecting Highland Avenue above to Ellsworth down below.   

I run by the stair as I fly under the bridge, and a couple weeks ago, I noticed new words - a new poem that had appeared on the 7th and 9th steps respectively. 

'Here we were'. 9th step from the bottom. 

'Here you are'. 7th step from the bottom.

I ran by too quickly to notice if there were other lines on other stairs, but these two stanzas seemed enough. Complete.  

This morning, I spent the better part of the next mile thinking about when I was there. The past tense of that poem. As a 20-something. As a dismantled and discharged seeker of life's soul. I was frustrated with my reality and was looking for a new, better, more fulfilling stage - one that I willed to come but that I was too confused to produce. There is a 'we' in the past tense though. Was it a royal we or a regular we? Most likely an intimation toward love lost. Something that was far off back then. So, I interpreted the 'we' as multiplier of my many personalities. There we were.   

And here I am. I repeated the words again as I ran up Penn. Here I am. How did I even get here? 20 years later, I have a husband, five children, a home that fits us all, and a level of achievement in my career that I never thought possible. It made me laugh at how silly and impatient I was as a 20-year old. Here I am. I ran a little prouder. A little faster.  

At first thought, the juxtaposition of the two mes - one running east under the bridge, and the other walking west, seemed worlds apart. Yet, on mile three or four, I started to think we were closer than first glance. 

Being in the field of my company, I've returned to the front lines of the restaurant industry. I spent 13 years removed from it, protected at headquarters, and now the realities of what happens behind and in front of the counter are reminders of a past world. My past life. The people challenges, the customer complaints, the intensity of the owners, the margins. These are problems that can't be solved on a white board or power point. They are convoluted execution challenges that require principled influence and motivation. An energy sucking existence where you give all to get as much as you can. Yes, I had been here before.  

I was promoted this year to be an officer of my company. A job I quite frankly never thought I had the capacity or capability to hold. The accountability and expected excellence weighed on me at times. I spent the first month battling tough problems in a mental state riddled with imposter syndrome. And then I spent subsequent months gaining confidence but always second guessing myself. There was a level of confusion, paranoia, and defeat that I hadn't felt in a while. I wanted to jump to a later stage, have more experience, sagely know how to proceed when things got complicated. 

I traveled a lot in 2023. And throughout my trips around Ohio, West Virginia, Kentucky and Tennessee, I felt alone being separated from my family. There were nights when I was transported back to the time when I lived in an apartment by myself in the Southside, eating ramen with a side of loneliness that was sometimes paralyzing. After being in a crowded home for the better part of a decade, being by myself in the car, on planes, and in hotel rooms as much as I was seemed unwanted, and a return to a person I didn't want to be.  

In December, I cried four times. Once at the end of Wicked in New York City with Mary and Margaret. Once when the congregation started belting out O Come All Ye Faithful at the beginning of Christmas Eve Mass. Another time when I watched Love Actually on a plane home from Chicago. And finally, when I was laughing so hard with friends that I found myself wiping tears from my eyes. I remember crying as a release like this 20 years ago. 

Finally, just like a younger me, I found ways to let go this year. I used to define myself by frenzy. I prided myself on doing it all. But with my new job and the demands of it, Peter stepped up to take on the management of our household. I let go of many things I associated with motherhood this year. While there are times that I miss these responsibilities, letting go enabled me and my family to grow. 

In short, 2023 was a year when questioning, learning, and becoming brought me and my 20-year old self together. I didn't realize this, until the stairway poem made me see it. 

But man, I also had a lot to be proud of this year. The exhilaration of accomplishment, the expanse of personal development, the prestige and impact of leadership, the connections and curiosity in my day to day schedule, the potential that lies ahead. And perhaps what makes me most proud of all, is that my family didn't miss a beat without me hovering over them. They all grew as well. They were all successful in their own rights. And despite a couple nights where I heard how much they missed me, they were happy.   

