Yanked

Eleven years ago, I graduated from Notre Dame with a degree in Art History, a Monogram ring, a bunch of great friends, and four erupted wisdom teeth. Because there was plenty of room in my big mouth for them to nestle into their warm home, my adult dentist gave me a choice that summer: I could let them be or he could yank them out. Since my pediatric dentist and bearded orthodontist had spent years nurturing my family of teeth, I told Dr. Gruendel that I was ready to be a mother once again - to four massive molars at the very back of my jawline. Besides, without any job prospects or general direction in life, I thought I could use as much wisdom as possible.

One by one they came through without a problem, giving me a shark-like ability to bite through anything. No matter how stale the baguette or how crunchy the biscotti; now matter how chewy the caramel or sticky the toffee; no matter how tall the sandwich or wide the slice of pizza, my epic line up of teeth could gnaw through it. And I felt some pride in that toothy grin.

About three years ago though, I received the inevitable news. My four ferocious friends had cavities - big ones. The Naper dentist advised me to bid them a fond farewell immediately. But pregnancy, then another pregnancy prolonged their lifespan. It was at my last Naper check up that my X-rays revealed cavities so deep they were about to hit the nerve. So after a couple nightmares and a warning from Dr. Dad, consultations and arrangements were made with an oral surgeon and Michigan grad named Dr. Huvar.

Yesterday was the doomsday for my wisdom teeth. Early in the morning, on an empty stomach, Peter and I pulled up to a Naper suite for surgery. I was sedated shortly thereafter and within thirty minutes, each of my deep seated chompers was pulled out. I could actually still feel each of their departures from my mouth; my drugged goodbye was painless but bittersweet. We had been through a lot together - so many delicious morsels - so many butts of crusty French bread.

I asked if I could see their remains after I woke up. Through my foggy vision, there they were: darkened by ware and tare and cavities beyond repair. They looked so sad. I asked if I could take them home - but I was told they were a bio hazard. (Seriously?) So somewhere in Naperville my teeth were buried and laid to rest yesterday.

My nostalgia sounds silly, I know. But whenever you lose a piece of yourself it hurts a little. So to the savviest, smartest part of my mouth: thank you for more than ten years of amazing bites. You will be sorely missed.

Lo.

Body Language

I have a very curious, very vocal two-year old. From the moment she wakes up in the morning until her bedtime protests are silenced by a couple lullabies and sheer exhaustion, she wants to talk (or sing) to anyone willing to listen. While she has mastered identification of most everything in our house and the surrounding community, in her books, and in the wonderful world of Walt Disney's Cinderella, Bobby and her role as a big sister have inspired some additional language lessons over the past three months.

Like how she feels ... hot, cold, frustrated, sad and happy.
I want chocolate.
No.
I want chocolate.
No.
Mary frustrated. I need chocolate.
No, honey.
Mary sad. (Followed by a dramatic exodus to the sun room where she puts her head on the ottoman and pretends to sob.)
(And because it's really hard to keep saying no to her ...) Well, since you have been such a good big sister, you can have one Kiss.
Mary happy!

We've also been working on timing ... today and tomorrow, sleeping in between.
What's Mary, Mommy doing today?
I blow bubbles today.
And I go wimming (swimming) today.
I go Park today. Blue park.
Mary, Eva library today.
I eat kepitch (ketchup), drink milk today.
Mary, Mommy run, eat doughnuts today.
I want Daddy, basement, train tracks, Legos today.
I ride train, see Nanny Opa today.
Mary no nap today.
Mary wake up today.
Mary NO NAP!
Mary WAKE UP!
And on ...
And on ...
And on ...
Until she passes out.
In her mind, tomorrow brings the end of the weekend, Monday, work, and the end of my maternity leave. So everything has to happen today.

And we've learned a lot about mommies and their babies.
Mommy feed em. Milk in there. Two milks. I help. Empty. All done.
I want to hold him. I need wash cloth. (Positions burp cloth on her lap.)
Bobby spit up.
Mommy take em.
Mommy weep (sweep) it.

And she's starting to investigate boy stuff.
Bobby go first. Mommy change em. Poop in there.
Okay, Bobby's all clean. Mary's turn.
Poop in there.
No, he's all done honey. Come on, you're next.
No. Poop in there.
What?
Poop in there.
Oh.

And this is where I'm stumped. While I feel very comfortable guiding Mary through the dictionary and thesaurus, there is one category of verbiage that challenges me. Body language. I've got bum and poop and my bovine nature covered, but when it comes to identifying those other things that make boys and girls different, I want the conversation to end.

