All In The Family

Last weekend, around 4:30 Saturday morning, the kids were out of their beds, and in mine. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't have been allowed ... but we were in South Bend for the weekend, Daddy was in Colorado for a wedding, loud revelers screaming 'Go Irish' had been clamoring outside of the thin walls of my parents condo all night, I figured I had no choice but to open the door to my bed and let the kids in.

When I woke up (and I use the term loosely as I never really fell asleep that night), Mary was curled up on one side of the bed, Bobby was nestled in the middle, and I found myself trying not to fall off. As dawn shed its soft light on my slumbering little angels, I gushed. Man, did they look cute.

A couple minutes later, Bobby started stretching his little body out, opened his eyes, rolled over and popped up into a plump sitting position. He looked a little confused. Where was he? Out of his house, out of his bed. He looked at me, smiled, now reassured in a sense, and said perfectly clearly, 'Mama.' 

I gave him a big cuddle and my heart melted.

This whole week, he's been saying my name more and more. It's mostly when I put him down, and he wants to get back up in my arms. It's the one word he needs to know; that has all his needs wrapped up in it. He says 'Mama,' and I can't help but scoop him up.  

***

Last weekend, while Bobby was learning his first lesson in genealogy, Mary was getting a broader education. On Friday night, as we read through our collection of Halloween books from Aunt Dee Dee, Aunt Joyce, and Aunt Amy, I told Mary that we were going to meet lots of people from our family over the weekend.

Mary knows the word family well. And will frequently say that Mommy, Daddy, and Bobby are her family; that she wants to go back home to her family; and that she's loves her family. Kills me. It's when we start to extend the definition of our nuclear family unit that things get a little confusing.

Our family is also ... Nana, Opa, Erin and Joe. And Aunt Dee. They're all here with us. Uncle Adam and Aunt Laura and your cousins couldn't make it; Mimi and Opa are back in Chicago, so are Ellie and Joe. 
Aunt Claire and Uncle Trent too. 

So far, so good. Saturday morning. We enter the Log Cabin on Notre Dame's campus.
Who's that?
That's Cousin Chris - Daddy's cousin. And that's his wife, Kassen who is also one of my best friends from college. A Shamrock Sister let's say.

Who's that?
Well that's Great Uncle John. He's our neighbor remember?
Who's that?
That's cousin Meghan, and Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Tim. Or are they your cousins too? 

Who's that?
That's Mia, another Shamrock Sister. And those are her babies. 

And that's Lam, one more sister, and those are her babies. 

And who's that?
That's Father Mark. He's Aunt Laura's Uncle. He's the one who loves Mickey Mouse!

Who are those peoples?
That's Opa's Brother, your Great Uncle Jim, and his wife and some of their kids. And their kids. They're all cousins.

And who's that baby?
Oh ... that's a very special, new part of our family. That's your very special third cousin, Everett. 
Oh. I like him. 

Back home, Mary might have remembered a couple of the names I told her. Uncle John, cause he lives a couple blocks away. Baby Everett because it was his party. Aunt Joyce, Aunt Amy, and Aunt Dee Dee because their names are on Mary's favorite books. But based on the knowing smile she shared with each new family member she met last weekend, I think she gets that there are a whole of people out there, connected to her by branches, vines and leaves on an ever-growing family tree. And that those people will be there to love, care, and cuddle with her. For me, it's an incredibly comforting fact.

For now though, Bobby. Mama (and we'll work on Dada) is the only name you need to know.

God Bless all of the people that I call family.

And God Bless little baby Everett. 

Lo.  

Fashion Forward

I just got an email from Saks Fifth Avenue. Subject line, 'Just for you.' Aw, how sweet. I opened it. Scrolled down. Revealed that the items pre-selected for me by retail's creepy algorithm were canvas mules. (no.) dopey rain boots (no.) and white converse high tops with a heart on them (what are those? no!) 

I imagined the virtual Saks personal shopper cringing when she hit send. Or perhaps she was hopeful. Could these low performing items stuck somewhere in between 1996 and 2000 lure her in? If only we could get her in the store; what we could offer. 

***

I used to wonder how so many of my teachers from grade school all the way through grad school could get stuck in a certain era. They all seemed to possess a revolving wardrobe of outfits that had been purchased in between 1984 and 1991. Following their particular beloved fashion forward year, they had never gone shopping again.

I have vivid memories of lectures given in shoulder pads and roostered bangs; Laura Ashley dresses, over-sized knit sweaters, stirrup pants. And my English teacher in high school, God love her, who outfitted herself in ensembles circa Moby Dick.

And the funny thing was - they were the good teachers. It was the trendy teachers, that were always kind of sub par.

