Crushed Ice

We grew up looking forward to a beach vacation nearly every year. And many times, it was an extended family event. Aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, sometimes even a random co-worker of my Mom or Dad would show up. They were trips destined to accumulate stories, memories, and laughs; the highlight of any given summer.

Back when there was a Dodge Caravan, Ford Taurus, and Pontiac Transport in the family, we would drive (and drive and drive) from Pittsburgh to a southeastern shore. The ride down meant stops at historic markers, touring a fort or battlefield, a picnic lunch somewhere in West Virginia, the license plate game, an Aunt Meg sighting, my Dad's collection of Broadway cassette tapes, hundreds of games of Tetris, punches and jabs from my brother and sister, dinner at a local institution, a motel stop, and the morning after, renewed optimism that we would reach the shore in just five short hours. Or in the case of our trip to Bald Head Island, five short hours plus another hour on a wavy, water soaked ferry.

Once we pulled across the marshy waterways into our resort destination, the salty sea air, the sound of the ocean, and the keys to our house were more excitement than we could contain. Slowly we would navigate the themed street names to our residence, park the Pontiac, and open the door to our palace for the week. Every year the house seemed to top the year prior.

We would run around exploring the novelties; the double dining room tables, the screened in porch, the alligator beached in our backyard, the DVDs and collection of games in the family room, the sun kissed kitchen equipped with an over sized refrigerator with built-in ice dispenser, the master suite complete with Jacuzzi, and finally, the room we would claim as our own.

Many years, I roomed with my sister or in some cases my sister and cousin Meghan. But they were night owls. They would keep the light on to read before bed. Then talk, and get hushed, then whisper, and get hushed again, then laugh and laugh, keeping me up when all I wanted to do was get eight hours of sleep, starting promptly at 9:00 PM.

So on one of our trips to Kiawah Island, when my Mom suggested I room with Aunt Dee Dee, I jumped at the opportunity. It was ideal. She was neat and tidy, retired when I did, woke up with the sun like me, and was (still is) the best. The first night though, I discovered the short fall. Evening after evening, she would fill up a cup with crushed ice from the magical dispenser, then sit in bed for 10-15 minutes, chewing it. At least the lights were out and the activity was short lived; it was a minor set back in my charmed rooming situation.

***

Last week, I sat in bed night after night, chewing ice and thinking about my family. Late in my pregnancies, the habit I learned from Aunt Dee Dee while on vacation, kicks in. Around month 7 or 8, I get a craving for ice water, than more ice than water, than just ice. I don't know what it is - the cooling effect or perhaps some sort of stress release - regardless, I now appreciate the beauty of crushed ice and feel even more akin to my storied roomie as I chomp through meetings, dinner, and a renewed bedtime ritual.

Last week was my family's annual beach vacation. There was a road trip down, ocean breezes and white sand, bike paths, an impressive house, and a dining room table that seated twenty, missing four.

At 34 weeks pregnant, I wasn't in the state to go, which meant neither was the rest of my unit. Traveling with the kids would have been particularly challenging, the hot sandy beach wouldn't have been as welcoming, and the possibility that I would go into labor in Pensacola, Florida scared me. I felt particularly bad though that my kids couldn't go. But our vacation would have to wait till later in the year.

It wasn't just my family though. Over the past two weeks, it seems like everyone has been on an amazing vacation. My Instagram feed detailed sunsets over St. Simon's Island, the boats in Bohicket Marina, the Nantucket lighthouse, s'mores with a view of Lake Tahoe, the National Mall, snow topped mountains in Glacier National Park, Mickey and Minnie, ball parks and concert halls, and your skiff ... it all looked like summer perfection. On the other hand, my big belly stuffed into a swimming suit, not so much.

As I walked with my kids in the morning, more and more planes seemed to fill the sky, heading south, north, anywhere but here. Co-workers took off test markets while I sat at my desk anxiously. Then I received their out of office (destined for the Caribbean, France and Greece) replies jealously. I held down the fort at home and at work, because at this point, I'm grounded until baby #3 comes.

It's all very 'wun wun' until you put things into perspective. It's summer and it's been a beautiful one in Chicagoland. My company had a big party downtown, we've been enjoying our local pool, bike rides around the neighborhood and along the Lakeshore, the Peggy O has provided several relaxing mornings and afternoons, the kids continue to do swim lessons, making great progress in the water, Mary went to a Moana themed dance camp this past week, we've been cooking out, catching fireflies, and perhaps this weekend, we will finally start to get our house ready for the arrival of an infant.

   

 

The final weeks of pregnancy with a summer baby are hot and uncomfortable, and it's a bummer missing out on certain things, but I'm almost there. And on the flip side, summer birthday parties should be really fun.

Lo. 

Dancing with Daddy

There are certain every day events and items in our household that garner vocal endorsements of one parenting style or just parent over the other.

Things like:
Fastening your seat belt.
Then at your destination, unfastening your seat belt and getting you out of the car.
The bike and by default parent preferred as transport.
Swimming.
Filling up a cup of milk and getting snack on the heels of that.
Making the bacon for BLTs.
Putting you in the bathtub at night, and then taking you out again.
Reading stories.
Comforting you after a bad dream.
Then getting you out of bed the next morning.

