A Look Back

One of the things Pittsburgh is known for is a network of bridges that connect and unify the city and its disparate neighborhoods. The bridges add an edgy beauty, topographical texture, and stalwart symbolism to a city seeking its present-day fame.

More so than I can remember, the bridges of Pittsburgh's modern era are painted in fragmented narratives, inscribed by mischievous authors. They are not the markers of the industrial titans and Works Progress Administration that forged them in iron, steel, and stone. In fact, the historic plaques paying homage to art and industry seem muddied or washed out next to new brazen sentences scribbled into beams, rails, and concrete. The words carry laments of war, politics, and an increasingly unfriendly existence. They express anger and uprising. They make you miss a step as you evaluate their gravity, lurching forward with a heavier heart. 

Yet in contrast, on one bridge in particular, there is an ironic intersection of interlaced locks that glisten in the morning light. Locks that lovers, families, spouses, or friends have opened and shut forever on the chain link of the fence. Rising all around graffiti's inner monologue are symbols of love - love that has the power to conquer the words written underneath them.  

I run these bridges a lot, reflecting on the sketchily sprayed yet poetic words being pounded by my feet to create rhythm and occasional rhyme. One such bridge connects East Liberty to Shadyside. It was a bridge that marked the first frontier into the redevelopment of East Liberty - an effort that has since taken off at an unprecedented rate. I mostly run under this bridge versus over it. Down Ellsworth Avenue, along the busway, past the comedy club, under the bridge and onward toward Shady Avenue. 20 years ago, I walked under it in the opposite way, heading to my job which was playing host to the East End's elite at Soba Lounge. I can literally see the ghost of Lo past listening to her iPod, shuffling to the next step of life. 

Like the other bridges around town, this one has been tattooed and locked with love as well. Despite its petite stature, it's well traversed by car, bike and pedestrian. It's seen new buildings rise around it yet it remains firmly plastered to the ground. It has the appearance of a body and an arm and with it a sleeve that carries words and animations stretching down its stairway connecting Highland Avenue above to Ellsworth down below.   

I run by the stair as I fly under the bridge, and a couple weeks ago, I noticed new words - a new poem that had appeared on the 7th and 9th steps respectively. 

'Here we were'. 9th step from the bottom. 

'Here you are'. 7th step from the bottom.

I ran by too quickly to notice if there were other lines on other stairs, but these two stanzas seemed enough. Complete.  

This morning, I spent the better part of the next mile thinking about when I was there. The past tense of that poem. As a 20-something. As a dismantled and discharged seeker of life's soul. I was frustrated with my reality and was looking for a new, better, more fulfilling stage - one that I willed to come but that I was too confused to produce. There is a 'we' in the past tense though. Was it a royal we or a regular we? Most likely an intimation toward love lost. Something that was far off back then. So, I interpreted the 'we' as multiplier of my many personalities. There we were.   

And here I am. I repeated the words again as I ran up Penn. Here I am. How did I even get here? 20 years later, I have a husband, five children, a home that fits us all, and a level of achievement in my career that I never thought possible. It made me laugh at how silly and impatient I was as a 20-year old. Here I am. I ran a little prouder. A little faster.  

At first thought, the juxtaposition of the two mes - one running east under the bridge, and the other walking west, seemed worlds apart. Yet, on mile three or four, I started to think we were closer than first glance. 

Being in the field of my company, I've returned to the front lines of the restaurant industry. I spent 13 years removed from it, protected at headquarters, and now the realities of what happens behind and in front of the counter are reminders of a past world. My past life. The people challenges, the customer complaints, the intensity of the owners, the margins. These are problems that can't be solved on a white board or power point. They are convoluted execution challenges that require principled influence and motivation. An energy sucking existence where you give all to get as much as you can. Yes, I had been here before.  