I'll run more bridges next year. Read new words. Hopefully reflect more than I did this year. I'll take the missteps in stride, and I'll have confidence that I've run roads like this before. I know them, and I know how to navigate them. Hi Lo, let's go. 

Lo.           

The Fans

In home videos, the ones taken on my dad's 1988 camcorder device, you can often hear instructions or rather pleadings for me to get out of the shot. The camera would try to maneuver around my round head only to have it pop back into the frame moments later. Poor Adam was in the background, and my dad just wanted to shoot his cute button face and squeaky new words. Okay, okay, okay ... I'll move over for a second. But just a second. 

I loved the camera, the stage, and the cue to put the spotlight on me. I still do. And perhaps because of my eagerness to take the lines and the bows, I've built a fanbase over the years. A following that has been rooting for me to succeed; a group that I never want to let down. 

I saw one such fan at our annual pool party a couple weeks ago . As I was walking out, I spotted him sitting under the tent. He was smaller, humbler in stature than I remembered, but he was also 20 years younger last time I saw him. We used to exercise in the work out room together. I would have been 22 or 23, and not very happy with myself. It was my dark period - synonymous with Picasso's blue period. I was the woman with the iron, hunched over the ironing board, unable to look up and stand tall. But this guy, perhaps 65 at the time, took an interest in me. In my past and in my present and encouraged me toward a brighter future. 

I walked over to him and said, 'Jack. It's me.' 

He lit up, and responded, 'I've been following you. You went to business school. You got married. Five kids right? And you've been in Chicago, working for a big company. You're back now, huh?' 

I nodded. That's right. That's right. 

'Well done, he said. 'You've had a great run.' 

'A great run?' I replied. 

'Yes, that's what you call it.' 

I smiled. He was right, it's been an incredible 17 years. But there was something finite in his statement that made me worried. It was the tense he used. I've had a great run. Was this the culmination of it? I told him I was playing in the Club Championship tomorrow. And he said he would be rooting for me.

The next day I lost in the finals. End of the run. 

***

A couple weeks ago, I was given some homework before a meeting. In corporate America we call it a pre-read. And this one was lengthy. I like a good one or two-pager, but this one was 10 dense pages, and I debated skimming. I would read the headlines, pull a couple juicy sentences out, go back to email. But I couldn't. The material grabbed my attention - it was too good. 

The title of the article was 'FANness'. And the premise was that people are different and leaders tend to fail being inspirational because of that fact. The coaching in the article asserts that leaders need to reorient their thinking away from traditional motivation tactics and toward fandom of their people. And there are a collection of ways to do that. For instance, just listen to them and engage, have someone tag along with you on a special experience, give someone exposure that will help them grow, or just agree with someone in public, demonstrating they have sound thinking skills.

I thought back to Jack. He would listen to me as he steadily rode the exercise bike. Like really listen. I don't even know what I said, but he did. He would tell me about the restaurants he had been to in New York as inspiration for my budding career in the food industry. He introduced me to his friends - made me someone to know at the Club. A fan, for sure. 

In the meeting, we discussed the homework and were asked to reflect on a person in the company and a person at home that needed a fan. We were asked, 'who needs your fandom most of all?'

I was pretty quick to jot down a person on the company side. Yep, that guy. 

And then I started making a list on the home front. 

The twins. While many times it's all about them, it also feels like it's never about them. I smother them with hugs and kisses as much as I can, but I debate if I've given them the same kind of thoughtful attention that I gave Mary or Bobby or even Margaret when they were that age. It was their birthday recently, and it finally felt like a day for them, by them. And I vowed to design more days, or more hours, when I can give them by all.   

Mary, Bobby and Margaret all need more time with me - there's never enough of it. And at their age, they are ripe with feedback on how my schedule prevents me from being there as much as I want to. For them, it's taking an interest, bending an ear, seeing the event that's central in their week, and giving them the hugs that they still desperately want morning and night.   

My parents. They've been such fans of me - something that I've come to expect. But have I been as enriching as a fan to them? 

My siblings and friends. Aunt Dee, Patty, Charles. I could be a better fan to all of them. There were a lot to list, but then only one that I circled. 

