The Mom that Spoke at Mass

At 2:30 PM yesterday, I left my house and went into the office for the first time all day. I had just gotten a shower; a humble attempt to scrub away the vomit and disinfectant covering my body. With a clean, wet head I breathed in the fresh air of corporate productivity from within the walls of my second floor cubical. I felt so much better: healthier, more relaxed, almost giddy. For the next two hours it was just me, my work and the well side of the world, and it was glorious.

There were evenings growing up when my Mom would abruptly tell us she was going back to the office. The day was over, she had already driven the Boulevard of the Allies twice, and she wanted to go downtown again? As an 8 year old, I thought she was nuts. As a 35 year old mom, I have realized the office as occasional sanctuary.

***

The plague manifested itself at our house on Mother's Day eve. Peter and I had just sat down to enjoy a beautiful spring dinner on a beautiful spring evening, but two bites in, we were interrupted by all too routine fighting and fussing. I scarfed down the rest of my scallops and got the kids bathed and in bed. Bobby kept waking up, fussing. I figured something was wrong.

A couple hours later, Bobby was crying in his crib, covered in puke, confused, smelly, and to a Mom filled with pity for her poor sick peanut, more cuddly than ever. Peter and I bathed him, got him dressed again, changed his sheets, started the laundry, and put him back to sleep. Ten minutes later, we were on repeat. And so it went until the wee hours of the morning.

I spent Mother's Day cleaning up another round of vomit, disinfecting our house, napping, reading, praying the plague would pass me by, and otherwise exercising the less than glamorous role us Moms were being celebrating for.

The rest of the week was met by illness further penetrating our household, including our poor nanny. It was characterized by dozens of Clorox wipes, many more tears over "why water, why not milk(?!), leaky diapers, yucky sheets, loads and loads of laundry, little sleep, and an extra dose of pre-natal vitamins, hoping they would fend off the pukes.

On Mother's Day, we missed brunch, and the boat, and a beautiful family photo, but I did get to Mass. And in the tradition of my Parish, one of the Moms in the congregation gave the homily. In the past, the speakers have been good, not great. Sorry, I'm judgmental. This year though, the woman was dynamite.

She is an ER Doc downtown. The mother of two teenage kids. She has Notre Dame in her DNA and does volunteer work with disadvantaged women in Honduras. Her role model is Dorothy Day. She spoke with conviction and passion, and I was engrossed. She compared society's view of the ideal mom (beautiful, perfectly shaped, raising 2.5 kids on organic homemade baby food in a sparkling house and a Cheerio free minivan) with the moms she views as role models (widows she has met throughout life.) She spoke of the sacrifice and selflessness of these moms, working two jobs and night shifts to put kids through school. She admired how their prayers were always for everyone but themselves. And she praised their hope and perseverance in the face of all they had been through.

(And I'm trying to sell more chicken tenders for a living ...)

She ended her homily by saying something that will always stick with me. She said, "there is no time to be hopeless in life. There is far too much work to do."

Amen!

Such a perfect sentiment.

This was a week that I thought my Mom would text me, 'this too shall pass'; one of my Grandma's oft repeated mantras. However, in keeping Preacher Mom's (never caught her name) advice in check, the added work and loss of sleep over the past six days didn't seem to phase me. I just kept moving ... cooking and cleaning, solving and selling, flying the turbulent skies and landing on two feet again, wondering, is the work I do enough?

For now, I'll say it is. Because I'm home from the office. Everyone's healthy. And it's Friday.

Lo.

Mother of Three

Every time I return to Pittsburgh, my parents house seems a little emptier. My dad has spent many hours of his newfound retirement, purging the attic, closets, shelves and drawers of stuff that is decades past its useful life. The blank spaces make you take notice of the other stuff, hand selected to remain.

At Thanksgiving, I was putting Bobby to sleep in my brother's old room, a landmark that now doubles as a teenager's shrine to Notre Dame football and a baby room. The two-fold purpose has created an abundance of furniture making you shimmy through crevices to get from doorway to crib to changing table, inevitably sending me back to Chicago with bruised knees and elbows as souvenirs.

In the depths of the furniture maze is a little rocking chair, made for a four year old perhaps. On it always sits a little embroidered baby pillow that has been in the family for as long as I can remember. It's blue and white with lace around the perimeter. I picked it up to move it to bed so I had a chance of squeezing into the chair, and for the first time, I read what was embroidered on it.

It says, "A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on."

As I sang and rocked Bobby to sleep I was distracted. It was kind of an ominous sentence; dark for an infant's memento. I wondered where my parents got it and what was going on in the world at the time it was created. Did my Mom share some of the emotions I had been experiencing as she brought us into this world?

Thanksgiving was a confusing time for me. We had a new president elect, the liberal media had sufficiently convinced me that the world could very well end, and there was a chance that God's opinion could already be taking shape in me. The pillow said it all. And as I rocked Bobby to sleep, I felt tears run down my cheeks onto his little golden head.

***

A couple weeks later, I confirmed that I was in fact pregnant with number three. I remember telling Peter as we warmed up by the fire after taking the kids sledding in December. "Are you ready to do it again?" I asked him.

His emotional response said it all. He absolutely was.

I just wasn't sure that I was. But week after week, pound by pound, the pillow kept interrupting me ...

Listening to and reading the news: I turned off NPR for awhile and removed myself from the social hysteria.

Figuring out what to wear to work: I ate for two and woefully kissed my new favorite jeans goodbye.

Settling: I scoured Redfin, looking for an upgrade and extra bedroom.

Climbing the ladder: I tried to relinquish my calculated plans: a promotion that continues to be just shy of attainable, momentum, the stage. I waited and waited to tell people at work. I kept thinking about yet another maternity leave holding me back. Finally, the news and my belly came out.

Doing it all: I worked and then worked harder and told them I wasn't going to slow down. I came home to make dinner. Rough housed in the basement. Baths. Bedtime. I opened up my laptop and got back to work. I kept running, turning over the ground, planting the garden, scrubbing the floors. Peter looked at me last night and said in a very real way, "you can't work too hard."

After I had Mary, I seriously debating quitting the workforce and never going back. Four years later, I can't believe the hesitancy I have experienced about the blip in time that my maternity leave will be.

I think there is a reason my third one is sticking out a whole lot more than the first two. She wants to remind me of God's opinion daily, and with it the most important roles I have: those of wife and mother. And I know she and God are right. Life will go on. And I'm pretty sure my career will go on.

As I make my way down the homestretch of pregnancy, feeling my baby girl dance a little more jubilantly in me everyday, the idea of dedicating a couple months to just being a mom is growing on me. And I think calling me.

Lo.