I was promoted this year to be an officer of my company. A job I quite frankly never thought I had the capacity or capability to hold. The accountability and expected excellence weighed on me at times. I spent the first month battling tough problems in a mental state riddled with imposter syndrome. And then I spent subsequent months gaining confidence but always second guessing myself. There was a level of confusion, paranoia, and defeat that I hadn't felt in a while. I wanted to jump to a later stage, have more experience, sagely know how to proceed when things got complicated. 

I traveled a lot in 2023. And throughout my trips around Ohio, West Virginia, Kentucky and Tennessee, I felt alone being separated from my family. There were nights when I was transported back to the time when I lived in an apartment by myself in the Southside, eating ramen with a side of loneliness that was sometimes paralyzing. After being in a crowded home for the better part of a decade, being by myself in the car, on planes, and in hotel rooms as much as I was seemed unwanted, and a return to a person I didn't want to be.  

In December, I cried four times. Once at the end of Wicked in New York City with Mary and Margaret. Once when the congregation started belting out O Come All Ye Faithful at the beginning of Christmas Eve Mass. Another time when I watched Love Actually on a plane home from Chicago. And finally, when I was laughing so hard with friends that I found myself wiping tears from my eyes. I remember crying as a release like this 20 years ago. 

Finally, just like a younger me, I found ways to let go this year. I used to define myself by frenzy. I prided myself on doing it all. But with my new job and the demands of it, Peter stepped up to take on the management of our household. I let go of many things I associated with motherhood this year. While there are times that I miss these responsibilities, letting go enabled me and my family to grow. 

In short, 2023 was a year when questioning, learning, and becoming brought me and my 20-year old self together. I didn't realize this, until the stairway poem made me see it. 

But man, I also had a lot to be proud of this year. The exhilaration of accomplishment, the expanse of personal development, the prestige and impact of leadership, the connections and curiosity in my day to day schedule, the potential that lies ahead. And perhaps what makes me most proud of all, is that my family didn't miss a beat without me hovering over them. They all grew as well. They were all successful in their own rights. And despite a couple nights where I heard how much they missed me, they were happy.   

I'll run more bridges next year. Read new words. Hopefully reflect more than I did this year. I'll take the missteps in stride, and I'll have confidence that I've run roads like this before. I know them, and I know how to navigate them. Hi Lo, let's go. 

Lo.           

The Fans

In home videos, the ones taken on my dad's 1988 camcorder device, you can often hear instructions or rather pleadings for me to get out of the shot. The camera would try to maneuver around my round head only to have it pop back into the frame moments later. Poor Adam was in the background, and my dad just wanted to shoot his cute button face and squeaky new words. Okay, okay, okay ... I'll move over for a second. But just a second. 

I loved the camera, the stage, and the cue to put the spotlight on me. I still do. And perhaps because of my eagerness to take the lines and the bows, I've built a fanbase over the years. A following that has been rooting for me to succeed; a group that I never want to let down. 

I saw one such fan at our annual pool party a couple weeks ago . As I was walking out, I spotted him sitting under the tent. He was smaller, humbler in stature than I remembered, but he was also 20 years younger last time I saw him. We used to exercise in the work out room together. I would have been 22 or 23, and not very happy with myself. It was my dark period - synonymous with Picasso's blue period. I was the woman with the iron, hunched over the ironing board, unable to look up and stand tall. But this guy, perhaps 65 at the time, took an interest in me. In my past and in my present and encouraged me toward a brighter future. 

I walked over to him and said, 'Jack. It's me.' 

He lit up, and responded, 'I've been following you. You went to business school. You got married. Five kids right? And you've been in Chicago, working for a big company. You're back now, huh?' 

I nodded. That's right. That's right. 

'Well done, he said. 'You've had a great run.' 

'A great run?' I replied. 

'Yes, that's what you call it.' 

I smiled. He was right, it's been an incredible 17 years. But there was something finite in his statement that made me worried. It was the tense he used. I've had a great run. Was this the culmination of it? I told him I was playing in the Club Championship tomorrow. And he said he would be rooting for me.

The next day I lost in the finals. End of the run. 