Peter. Ever and ever a fan of me. Have I been fan enough to him? 

I have often thought that my center stage persona is a derivative of being a middle child. But Peter is a middle child as well and defies my theory. He is never one to seek out the attention, never one to ask or expect recognition, not motivated by the trophy or applause. In our relationship, he balances out my crazy.     

And in this new chapter of our life, he has assumed a (temporary) new role of stay-at-home dad. My job and the travel that came with it over the past year were just too much for us both to be working, so, he took a step back. And has instead dedicated his time to ensuring our household functions day in and day out. He does the very difficult, exhausting, and unglorified job of taking care of five kids, the house and all its chores, chauffeuring here, there and everywhere, and all the paperwork, accounting, filing, scheduling and rescheduling that our lives demand. And in the evening, he acts as coach and cheer leader for me as we huddle to debrief on the drama of my day. He has never strayed in the faith that I can do a job and has given me countless pep talks on how to navigate the world of contentious conversations, deal making, lawyers, bankers, politicians, and work out situations that involve all three.  

Besides thanking him for making dinner, I thought back on how many times I've applauded him for all he is doing to keep the family unit physically and emotionally well, especially when I'm on the road. The answer is quite simply, not enough. I circled his name again and thought of the ways I can be a bigger, better fan to my husband.  

The article listed three that best fit Peter's personality: 

- Listening and engaging with the person 

- Finding opportunities for the person to learn and grow

- Trusting the person with a prize responsibility

The realization at work and at home, is that sometimes the most unassuming players, are the ones that need a little more fandom. Especially when they are the ones that enable the whole play to hang together. Because behind any woman who appears to be a super mom, there is someone offering invaluable support that enables her to soar. Or as Jack says, continue the run. Thank you for all of it, Peter. I'm your biggest fan.   

Lo.     

          

Country Bunny Working Mommy

It's the midpoint of the year. Which in corporate America is an inflection point. A time to rally your troops, motivate your stakeholders, and build confidence in your shareholders that momentum will continue, no build. That domination is inevitable.    

In Daniel Pink's Masterclass he talks about timing, and the importance of the middle. He talks about basketball teams who are down by one point at half time. Statistically speaking, they are more likely to win the game. 

Why? 

Because they galvanize around the midpoint; they reflect, knowing they need to catch up, then they carefully run the plan and the plays over the remaining minutes of the game to come out on top. I'm no basketball player, but I've been using the analogy. It's midway through the year, we are here, where are you, what opportunities do you have, how are you adjusting your goals, how are you going to show up to win. win. win.

I sell hamburgers for a living, but the philosophy is transferable. 

While I dish out feedback and inspirational words of wisdom, I end up on the receiving end of perspective as well. Superiors, peers, and even family members tend to weigh in during my mid-year check in.

The positives are never that surprising. They are trending strengths I've utilized my entire career to get to where I am. But boss to boss, the negatives vary. In a new role, in a new function, with yet another new boss, I crossed my fingers that my defined for me opportunities were familiar coaching points far from uncharted territory. 

On Friday, my mid-year review was delivered to me with mostly predictable content. I nodded and accepted, realizing just how momentous this check in actually was, given the role and risk I had taken on. But then there was an area of gray in my opportunity set. Huh. I spent some time marinating on it and am in fact still marinating 48 hours later. The feedback came from my boss and then was reinforced by my family later in the day. 

Boss: Delegate work better so you are not so stretched. 

Me: Hmmm.  

Margaret later in the day: I wish you had a Mommy job.

Me: What does that mean?  

Also Margaret later in the day: Your job needs to be us. 

Me: But what about all the people that I help at work? 

She jumped in the pool after that, leaving the deeper meaning of this rich feedback to me. 

As I've studied and applied Leadership techniques, one of my favorites is framing a most valuable problem to solve with a narrative baked in analogous material that brings additional dimension and emotion to the job of seeking resolution.  

