On Leave

Margaret has the most perfect little hands. She is grasping things now and when she reaches out to hold one of my fingers I catch myself just staring at her soft white nails, the wrinkles on her fingers, dimples on her knuckles, and little rolls around her wrists. There is not a mark on them, not a worry that has whittled down her nails. The contrast between her hands and mine after two nail biting Jodi Picoult books is striking. 

I've been on maternity leave for eight weeks, nearly two months. And by now, everyone is sleeping at night, napping concurrently, and relatively predictable. Mary is back in school, Bobby basks in the extra attention, Margaret is full of rolls and contentment, and I'm well ... a seasoned mom at this point. Life with three has gotten pretty manageable. So manageable in fact, that there are days when I come home after dropping Mary at school and think, now what are we going to do all day?

Oh yeah ... just about the same thing we did yesterday.

I go to the park for the twelfth time this week. I read a Chapter of my latest book as Margaret sucks down her morning snack. I line up Bobby's cars by color and make his prized stuffed owls talk. I change a baby poop and coax a big boy to make his on the potty. Ten attempts later, it's out and I'm cleaning up the areas where he missed. I argue the pros of putting shoes on and the cons of walking through the drug store with bare feet. I bike over to school to pick up Mary, lingering with the Moms in the pick up line; please don't get into your car yet, please don't let the adult interaction end. We have chicken tenders and baby carrots for lunch. Again. I try to take a nap, but I'm not tired anymore. So I read. And think. And worry. I have a little book club conversation with myself. And I worry again. I attempt to make something a little more complicated for dinner, but it looks mediocre by my once high standards. I write two or three emails that correspond rather than produce. I dish out snacks, turn on the hose, stay clear of getting soaked, then get reprimanded by the neighbor as Bobby drenches his house. I pour myself a glass of wine. And we wait for Daddy to get home.

There are times when I want to stray from the routine, but I'm not that good yet. The full time moms who have honed their craft tell me about other things to do. They also manage to chair leagues and boards, play tennis with their friends in the morning and organize new comer events in the evening; they volunteer and coach, carry on eloquent conversations while bouncing toddlers on their hips, are dressed and done up and smiling; they know you and everyone knows them. My stab at full time motherhood pales in comparison to their expertise. 

So I find myself looking forward to the weekends more the usual. Partly because there has been fun stuff going on; but also because I need the days that aren't time bound by pick ups, drop offs, and naps to try a new adventure; ideally one that ends with Mommy and Daddy getting to have drinks with people our own age. 

         

It's not that I don't love this time with my kids. I cherish it. It's just that I've been feeling a little sluggish and unproductive recently. And yesterday didn't help.

I took the kids to visit my coworkers at the office. It was the obligatory show off the baby trip. They all gushed for a minute or two and then zipped off. They were literally running to focus groups, product showings, high profile presentations and tense meetings. Holding my infant carrier, in no hurry other than getting Bobby to a potty if need be, I felt like an outsider. And I missed it all. The frenzy, the crisis resolution, and the sense of purpose you get as you catapult a project forward. I know I'll be back soon, but I got discouraged.

That is, until I started thinking a little more about my current job as a full time mom.

Am I being productive? Absolutely. I just produced the most amazing little person eight weeks ago. And I continue to produce milk for her, adding to her collection of rolls every day.

Am I creating? Sure. I create content that will help shape my children. I play and color, teach and discipline, laugh vigorously and love tirelessly. I create character and characters. After all, in light of recent events, isn't instilling love over hate, action over rhetoric, and inclusiveness over intolerance in the next generation the best thing to create?

Am I learning something new every day? You bet.

Am I driven to succeed? It's mostly intrinsic, but without a doubt.

Do I love what I'm doing. So much.

So for the next five or six weeks, till I can no longer hemorrhage cash, I will be totally satisfied just staring. Or rather marveling at the little miracles in my life; their big blue eyes, their button noses, their soft squishy skin. I'll listen as attentively as possible to the things they say and respond patiently. I'll soak up the way they run and dance and jump all over the house. And I'll hold on to the way they hug me and tell me I'm the best Mommy ever, even though they have no point of comparison. If only ... there was a way to get compensated for the hardest, messiest, and best full time job ever.

Lo.

Dinnertime ... 6 Years Later

The Early Riser is more than nine years old. Which is hard for me to believe for a couple of reasons. First, that nine years has gone by since Kim from business school inspired me to start blogging; and second, that the person writing nine years ago was in fact me.