Most times, Bobby casts his vote for Daddy while Mary favors her Mommy, but recently Daddy has been on a winning streak across the board. I'm blaming it on my physique, general lack of energy, and inability to cook bacon just like Daddy does, but there have been days, when no one even wants me to fasten their seat belt.

The point is, there is something that Peter adds to the kids' lives that Mommy just can't replicate. He's the one that gets all the way in the baby pool with Bobby. He's the one that gets in bed with Mary to comfort her if she wakes up with a bad dream. He's the one that makes the bacon chewy, not burnt like Mommy. And most recently, he's the one that played Prince Charming to our little girl week after week at Daddy Daughter Dance Rehearsal.

As I would put Bobby down for his nap on Sundays, Peter would take Mary to her dance studio to practice the steps of the big finale at the recital. There were weeks when the report would come back lackluster: there were too many people, it was at the other location with another teacher, we were lacking home field advantage, Mary did it once and then got too tired. But then there were weeks when everything just clicked: they got the steps, they were in sync, and those other Dads just couldn't keep the beat.

No matter what though, the two of them would come home with bright red lips from the Tropical Snow Cones they purchased as a treat for making it through the rehearsal. I loved that Peter was doing this special activity with Mary and I anxiously looked forward to the big show.

***

As a former dancer, I couldn't wait for Mary to experience music and movement for the first time, then ultimately the stage, costumes, lights, audience and applause. After a year of work in Miss Lauren's studio, she got to put on her first tutu and ham it up on stage, just like her Mommy used to do.

Yesterday, she stole the middle of the show in her light blue poof of a dress, dancing to Lollipop in the Candyland themed recital. She knew all her steps, she lit up the line with her animated facial expressions, and she started and ended with the biggest, proudest smile plastered on her face. I couldn't have been more proud of her. (She's third from the left in the video)

  

And her out of town fans agreed. 

   

But it was the end of the show that stole my heart. Mary sat center stage, dressed in white, as Peter snapped his way out to her. They swayed side to side, he lifted her up, shimmied and spun around, and made our little girl glow next to him. I couldn't help but envision the dance that would come twenty some years from now, and got a little teary eyed.

Of all the reasons that I cast my vote for Peter to be my husband about six years ago, bacon maker included, the fact that he would be a great dad was at the top of the list. But with each year, and with each baby, he continues to exceed my expectations.  

Lo,

Roomies

A couple nights ago, I was laying in bed hoping that Bobby would stop crying. Mary was making her own whiny bed time protest. 'Please go to sleep,' I willed them. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my phone continue to light up with new texts from my college friends. While I needed a good laugh, I knew yet another glimpse of a small electronic device would make my newly minted migraine even worse. I looked up at the ceiling instead. Not tired enough to fall asleep, but too tired to do anything more than that.

I looked at the stain up there. Water dripped through the crawl space about a year ago leaving a brownish, textured mark that bothers me most after I've ritualistically cleaned the house for the week, inevitably missing this one spot. There's a similar watermark on the ceiling of our sun room. And then there are those two notches in the wall, imprints from the previous owners' over sized artwork and carelessness. We need to replace all the windows too. They are likely as old as our pre-war house and in a couple instances haven't aged well.

The stain on the ceiling tends to lead to thoughts of the other things: leaky faucets, creaky floors, doors that jam, chipped paint, and when comparing to others or expectations or ideals, the feeling that there isn't ever enough room. That with another on the way, what we have won't suffice.

For the past couple months, I've been scouring Redfin looking for an upgrade. Another bedroom, another bathroom, a bigger kitchen, more land, less neighbors, all at the right price. I've forced my love onto a couple contenders, but in reality they had shortcomings. More importantly, it's not a logical time for us to move. There are too many question marks in our future - too many paths that have potential.

That night, as I was looking up at one of the many flaws in our house, trying to deal with yet another headache fueled by a combination of work stress, high energy kids, and third trimester fatigue, I heard Mary say, 'come on Bobby it's time for bed. Let's be quiet now.'
Bobby snapped back, 'no. I don't want you, Ma-ree'
She soothed him again, encouraging him one more time to go to sleep. A plane announcing its proximity to O'Hare flew over head.
'What's that Mary?' he asked.
'It's a plane, Bobby'
'Oh, is that a plane, Mary?'
'Uh huh.'
'We going to sleep now Mary?'
'Uh huh.'
You asleep now, Mary?
'Uh huh'
'Okay, Mary.'

They were quiet. And five minutes later asleep. A minute after that, I was asleep too.

Peter and I had already been in twice trying to get them to calm down. One last story, one last song, one last cuddle. Turns out, all they needed was each other.

Over the past week, I've noticed more and more benefits from the kids' cohabitation even at their young ages. They are sharing more and fighting less. Talking instead of teasing. Actually helping each other. And the lengthy bedtime ritual is consolidated to one room and generally one parent. Amazing.

With the pace of life recently, I have hardly been stopping to recognize the milestones, and over the past ten days, there have been quite a few. Mary graduated from preschool. Bobby graduated from his crib into a big boy bed. The two of them graduated from brother and sister into the realm of roommates. And I graduated from the fear that what we have isn't enough for our growing family. In fact, it's plenty.

Good things can come from small houses ... as well as flaws that need fixing, shared rooms, and an acknowledgment that greener grass doesn't mean a happier home.

Lo.