***

A couple weeks ago, I was given some homework before a meeting. In corporate America we call it a pre-read. And this one was lengthy. I like a good one or two-pager, but this one was 10 dense pages, and I debated skimming. I would read the headlines, pull a couple juicy sentences out, go back to email. But I couldn't. The material grabbed my attention - it was too good. 

The title of the article was 'FANness'. And the premise was that people are different and leaders tend to fail being inspirational because of that fact. The coaching in the article asserts that leaders need to reorient their thinking away from traditional motivation tactics and toward fandom of their people. And there are a collection of ways to do that. For instance, just listen to them and engage, have someone tag along with you on a special experience, give someone exposure that will help them grow, or just agree with someone in public, demonstrating they have sound thinking skills.

I thought back to Jack. He would listen to me as he steadily rode the exercise bike. Like really listen. I don't even know what I said, but he did. He would tell me about the restaurants he had been to in New York as inspiration for my budding career in the food industry. He introduced me to his friends - made me someone to know at the Club. A fan, for sure. 

In the meeting, we discussed the homework and were asked to reflect on a person in the company and a person at home that needed a fan. We were asked, 'who needs your fandom most of all?'

I was pretty quick to jot down a person on the company side. Yep, that guy. 

And then I started making a list on the home front. 

The twins. While many times it's all about them, it also feels like it's never about them. I smother them with hugs and kisses as much as I can, but I debate if I've given them the same kind of thoughtful attention that I gave Mary or Bobby or even Margaret when they were that age. It was their birthday recently, and it finally felt like a day for them, by them. And I vowed to design more days, or more hours, when I can give them by all.   

Mary, Bobby and Margaret all need more time with me - there's never enough of it. And at their age, they are ripe with feedback on how my schedule prevents me from being there as much as I want to. For them, it's taking an interest, bending an ear, seeing the event that's central in their week, and giving them the hugs that they still desperately want morning and night.   

My parents. They've been such fans of me - something that I've come to expect. But have I been as enriching as a fan to them? 

My siblings and friends. Aunt Dee, Patty, Charles. I could be a better fan to all of them. There were a lot to list, but then only one that I circled. 

Peter. Ever and ever a fan of me. Have I been fan enough to him? 

I have often thought that my center stage persona is a derivative of being a middle child. But Peter is a middle child as well and defies my theory. He is never one to seek out the attention, never one to ask or expect recognition, not motivated by the trophy or applause. In our relationship, he balances out my crazy.     

And in this new chapter of our life, he has assumed a (temporary) new role of stay-at-home dad. My job and the travel that came with it over the past year were just too much for us both to be working, so, he took a step back. And has instead dedicated his time to ensuring our household functions day in and day out. He does the very difficult, exhausting, and unglorified job of taking care of five kids, the house and all its chores, chauffeuring here, there and everywhere, and all the paperwork, accounting, filing, scheduling and rescheduling that our lives demand. And in the evening, he acts as coach and cheer leader for me as we huddle to debrief on the drama of my day. He has never strayed in the faith that I can do a job and has given me countless pep talks on how to navigate the world of contentious conversations, deal making, lawyers, bankers, politicians, and work out situations that involve all three.  

Besides thanking him for making dinner, I thought back on how many times I've applauded him for all he is doing to keep the family unit physically and emotionally well, especially when I'm on the road. The answer is quite simply, not enough. I circled his name again and thought of the ways I can be a bigger, better fan to my husband.  

The article listed three that best fit Peter's personality: 

- Listening and engaging with the person 

- Finding opportunities for the person to learn and grow

- Trusting the person with a prize responsibility

The realization at work and at home, is that sometimes the most unassuming players, are the ones that need a little more fandom. Especially when they are the ones that enable the whole play to hang together. Because behind any woman who appears to be a super mom, there is someone offering invaluable support that enables her to soar. Or as Jack says, continue the run. Thank you for all of it, Peter. I'm your biggest fan.   

Lo.     

