Golden Girls

While Notre Dame sloppily added a W to their schedule this weekend, their victory over Michigan State wasn't the headline. Bigger news was clamoring through campus, starting early Saturday morning.

First, there was a rainbow. Scratch that. A perfect rainbow, stretched all the way over Carroll Hall's massive, 'GO IRISH' sign. It was gorgeous.

Soon after, my cousin got down on one knee near the Grotto, adding some beautiful bling to Katrina's left hand. About eight hours later, a friend and fellow blogger got a, 'yes' to his big question too.   

Aunt Connie's fried chicken took home the blue ribbon in the tailgate cook-off. A couple bridesmaids had an overdue reunion. And a couple others totally missed each other. Finally, the real grabber of a headline: Mary met a cheerleader (...while her Mom glowed at the starlet in front of her, gushing about how she had always dreamed of being thrown up in the air by a burly cheer man in the middle of Notre Dame stadium.) Mary stuck her tongue out. 

This weekend, Mary also got mistaken for a 'buddy' several times. Girls wear jean jackets too, people. She partied at her first tailgates. And saw her first sporting event. There were some suspicious eyes as I carried a six-month old through the Frank Lehry Gate and up to our seats, but there was never a better fan. She smiled and cheered with the best of them. And likely would have lasted the whole game, but we left short of a melt down. 

This weekend, Irish eyes were definitely smiling. 

Lo. 

Two Fish, One Fish

We were not pet people.

My parents likely made a conscious decision early in their relationship to be a no-pet household. And it was likely both rational and emotional. Rational: My Dad thinks pets were too much work. Emotional: My Mom has a general fear of anything non-human.

While 'a puppy' was regularly scratched on to my sister's Christmas list, I embraced my parents' logic and trepidation. 

When I went over to a friend's house, I could hear the call to 'Quick! Put Princess in the basement,' over the 'do do do do do do do' as I emerged from our Transport Van's sliding door.

I hated picking my sister up from her friend Mary's house because it perpetually smelled like cats and hermit crabs.

And the whole notion of dog's being able to smell my fear, freaked me out. I would will myself to be cool, but fell victim to relatively harmless dog attacks time and time again.  

Growing up, we did have a stint with a fresh water aquarium. In it, a couple Black Malis mated and bred dozens of baby Black Malis, which the parents proceeded to eat. Soon after they perished too and the aquarium was emptied and left idle for years. Besides that, we were a bark, scratch, hair and odor-free household. And I appreciated it.

***

If Peter had been packaged with Fido, his accessory dog, there could have been some issues. Instead, he came complete with a living, breathing salt water aquarium, several corals, a shrimp, a clam, some snails, and a little fish named Omega Supreme. He reigned over it. And it was the center piece of his stark apartment in Oak Hill. 

I thought it was cute; the fact that he had transported it in buckets from Cape Cod to Chicagoland and from there to South Bend; the pride he showed in it; and above all, his relationship with and love for his little clown fish.

Later on, I learned that having a salt water aquarium wasn't just a pet project, it was as much science as art - an intricate hobby that took time, dedication, and the utmost care. There were days dedicated to water creation, filtration, and change-out. There were gadgets that read temperatures and chemical levels. There were field trips to illusive salt water aquarium stores. And there were logs with countless entries. All in the service of bringing a little bit of the beloved Ocean into our home.

Over the six years we have been together, I have grown to love Peter's aquarium. Every week, I pray for the fishes at Church. I gladly give Peter the time and space to do aquarium maintenance whenever its inhabitants need a refreshed ecosystem. I love feeding the fish when Peter is out of town. And I love saying good morning and good night to Omega, who has been like the little third wheel in our relationship.

Oh geez, I'm going to start crying again. 

After putting Mary to bed on Tuesday night, I went down to the Man Cave to say goodnight to Peter. Passing by the aquarium, I looked to see Aquaman and Omega swimming in their own fashionable styles through the water. I saw the masked red fish, but couldn't see my little orange and black striped friend. Then I spotted him on the sand. As I had prayed that he one day would, his fish soul had gone on to fish heaven. I was crushed. But not as much as Omega's best friend.

Omega lived for eight and a half years. To give you some perspective, a clown fish in captivity has an average lifespan of three years. In the wild, it's roughly eight. That's how much Peter loved this fish and how much Omega loved his proud owner. He boasted a life that exceeded the Ocean's expectations.

There will be more fish, more crabs, and clams, and corals, but there will never be a salty swimmer like Omega. And little buddy, you will forever be missed.

Lo.

When You're Having Fun

While my class mates were taunted with sweet dreams and bed heads, there was always a carrot dangling on the other side of my covers - a golden opportunity begging me to get out bed around the same time the sun was starting her day.

Getting up early meant having enough time to make myself scrambled eggs and toast every morning before school. It meant getting to see the snow covered ground in pristine perfection - before even a squirrel could indent the white blanket with its prints. It meant finding a Conch on Sanibel's beach; catching sun fish in Spring Lake with my Grandpa; and getting in six runs before the slopes opened to the general public, proudly sporting my Hidden Valley Season Pass.