In London a couple months ago, my week-long enterprise leadership education was saturated in metaphor. We painted on water, explored a museum not to observe the artifacts but the gallery walkers, listened to a string quartet, had dinner at Shakespeare's Globe theater, laid out ropes and argued on either side of them, and took off our shoes and tried to run a business barefoot. Through these sessions, I learned that true partnership creates something more beautiful, there is inspiration in the most unusual places, leaderless teams play in perfect harmony, it's my role to shape culture and elevate talent, and when you argue against the aptitude of 24 people representing different functions and markets in a big global brand, you find the value in the other side of the aisle of the most contentious topics. 

Inspired by the curriculum in London, I've been reading more and reflecting on the intersections between the learned and lived experiences. 

I've been through Row the Boat, Unreasonable Hospitality and the Culture Code. I've underlined and applied, but nothing had quite the right metaphor for the intersection of professional and personal advice I received this week. So, I went a different route - to an unsuspected genre of literature. Children's books. Yesterday, I pulled out one of my favorite books from childhood and read it to the twins before nap time. It's called the Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes. Growing up, I liked it for the pastel pictures. And I recalled the part about the Country Bunny training her 21 children to do all the chores in the house, including politely pulling out the mommy Bunny's chair at dinner. Brilliant. 

The story goes like this. There was a Country Bunny who wanted to be one of the five Easter Rabbits when she grew up. Yes, there are five, not one. To do that, she would need to be the kindest, wisest, and swiftest rabbit in the world. But then she got married and had 21 baby bunnies. [Favorite part.] Who she paired up to do the cleaning, cooking, sewing, gardening, and even music making to keep everyone happy around the household. When the time came that an Easter Bunny retired, she and her family went to the palace of Easter Eggs to try out. Grandfather Bunny, the selector of talent, saw that she was wise to have all her kids helping around the house, she was kind to have a house that was so merry, and she was super swift because she had to keep up with her kids. Damn, Grandfather Bunny thought, I need that bunny. But he lamented. 'I wish you could be my newest Easter Bunny, but you will have to stay home to take care of your kids.' She cunningly replied, 'my kids can take better care of our home than I can.' She was hired. She got some gold shoes. And became the best Easter Bunny around.  

Legendary. 

And back to my feedback. Delegate more, do a Mommy job, stay at home. It's the midpoint of the year, do better. 

Last night, Mary made chicken pot pies for dinner. Salad on the side. Afterward, she helped me get the twins bathed and dressed for bed, read to them and sang them songs, tickling Jacqueline's back as I tickled Caroline's. This morning, I went upstairs and my three oldest were cleaning their rooms up showing me different things they had made or discovered during another week where I was mostly away. It's not just the kids, Peter has come to my rescue doing just about everything around the house this year. Perhaps challenging Margaret's understanding of the roles parents play. Which is good. Why shouldn't mommy rabbits get to be the Easter Bunny?  

Directed or not, the housework has been delegated. And the kids have grown, matured, and become pretty amazing citizens of the world because of it. Yes, taking a step away from being in the trenches of the household day to day has been uncomfortable for me and the family, and it's probably made things a little harder at times, but we are learning and growing through it, shooting for a country den as clean, cared for and happy as the Country Bunny's.  

Now could I delegate more at work? Sure. And that is something I will take to heart. But the stretched thin thing ... I just don't know. Because I am stretched thin. Period. While I can push stuff off, polish my frazzles, create a calendar that gives me breathing room, and outsource as much as possible, having a big job and five kids is a stretch. But it's not impossible. And perhaps, perhaps, showing up a little late, slightly askew, a little apologetic, gives other working parents the permission they need to dream a little bigger. There is humanity, vulnerability, and ultimately empathy in a working mom who is stretched thin. And as I take on the second half of the year, as a likely underdog, in a bigger role than I could have ever dreamed of, I'm taking into account the well-timed feedback, adjusting my goals, and showing up for others at home and at work in a way that breeds true partnership in our common mission. 

And maybe buying a pair of gold shoes to remember that if the Country Bunny can do it, so can I. 

Lo.