          

Country Bunny Working Mommy

It's the midpoint of the year. Which in corporate America is an inflection point. A time to rally your troops, motivate your stakeholders, and build confidence in your shareholders that momentum will continue, no build. That domination is inevitable.    

In Daniel Pink's Masterclass he talks about timing, and the importance of the middle. He talks about basketball teams who are down by one point at half time. Statistically speaking, they are more likely to win the game. 

Why? 

Because they galvanize around the midpoint; they reflect, knowing they need to catch up, then they carefully run the plan and the plays over the remaining minutes of the game to come out on top. I'm no basketball player, but I've been using the analogy. It's midway through the year, we are here, where are you, what opportunities do you have, how are you adjusting your goals, how are you going to show up to win. win. win.

I sell hamburgers for a living, but the philosophy is transferable. 

While I dish out feedback and inspirational words of wisdom, I end up on the receiving end of perspective as well. Superiors, peers, and even family members tend to weigh in during my mid-year check in.

The positives are never that surprising. They are trending strengths I've utilized my entire career to get to where I am. But boss to boss, the negatives vary. In a new role, in a new function, with yet another new boss, I crossed my fingers that my defined for me opportunities were familiar coaching points far from uncharted territory. 

On Friday, my mid-year review was delivered to me with mostly predictable content. I nodded and accepted, realizing just how momentous this check in actually was, given the role and risk I had taken on. But then there was an area of gray in my opportunity set. Huh. I spent some time marinating on it and am in fact still marinating 48 hours later. The feedback came from my boss and then was reinforced by my family later in the day. 

Boss: Delegate work better so you are not so stretched. 

Me: Hmmm.  

Margaret later in the day: I wish you had a Mommy job.

Me: What does that mean?  

Also Margaret later in the day: Your job needs to be us. 

Me: But what about all the people that I help at work? 

She jumped in the pool after that, leaving the deeper meaning of this rich feedback to me. 

As I've studied and applied Leadership techniques, one of my favorites is framing a most valuable problem to solve with a narrative baked in analogous material that brings additional dimension and emotion to the job of seeking resolution.  

In London a couple months ago, my week-long enterprise leadership education was saturated in metaphor. We painted on water, explored a museum not to observe the artifacts but the gallery walkers, listened to a string quartet, had dinner at Shakespeare's Globe theater, laid out ropes and argued on either side of them, and took off our shoes and tried to run a business barefoot. Through these sessions, I learned that true partnership creates something more beautiful, there is inspiration in the most unusual places, leaderless teams play in perfect harmony, it's my role to shape culture and elevate talent, and when you argue against the aptitude of 24 people representing different functions and markets in a big global brand, you find the value in the other side of the aisle of the most contentious topics. 

Inspired by the curriculum in London, I've been reading more and reflecting on the intersections between the learned and lived experiences. 

I've been through Row the Boat, Unreasonable Hospitality and the Culture Code. I've underlined and applied, but nothing had quite the right metaphor for the intersection of professional and personal advice I received this week. So, I went a different route - to an unsuspected genre of literature. Children's books. Yesterday, I pulled out one of my favorite books from childhood and read it to the twins before nap time. It's called the Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes. Growing up, I liked it for the pastel pictures. And I recalled the part about the Country Bunny training her 21 children to do all the chores in the house, including politely pulling out the mommy Bunny's chair at dinner. Brilliant. 

The story goes like this. There was a Country Bunny who wanted to be one of the five Easter Rabbits when she grew up. Yes, there are five, not one. To do that, she would need to be the kindest, wisest, and swiftest rabbit in the world. But then she got married and had 21 baby bunnies. [Favorite part.] Who she paired up to do the cleaning, cooking, sewing, gardening, and even music making to keep everyone happy around the household. When the time came that an Easter Bunny retired, she and her family went to the palace of Easter Eggs to try out. Grandfather Bunny, the selector of talent, saw that she was wise to have all her kids helping around the house, she was kind to have a house that was so merry, and she was super swift because she had to keep up with her kids. Damn, Grandfather Bunny thought, I need that bunny. But he lamented. 'I wish you could be my newest Easter Bunny, but you will have to stay home to take care of your kids.' She cunningly replied, 'my kids can take better care of our home than I can.' She was hired. She got some gold shoes. And became the best Easter Bunny around.  

