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When I started this blog, I never envisioned that my most captivated readers would be my kids. They love when I post something new, love looking through the pictures, love hearing the frame that I put around their lives.

Their favorite entries were written on the days they were born. Mary tends to ask me to read hers first. Bobby comes over soon after, asking for me to read it again, then to read his. And finally, I get to Margaret's. They watch me tear up. They laugh when I laugh. Enamored, they stare with disbelief at their newborn photos.

These are the long versions of their birth stories. There are also abbreviated ones, which were prompted by a lack of time to read the whole story and a desire for an extra element of comedy.

They ask, 'Tell me what I was like when I was born?'

Mary ... you were like ahhhhhhhhhh, I'm starving, feed meeee, ahhhhhhhhh, let me out. (Mary was born at a teeny tiny five pounds likely due to an issue with the placenta not being attached right toward the end of my pregnancy. I'm pretty sure she was literally starving.)

Bobby, you were like, 'pow, pow, pow, pow, pow' and punched your way out. (Which basically happened - my water broke two weeks early.)

And Margaret, you were like 'glub, glub, glub, I'm a happy, chubby baby and I'm not coming out.' (Also true. And this is the impression that sends them roaring with laughter.)

Of all the baby personalities that I've created, Bobby's is the one that most resonates to this day. He is still full of pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow. He doesn't do anything at half speed, half emotion, half full of life. It's 100% pow, every day.

Bobby, you fell asleep on the eve of your birthday, next to me, in my bed. While your dad has the magic touch to get you to sleep every night, generally, my only trick is letting you curl in bed with me.

I transported you to your own blue and white striped bed, tucked you under your shark covers, blanket and owls safely stashed in your arms still. Whether it's in your bed, on a plane, or in the car - when you do finally crash, it's hard - there's no waking you up.

The next morning, you ran, not walked, downstairs, proud of your five year old status. You stood a little taller, acted a little more mature, fought with your sister a little less.

We got to read to your class in the morning - you picked Mother Bruce - a new favorite that you thought everyone would find funny. And they did. We all sang happy birthday and you were beaming with excitement.

That evening, Daddy and I took you out to dinner - just the three of us. You told me that you always wanted to come on our dates, just like this. You gobbled up a pile of french fries and took a couple bites of your hamburger, plus downed three lemonades. Three. For dessert, you had vanilla ice cream. Slurping it off the spoon, you turned to me and said, this is the best day ever.

Bobby, I'm pretty sure every day is better than the next for you though. Whether it's building a new Lego with your Dad, making and stretching slime with Eva, biking around the neighborhood, skiing with me, building a snow fort outside, playing with your friends, doing jazz walks with your sisters, coloring, reading, snuggling, and hugging it out - you live your best love - and bring us so much joy.

And I'm so glad you've also found friends that have the same sort of joie de vivre ... unleashing them in our house yesterday was another story ... but anything to make my birthday boy feel totally celebrated.

  

I love you, Bobby. So much.

Lo / Mommy.

Breck or Bust

The year was '94 or '95. It was one of the first Christmases in our new house and one of the first where my Mom and Dad took over the reins hosting Christmas dinner for the extended family. It had snowed, but not enough for anyone to take my Mom's offer of sleeping over seriously. (Although the copious of amount of Freixenet Brut poured throughout the evening might have offered additional reason for some to bunk on the third floor.) My Aunt Beth's friend, Koko, from Japan was there, offering an international grace to our raucous Irish heritage. There were white and green leather pants worn that evening. There was a full turkey dinner, followed by a Christmas play heralded with hearty laughs and thunderous applause, and then finally the cue to open the mountain of presents in the living room. There would be a lot to carry. (An inside joke that went down in infamy.)

There was excitement everywhere. Boxes that could contain bedazzled 90's sweaters, VHS tapes, something a little wild from my Aunt Kay, something from Asia from my Aunt Beth, checks giving you independence to shop as your heart desired. And for my cousins, something from Aunt Nora and Uncle Don - a coveted gift as to this day my Mom is known for her skills (and generosity) in gift giving. I could see the excitement in Meghan's and Ryan's faces.

'Okay ... Ryan, Meghan ...' I can still see and hear her calling them over. 'For your Christmas gift ... you ... will ... be ... going to SKI CAMP ... with my kids!

