The restaurant was packed, so we grabbed a high boy table in the bar area. We talked about our careers to date and our paths going forward. She was about twenty years my senior and had an experience set and confidence level that was admirable. We talked about our families, and ironically, shared hometown. I wouldn't have guessed through her slight southern drawl that she was born and raised in Carrick, PA.
Midway through the conversation as we related over the occasional struggles of being working moms, she told me something that I didn't take lightly. In so many words she said we put too much pressure on ourselves; we're going to give ourselves heart attacks.Yikes. But I related.
This week, I found too much truth in that statement.
The world, and particularly our nation, spun out of control. Walls, bans, orders, lists, alternate facts. Are you kidding me? Did this all just happen?
As I walked the hallways and staircases of my office, my head ached with less critical debates about the size of a chicken tender, the price of it, and how much variability to expect. I got legal heartburn over citric acid, materiality, and glutamates. I brought the nightmares of bigger birds, holding times, oil life expectancy, and food safety to bed with me.
I opened the door greeted by the best, most nourishing hugs in the world. But shortly after someone was screaming, the other was crying, and Peter and I commenced the three ring circus to keep them happy and at peace until dinner was on the table, baths were drawn, and lights were out for the night. Then I tried to figure out who could take the place of my sick nanny tomorrow.
On Monday, I 'woke up' after trying to get Bobby back to sleep since 3:00 AM. My tone at a big meeting was less cheery, more threatening than I had ever been before. My computer crashed midday, and I almost cried to my old boss about it. I felt like I was crashing myself. I closed my broken computer, went home, and moved on to stacking the layers of Bobby's birthday cake. Mary tinted the icing a teal blue, which clashed horrendously with the red velvet layers underneath. The cake looked shoddy. Ugh. Fail.
Somewhere in between the pizza, salad, and singing of 'Happy Birthday,' I looked around and started to realize that these were the people and the moments that mattered though. And the cutie pie right in front of me, trying again and again to blow out the pair of candles on his cake had just turned two. And what a two year old he is.
He's cute as a button and as curious as can be. He adores his Daddy, and I'm pretty sure his Mommy too. He looks up to and loves his big sister. He also spats about this and that with her: the coveted book, toy, ball, show du jour. When things turn to punching and pulling hair, he's very good at saying 'sorry, Mary' and hanging out in his crib as a timeout. He loves Thomas and all of his train friends, as well as cars, ambulances, fire trucks, dozers (as he calls them), cranes, buses, planes, and any other motoring mode of transportation. He loves exploring outside, coloring inside, reading a stack of books at a time, running around and jumping up and down in his bare feet, his little owl and his big owl, and his precious blue blanket. He speaks like a grown up at times, and I'm shocked every day at the new words and phrases he spouts out. I love him to death, and can't hug him enough each day.
This weekend, I made Bobby a better birthday cake. I took the extra time, added all my love, and looked up to Chef Olga for her baker's blessing. We hosted a small birthday party; Aunt Dee Dee, Aunt Erin, my Mom and Dad even made the trip in. It was very special and Bobby couldn't have been happier with all the fun that the weekend held.
I have high hopes for this next generation, all the adorable babies, toddlers and children that fill my Facebook feed every day. But so much is riding on our ability to be great parents. And the world is challenging us more than ever to step up to the plate.
Lo.