I now know how they got lost in a given decade. They had kids. They had a career. They looked good in the 80s. (or 90s.) Why not just stay there. 

And this past week, I had a realization. I have become that person. Except I'm stuck in 2005 or 6. When my income went to clothes, shoes, handbags, and specialty cocktails. When life was wrinkle free, slim, trendy, and fleeting. The wake up call I got from Saks was the last straw.  

Recently, I've been noticing, ogling, longing, drooling over ankle boots; glorious black leather booties with fringe, brown ones with buckles, tan ones with trim. The soft leather bags, over-sized blazers, long comfy cardigans, puffy vests, oxfords and knee socks seem almost edible. The good hair, trained makeup, and manicured nails. If only.

If only what? I had more time. More income. I thought about my teachers ... and I thought about the fashionable women I work with. Intellects versus marketers. Do I slip further down the rabbit hole? Or make a dramatic surge toward relevance. I just signed on to Nordstoms.com. I ended up buying a new pair of party shoes for Mary, and some walkers for Bobby. Maybe tomorrow.  

But in my defense. I find so much more joy in dedicating my off hours to other stuff. Stuff that won't ultimately end up in the Goodwill bin. Besides, I'm generally the one behind the camera. 

Lo.

At 36,000 Feet

The chartered bus ride home from Conneaut, Ohio to Pittsburgh marked the last two hours of camp. Two final hours to sing campfire songs in unison, exchange back rubs, laugh about the girl with stinky feet, drool over the dreamy counselor of cabin 7, envy the girl who went to the Banquet with Rory, and exchange phone numbers.

As the bus veered off of I-79, and onto the branch of the winding interstate bound for my hometown, I started to remove myself from the banter and laughter associated with camp’s honored memories, and transitioned out of my role as camper and into that of my parents' daughter.

Every year, I felt like I had changed after spending two weeks away from my mom and dad. I had new skills, songs, jokes; I had gotten a little leaner, a little faster; I had learned a new summer style, adding to my wish list; I was less awkward, more confident in who I was and what I had to offer.

As the skyline came into view, I found myself preparing to capture my mom and dad's welcome home hugs, wondering if they would notice I had changed while locked within their embrace. I envisioned how the back row of my dad’s Transport Van would feel, how my room would look after two weeks spent uninhabited, how goulash, salad, French bread, and a tall glass of milk would taste, how my bed would feel that night. I wondered if everyone, everything was ready to receive the new me.

Undoubtedly, my parents would always comment, giving me a once over. Thinner. From too many lunches and dinners left untouched, relegated to slop buckets at meals end. Tanner, rosier. From forgetting to apply sunscreen on too many occasions. Bigger. Older. Wiser. And somehow altered in a way that my parents probably couldn’t quite identify.

While it was a moment of pride for me, looking back on it, I bet the realization of their daughter's continual maturation year after year was bittersweet for my parents.

***

As I left home yesterday morning, bound for Oklahoma City, I nursed Bobby one last time, and put him down for his morning nap. I hugged Mary mid-motion as she ran from one side of our front porch to the next, pretending she was a lion cub in her cage. I caught her kisses as I backed out of the driveway and replayed her farewell message in my head as I drove to the airport. It was a 24 hour trip, but I knew by the time I got home they would have changed just a bit.

Mary will add a couple more words to her arsenal of vocabulary and moves to her interpretative choreography. And she’ll be a little more aware of the distance between today and tomorrow night. Bobby will be taller, rounder, hungrier. And likely, as he teeters on the edge of another milestone, he will be over it by the time I walk through the door this evening.

The other night as I was nursing Bobby to bed, he turned his head as if to tell me that he’d had enough. Okay, little one. Then night night. When he woke up at midnight upset from hunger pangs, I turned to my natural taming device to lull him back to sleep. He turned his head and cried harder. I offered again, but he seemed more frustrated, inconsolable. Finally, I pulled an emergency bottle out of the refrigerator and soothed him back to sleep with it.

Without a back-up bottle in the morning, I coaxed him into nursing, but I could tell he was losing interest. He wanted his bottle. Not me.

I remembered when Mary turned her head to me as well, cried harder, demanded her bottle. She signaled to me that she had grown up, asserting a pearl of independence that I wasn't ready for. She was my little baby, and I wanted her to stay that way. So if like Mary, Bobby figured out how to wean himself prematurely, I at least know that I got to cherish the last moment we spent in our chair, cow to calf.

Everyone more senior tells me that they grow up too fast. I'm too aware. In fact, I'd say the second seems faster than the first. But while I know each day, whether I'm there or not, my babies will grow and change and find a way that is all their own, they will always be my babies. And my love, warmth, and desire to nourish them will always be there. They will never outgrow my embrace.

Lo.