Name Recognition

During my freshman year of college, I played or rather practiced the important position of 'connector' on Notre Dame's varsity lacrosse team. I shouldn't merely trivialize the role; I was still an issue gear toting member of an elite NCAA squad; but it was trivial nonetheless.

My role at practice, along with three other members of the C squad, was to stand at the 50-yard line and wait. Wait until the offense faltered in any given drill; wait until the defense scooped up the ball and made their way out of the red zone; wait until they were able to make eye contact with me and 'connect' with the scrub (me) picking daisies at midfield; then catch the ball, turn around, and take a couple steps toward the opposite goal that stood unmanned and undefended. The whistle would blow, play would cease, I would send the ball back to the people actually at practice, and I would start waiting again.

In a way, my role of connector defined me as a freshman. I was awkward, husky, and at a certain point, really tired of waiting.  My single sex high school education didn't set me up for success in the gender relations department. My sport demanding that I lift a lot of weights, party with Busch Light chugging heavy weights, and wear unflattering sweat clothes furthered my social undesirability. And I obviously wasn't burning off the Papa John's bread sticks I had consumed while waiting around at practice.

As a part of a team though, there was safety in numbers; we were all husky and awkward and oblivious, trying to figure out the difference between us as players and people. Trying to decipher the individual from the team. Freshman year, I veered from the person I had cultured over the past 18 years, and it didn't feel right.

In time, I came around. I worked hard on the field and graduated from connector to starter. I gave up beer and bread sticks for a trimmer waist and better clothes. I found myself in the classroom, at Mass, on the stage and in the ceramics studio. I shrunk in stature but grew in confidence. And people, other than my teammates took notice of my number and my name. 

Senior year, I remember being at Heartland, a South Bend night club (and I use the term loosely), when THE guy on campus; my ultimate crush; approached me to dance. He knew my name. MY name. He flattered me. He bought me a drink. I was a goner. When a dumb blond (and I'm not using that term loosely) came between us, I retreated to the bar, sad that the fleeting moment had been interrupted. But when I turned around THE hockey player said, 'hey Lo, what do you want to drink?' He knew my name too. When did he learn my name? I was glowing. I felt like I was in a movie. I had been noticed - validated - approached (twice in one night!) - and it felt awesome.

***

The past couple weeks have been pretty great, scratch that awesome, at work. I unveiled some of my recent work to leadership and was rewarded with 'awesome job' accolades. I nailed a big presentation a couple days after that and was escorted off the floor to the sound of applause as one of the marketing VPs nudged me and whispered 'awesome job, Lo.' (Lo ... LO! She knew my name. I had no clue. It rang in my ears over and over again.)

My VP also pulled me aside to tell me he was impressed, I got a strong performance review, conquered another field visit on the West Coast, and celebrated my 34th birthday. I felt like it was my day, my week, my year. I felt like I had (finally) landed professionally. I loved hearing such positive associations with my name. And I flashed back to that time in college when the hot guys at the head of the class used my name for the first time.

As I listened to United's updates this morning turning our short delay into a really long one, I thought about all the stuff I wrote up above. What success or validation means; and the people we try to impress to achieve it.

Back in college, I was so enamored when the Texan and the Forward chose me. For a dance. For a drink. For their spring fling. But that same night at Heartland, I missed dancing with my girl friends. I missed one of the silly stories they tell on repeat. I missed hanging out with the people that really cared. Who had loved me for who I was since Freshman year.

In the working world, it's not much different. Sometimes when you work so hard to impress the office, you become absent from the people at home. I love my job. And I love when my hard work gets recognized. But at the end of the day, and at the end of yet another week on the road, the one name I wanted to hear wasn't Lo. It was Mommy. And the one piece of recognition that I wanted to receive, wasn't awesome job, it was 'I love you.'

While it feels great to hear your name out loud and see it in lights, there is nothing better than coming home to the sound of 'MOMMY!' and receiving the big, long hug that follows it.

Lo.  

Sitters

We were well acclimated with babysitters growing up. We had many over the years. And each hold a special place in my heart because of the contributions they made to my childhood.

There was Patty; my first nanny. (My sister's third.) She covered ages 0 - 4. Although she's so much more, I could sum her up with her white Beretta car, Tic Tacs, Matzo, hard boiled eggs, the Goody Closet, leg painting, arts and crafts and visits to the Squirrel Hill Library.

There was Debbie; my second nanny. Ages 4 - 8. She was frosted hair, crimping irons, white Reebok high tops, neon, a Maroon Buick Grand Prix, Haluski, auto parts, back rubs, Debbie Gibson and Madonna blaring from the radio. She was a perfect poster woman for the 80s who inspired some of the confidence I carry today.

Then there were the evening babysitters. Either one of my Dad's residents or Edy. Chanted, 'E-D, E-D, E-D,' whenever my Mom had lined her up to sit on a weekend.

Most nights, particularly when we were young, my parents were home having dinner with us, giving us baths, and putting us to bed. But occasionally they caught a movie, went to a black tie affair, or just wanted to have dinner together in relative peace and quiet. Or maybe that's an assumption I'm now making based on my family dinners recently.

I don't remember their occasional absence as traumatic; rather a chance to dance, play, and read stories with an alternate cast member. And Edy was a star.

Edy's arrival meant Yahtzee, Bingo, and as many hands of 500 Rummy as possible; an extra cookie for dessert because she was having one more too; getting under the spigot(!) to rinse off; and going to bed with the smell of her over-sized silky leisure ware fresh in my mind.

I imagine my parents went to bed those nights refreshed and relieved. Not only did they have a great night bonding over good food and company, their kids were safe, sound, and sleeping peacefully with a new set stories to relay in the morning.

***

While Eva holds down our fort during the day, we've recruited a new person for a new shift. It's called the Mommy and Daddy can't take this anymore shift. So welcome Camille. Thank you, Camille. You can take it from here, Camille. (And replace Camille with Mimi sometimes.)

Not that I don't love my kids. Not that I don't want to spend all day, every day with them; run while pushing them ahead of me, do yoga while Mary makes her dolls scale my downward facing slope, bake cakes while Mary licks the icing off my spatula, and work while they try to pound the keys on my computer. But at their ages, it's chaotic. And exhausting. And I need to remember what life, and particularly dinner, was like when it was just me and Peter.

So we've been calling up the sweet girl from our church who just loves kids to come over and fill in, while we check out. And in turn, check in with each other in a real way. We've used three restaurant gift certificates over the past four weeks; a couple that were quite dusty from the years they've spent in my dresser. We've made memories just the two of us again, and it's been awesome.



As a working mom, I guilt myself into thinking I need to be there every second that I'm not at work. But from what I learned as a kid, babysitters are there to mix things up, add a little more character, and give your parents the break they deserve. There's still plenty of room for family time in the schedule.

A very happy 89th birthday to Oma; a woman who has always put family first. And whose Bronco's gave her the best present of all last Sunday! We love you (and your socks, blankets, perfect pound cake, and cat stories so much!)

Lo.