Getting up before my brother and sister meant the first choice in a bag full of Schwartz' bagels and eating mine while it was still warm. It meant being my Dad's helper in the kitchen on Thanksgiving morning while watching the family of wild turkeys parade through our yard. And it meant a couple of strategic stops on Walnut Street because I had agreed to go to Talbot's with my Mom before the crowds showed up.

Today, the prize for an early rise is Mary and getting to spend as much time with her as possible. My 5:00 AM wake-up call affords me an hour in the morning to check a couple Lo items off my list so by the time the rest of the house says, 'Good morning Mommy,' they have my full attention. Despite how far forward I've adjusted my alarm and despite how much I try to stretch my days, there is never enough time. And recently, it just seems to go by faster and faster.

Yesterday Mary turned six months. How is that possible? She's sitting up straight, babbling, laughing, playing, eating rice cereal, nearly crawling, and using her thighs to cross percentiles at an alarming rate.

When Mary was very little, people kept telling me to enjoy it, because it goes too fast. There was almost a regretful, lamenting tone to their forewarning as if that person hadn't savored it. As we went on a family hike to mark Mary's half year milestone yesterday, I felt a bit of the sadness that so many had prescribed. Time had inevitably gone too fast.

While I know that I can't stop the cycle - that months and then years will come and go; milestones will be reached and passed - I can savor and celebrate every minute of togetherness. And when someday I'm called upon to reflect on those wonderful days when Mary fit in my arms, I will say that I loved every second of those years. And that it in my heart, she will always be my little baby.

Lo.

Better with Age

I had a couple whopper pimples on my wedding day: like one on my chin, one on my cheek, and one that was subterranean, nesting until it could properly grace me with its presence when we stepped off the plane in Nice to start our honeymoon.

The photos that I carefully selected to be displayed in my house and in others don't capture the whole story - a great make-up artist, good lighting, and a killer photographer helped the situation too - so I had all but forgotten about the blemishes. That is until Peter and I in a moment of nostalgia this week went through the complete wedding reel to reminisce about a perfect day (minus a pimple or two.)

Seeing a couple shots where my skin looked a little like Jessica Simpson's before pictures in her Proactiv commercial, I remembered something I said on my wedding day. I shrugged and told myself, 'well it's probably better this way. So many brides look back and think that's the best they've ever looked and they're never going to look like that again. I on the other hand am glad there is room for improvement.'

***

Something about having a baby, the invasion of weird hormones, and a general lack of time leading to a make-up free existence has done wonders for my skin. And last night, as I looked in the mirror and threw my hair into a ponytail, getting reading to go to Grandma Shirley's birthday party, I had a little revelation. Maybe, despite all that we're told, women do get better with age.

A couple hours later, my theory became a conviction. Last night, I hung out with one of the most beautiful people I know. Her hair and nails are always done, she's always dressed to impress, and although she's just about 5 foot 1, there's no one that stands taller. Mostly though, the thing that makes her so radiant is her smile - a grin that captures 87 years of happiness each time it's shared with another person.

In that smile are the plains of Nebraska, the sun of Florida, and the snowfalls of Chicago; there are boat rides, and swims, and namastes; there are 24 trips to Paris and a world tour; there is an irreplaceable husband, three wonderful children, five grandchildren, and five more great grandchildren; there are thousands of loads of perfectly laundered laundry and hundreds of batches of cookies; there are all the patients and all her kids, nursed back to health; there is loss and there is pain, but there is the courage to always persevere; there is faith and an undying love for her family, friends, and life.  

That is beauty. And I guarantee next year, SGS's radiance will shine even brighter. A couple pimples down and I'm hoping I'm on my way to be the same kind of 87-year old when I grow up.

Happy birthday Super Grandma Shirley.

Lo.

Annivirusy

While I mentally prepared myself for the arrival of Mary, I planned for sleepless nights and fussy days; I calculated the approximate number of hours dedicated to eating and pooping; I said goodbye to my skinny jeans and hello to a whole new world of underwear; I failed to prepare for one thing. That is, the plethora of viruses and bacteria that would be entering my house, through the cutest little carrier of course. And I forgot to plan for death by day-care born disease becoming Mommy. And Daddy.

***

The other day, my mother-in-law asked me what a second anniversary was associated with. Like the first was paper ... what is the second? I had no clue and told her I would get back to her once I figured it out myself.

On Friday, around 2:30 PM, I got the answer. Our second anniversary, was that of the Rotavirus. It would be our annivirusy to put a pithy spin on it. And no amount of cotton balls could swab up the mess that was about to ensue.

Our big Labor Day weekend plans - a weekend we've always done so well: from first dates, to our engagement, to our wedding - were sidelined, just like Johnny Football, for a weekend of house arrest, alternating naps, and a very intense, highly discouraged cleansing diet called attack of the Rotavirus.  

I've got to say though, you don't know true love until you've been through it all together; through the noises and smells, aches and the pains, moans and groans. And you don't know true romance until you can cuddle up next to your partner in pestilence and ask, 'it is over yet?'

While we will likely be having yet another slice of toast with peanut butter for our celebratory dinner tonight, the true champion of our second anniversary, is our little carrier. Who beat the bug with one awesome immunization and all weekend long, landed on top.

Happy anniversary to the love of my life, who I will always love in sickness and in health.

Lo.