See, I grew up in the opposite of a naked house. It was more of a no shirt, no shoes, no service kind of place. And with it, I never became at home with the finer points of humanity's anatomy. Sure maternity, particularly labor and delivery and a general state of over exposure in the hospital have made nakedness less awkward for me, but I still find the communication of it uncomfortable.

I've been thinking through the other terms - the made up ones you hear other parents using - trying to figure out a pleasant way to spin certain truths. But the reality is, even as a marketer, there's no easy way to publicly converse about private parts. So I've decided that I will just be forthright about it. They are what they are. Done and done.

Anyway, what I really want my kids to know ultimately, is that even though we're all made a little different, it's okay for both boys and girls to wear the pants in life.

Lo. 

In the Name

During the Church's required Baptism class for parents of children receiving the Sacrament, the facilitators talk to you about the different symbols used throughout the ceremony: the water, light, fragrant chrism oil, and white garments that your baby is bound to burp or in our case poop all over. They teach you about your role and those of the Godparents. They lay out the order of events, prep you for the terse responses to the Priest's questions, and reinforce how important the ritual is. What they don't mention though is how many times they will say your child's name throughout the service; and just how important that name is. Bobby's full name must have been called a dozen times throughout his Baptism on Sunday, and at each mention I think I beamed with a little more pride. 

While at the end, the Priest petitioned for St. Robert to pray for us, I was hoping that four other men would provide their intercession as well.

Bobby was named after his four great grandfathers; four men who helped make the Greatest Generation even greater. A baker, a bricklayer, a banker, and a builder - each man never solely defined by a profession, but by all the electric elements of their well lived lives.

Bobby was baptized with the name Robert. With the turn of the century. With flour, salt, water and yeast and the sweet aromas of bread filling the small Midwestern city of Quincy, Illinois. With tailored suits and shined shoes. With a bombshell bride whose style rivaled his own. With a mean golf swing and a passport into the most amazing swimming pool on either side of the Mississippi. With a storyteller who always broke after the punch line. With grasshoppers and divinity. With an artistic hand that could bring a boy's imagination to life on a blank piece of paper. With tees, and tackle, and sharp ties. With roses, geodes, lightening bugs and summer clouds outside, and a very hot house inside. With a polished politico who loved playing Mayor or just making a new friend.

He was baptized with the name Bob for short. With a thick head of wavy black hair tucked under his Navy cap. With a room on the Pacific to receive and report radio signals, carrying news from every corner of the War. With an old time Domer, cheering for the Irish in their hey day. With a train ride to Union Station where he met his super soul mate. With a special table for two in a favorite Paris bistro. With an invitation to join us on the Shirley B, docked at Slip Number Six in Burnham Harbor. With Chevys, Cadillacs and cars that were OK! With wheat, corn and soy trades, options, burgers, and safe deposit boxes. With a serial entrepreneur, dressed in blue, always looking for his next venture. With a man who marched to the beat of his own drum, encouraging each of his children and grandchildren to do the same.

He was baptized with the name Barry. With bright red hair and freckled Irish skin. With steel and iron and Pittsburgh pride. With a ruptured ear drum, that kept him on U.S. soil and out of a tank destroyer unit that mostly perished during the War. With a blessing in disguise that brought eight children and their offspring into the world. With rich earth and the potatoes, asparagus and tomatoes that sprout from it. With the skill to jitterbug with his beloved Croatian bride. With a hearty laugh that would shake a belly filled with the Chef's beef birds and baked goods. With a voice that was never on key, but confident enough to belt out any melody. With Easter eggs, apple cider, and burgers. With mason jars ready for their pickled fillings, a shot of Jameson, and a closet full of intermediates. With a stubborn streak, a will to survive and an emotional side reserved only for the people closest to him. 

And he was baptized with the name Schultz. With a war hero who built the bridges over the Rhine, leading the Allied Troops to victory. With a handsome GI who marched through the Arc de Triomphe to find his bride and bring her home. With a humble engineer whose mind could tackle anything from the most complex compounds to the most delicate dollhouses. With potato pancakes and brats for dinner, and kaffe and kuchen for dessert. With the faith that the Cubs would someday be #1. With over engineered doors for the cats to go out and see the brilliant blue skies of Colorado. With cement, Warsteiner, hammers and nails. With the will to fix anything, no matter how broken. 

On Sunday, Bobby was baptized with the names and love of his four great grandfathers, shining down on him from heaven. But ultimately, Bobby was baptized in the name of the Father, and the Son and and the Holy Spirit, who I pray will continue to bless and keep him throughout his days. And naturally we feted, toasted, and celebrated the newest, cutest little Catholic all weekend. 

 

 

     

A toast to the ever inspiring Greats. We will continue to do our best to fill your legendary shoes.
Lo.