I've gone through an evolution - from b school to corporate American, from my apartment to our house, from dating, to engaged, to married, to being a parent. With it, I'd like to say I've matured both in character and writing style. I traded in flowery language for the straight forward, hyperbole for realism, boasting for complaining, inexpert advice for unanswered questions. I've become a little less 'Lo' and a lot more me. 

If you track my approach to the subject of dinnertime over the years, the evolution is particularly noticeable. I started writing about dinner as an elegant affair every evening. (And it was - gloriously so.) Nine years later, I'll call our evening meal more ... down to earth.  

About a month before we were married (two years into Lo's view on life) I wrote about our approach to dinner for the first time. And although the writing is a little fluffy, the sentiments are real. Peter and I used to plan, plot, and look forward to a beautifully prepared dinner every night. We cherished that time together and lingered over it. As a present day reader, I am downright envious of it.

In the fall of 2012, a year later and about five months before we became parents for the first time, I expressed fears that our 'special time' would face some sacrifices. Nothing dire. Nothing that would take away the integrity of what Peter and I had built. But I was a realist - I'd be prepared (or so I thought.) That evening I had made potato crusted halibut and a french apple tart. Seriously? 

Then I got jolted. Mary came along. I was juggling work, day care pick ups, marathon training, and the fact that I still wanted to get a great dinner on the table every night. I started to find patterns in the menu planning. There were repeats now. Our timing moved from a couple hours to perhaps thirty or forty five minutes. We didn't sit down to debate, laugh, and plan our life ahead. Rather, one of us was seated while the other got a bite after every lap around the house, walking the baby from fussy to sleepy. Five laps later, dinner was usually cold.  

Fast forward to 2017. Another test of dinnertime. Three babies and while I'm not back at work yet, the day to day is crazy enough. I grocery shop as quickly as possible once a week. I have a rehearsed repertoire and a memorized list that goes with it. Fruits, veges, snacks, cereal, and THREE gallons of milk. Pork and chicken (the easy lean cuts which Peter discriminates against for their lack of flavor), bacon (BLTs - fan favorite), more bacon (what about two nights of BLTs?), brats or even hot dogs work, steaks for Sunday night (because they're his favorite), and then how many nights this week can I eek by on scrambled eggs and wine? And what night do I get to go out? Note to self, text Camille.

Cooking is quick. Dinner is quicker. The conversation is a highlight and so necessary, but it's interrupted every two minutes with, 'Mommy, I need more milk.'

Last week though, I experienced something that I hadn't in a while. Dinnertime - the way we used to share it, or at least as close as I've been in a while. 

While my sitter was still here in the morning, I made some dough. While the kids were napping, I mixed up the filling. Peter texted that he was going to be late; I could tell it was a long day for him. That evening, with Mary and Bobby watching TV in the basement and Margaret wrapped like a marsupial against my body, I started rolling out dough, cutting it and stuffing pork dumplings one by one. I fried them in a little peanut oil, adding a flour and water mixture to the bottom of the pan which creates this pancake like bottom to each pot sticker. I made a soy and wasabi dipping sauce and then stir fried green beans. I got out a Pinot Gris we had tasted and loved when we toured the wineries of northern Michigan last fall. And I set the table. In the dining room.

Peter got home, opened the lid to the pot, and said, 'this looks amazing!' His excitement and gratitude, and with it mine, were exactly what dinnertime was all about. It was something that I did for him, but that we both ended up loving more and more. And at this juncture of our life, it makes me a little sad that I can't provide the magic that I used to on a nightly basis. 

***

On Sunday, Peter and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. After a challenging day at home, we thanked Eva a million times over for coming to our rescue so we could go out to dinner. 

I had written a card to Peter that morning and handed it to him after we ordered our cocktails. On the front were Cinderella and Prince Charming; inside was something about life being a fairy tale. I added these words to it: 

Despite ... 

Lots of tears over a sore tongue (Bobby suffered from hand foot and mouth disease all weekend)
Accidents and wet undies 
Stinky poops and spit up  
Sassy pants
Time outs  
Little sleep and littler naps  
Not enough time to sip a glass of wine and enjoy every bite
Not enough time to just be together  
... It's still a fairy tale and I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Life, even at a stage I didn't anticipate nine years ago, is a dream come too. Dinnertime will certainly return. And likely I'll try to make it even better. But I have a feeling at that stage, we'll long for the little kids and chaos around our table. 

Peter, thank you for six amazing years together. You will always be my prince charming.  

And to our newest little princess, happy one month birthday! 

Lo.