The looks on my cousins faces were a little less than enthusiastic. It was hardly the 'you're going to SPACE CAMP' response that kids expressed when they won the physical challenge on Double Dare. It was a little more, seriously?! NOOOOO!!!

Let's face it, we were all a little lukewarm about Hidden Valley ski camp growing up. Hours spent in group lessons on the slopes the days after Christmas. But our cousins were going with us this year, so if anyone was excited it was my siblings and me.

In the end, everyone loved the experience. And the evenings spent around the fire of our mountain house after skiing, laughing with our cousins about the day's adventures, were priceless.

***

So in the spirit of gifting ski lessons; we did the same for our kids this year. On the 27th, we flew to Denver at the height of holiday travel, then drove to Breckenridge, for a long weekend in the snow.

The travel there had several opportunities: the crowds at O'hare and Denver airports were insane. Made worse by Mary's sudden paralyzing fear of escalators.

There was a mad dash at the car rental to get the last remaining SUV. Luckily, my status at National helped us secure a Minivan to the dismay of some aggressive dads. We hit bad traffic en route, and because our car wasn't humming along, everyone woke up from naps, whined, and wreaked havoc in the back seat. When we arrived everyone was a little crabby, but nothing that a stroll around town, taco dinner and early bed time couldn't fix.

Fixed.

The next morning, Mary and Bobby were eager to go to ski school. Margaret had gone from pink eye to booger eye syndrome and was more than happy to stay inside with the sitter.

The kids checked in, got their passes and skis and went into the room where no parents are allowed. Peter and I were thus free to ski. Bliss.


At 3:30, we picked them up, both with varying stories about how they had cried throughout the day because they missed us too much. Mary told her instructor that she was afraid of the lift (a similar sudden phobia as her fear of escalators) and wouldn't go on it. Bobby told his instructor that he wanted to take a time out and just play in the snow. For a while. They whined all the way home about how tired they were and how they were never going back to ski school again. They both fell asleep at dinner that evening, out at a nice restaurant, dead to the world as we wheeled them home through the snow and cold, back to our townhouse.

They were up early again the next day, although not with a tenderness for their return to ski school. Mary waged a full on protest, crying and throwing the tantrum to end all tantrums. It was -5 degrees after all, so we decided they would skip Sunday, and return on Monday. Our sitter watched all three kids, and Peter and I got another full day of (challenging) skiing.

Yes, Peter went up all the way there (see that hut up top). I opted for a little less above the tree line.

Monday came with more tears; this time sad, weepy ones as we dropped both of them off for the day. Around 10:30 though, I went to spy. They were cruising up and down the bunny hill without a problem, and better yet, looked like they were having a blast. At 12:30, I decided to pull them out early so I could see their progress. Their tune about ski school had suddenly changed. They loved it: loved their teachers, loved the lift, loved skiing up and down the mountain, they wanted to go back next year. What?
  


I took them skiing the rest of the afternoon and was blown away by their achievement. Both able to get on and off the lift without assistance. Both cruised down the hill making turns and coming to a stop when I told them to. Both able to go the steep part down. It was the break through I had been waiting for - I almost cried with excitement.

***

There is something called the Imposter Syndrome. Basically, it's when you feel like you're a phony despite past successes - that you don't belong in the role you have despite earning it. While it hits me at work sometimes, I more frequently feel it as a parent. I question my judgment and the decisions I make all the time, despite feeling they must be right.

When the kids cried to be skiing with me and not at ski school, I felt awful, and I think Peter was right there with me. We were about to pull them entirely from the second day. It broke my heart - their spectacular Christmas present, the investment I made, had gone terribly wrong. But whether it was from past experience with similar situations or just my understanding of human behavior, I erred on having them stick with it. And despite feeling like a bad parent, I think it was the right move. At least that's what the kids told me as we were traveling home.

We had a wonderful Christmas in our new house, filled with hype and anticipation, friends and family, great meals and wine, presents upon presents. There were a pair of perfect days spent regaling the season.

    







But the best gift wasn't under the tree, it wasn't even met with infectious enthusiasm, it was something that required stress and duress, but whose memories and lessons will last a lifetime. Going out West, skiing as a family, and bragging all the way home were worth the work and sticker shock of a Colorado holiday.  
       
Lo.