Legendary. 

And back to my feedback. Delegate more, do a Mommy job, stay at home. It's the midpoint of the year, do better. 

Last night, Mary made chicken pot pies for dinner. Salad on the side. Afterward, she helped me get the twins bathed and dressed for bed, read to them and sang them songs, tickling Jacqueline's back as I tickled Caroline's. This morning, I went upstairs and my three oldest were cleaning their rooms up showing me different things they had made or discovered during another week where I was mostly away. It's not just the kids, Peter has come to my rescue doing just about everything around the house this year. Perhaps challenging Margaret's understanding of the roles parents play. Which is good. Why shouldn't mommy rabbits get to be the Easter Bunny?  

Directed or not, the housework has been delegated. And the kids have grown, matured, and become pretty amazing citizens of the world because of it. Yes, taking a step away from being in the trenches of the household day to day has been uncomfortable for me and the family, and it's probably made things a little harder at times, but we are learning and growing through it, shooting for a country den as clean, cared for and happy as the Country Bunny's.  

Now could I delegate more at work? Sure. And that is something I will take to heart. But the stretched thin thing ... I just don't know. Because I am stretched thin. Period. While I can push stuff off, polish my frazzles, create a calendar that gives me breathing room, and outsource as much as possible, having a big job and five kids is a stretch. But it's not impossible. And perhaps, perhaps, showing up a little late, slightly askew, a little apologetic, gives other working parents the permission they need to dream a little bigger. There is humanity, vulnerability, and ultimately empathy in a working mom who is stretched thin. And as I take on the second half of the year, as a likely underdog, in a bigger role than I could have ever dreamed of, I'm taking into account the well-timed feedback, adjusting my goals, and showing up for others at home and at work in a way that breeds true partnership in our common mission. 

And maybe buying a pair of gold shoes to remember that if the Country Bunny can do it, so can I. 

Lo. 

   

Mom Enough

"Oh, you're back!"

Caroline coined this Caroline-characteristic phrase a couple months ago. She started saying it when I would return home or just when I would pop out of my office to say hi to her and her sister. Jacqueline caught on a couple weeks later, a typical lag time from our alpha to beta twin. Caroline would start, 'oh you're back!', and Jacqueline, in her more diminutive voice, would echo, "you're back!"

'You're back' is colored with their beautiful little smiles, a running charge to their mama, and a hug. No hugs. And their sweet little, heavenly hugs can right all wrongs, cure all ills, make a trip to West Virginia seem like distant history. 

As I reflect on their clear-as-day message to me, it means one simple thing: that I've been gone. And arguably too much. I've been gone from them, from many kids' activities, from a Wolfpack Pup meeting that Margaret did not let me live down last Thursday, from homework help, piano instruction, dinners, and bedtime routines. I've been immersed in work that's taken me to some of the finest towns in the continental United States: Ripley, West Virgina, Caldwell, Ohio, Winchester, Kentucky, Oil City, Pennsylvania. Name the low household income, former manufacturing town in the coal belt of the country, I've probably been there. 

New city, new school, new job, bigger new job, more travel, more time away, now more 'Mommy, you're back" moments.  

As much as I've worked though, I've rationalized that when I'm home, I've been fully present, fully engaged in the most important things. 

Mary's tenth birthday.  

Continued explorations of our new city

         

Our ski trip out west for Spring Break. 

Easter celebrations. 

Margaret's kindergarten play where she played a pig who sang, 'ham it up!' and taking her to the Tech fair to celebrate a job well done. 

Erin's baby shower. 

Bobby's first communion.  

  

Mary's piano recital. 

Scooting around the block with the twins, eating dinner with them piled on my lap, reading and then rocking them to sleep as many nights as possible. 

Loving and loving and loving them all. Hugging and hugging and hugging them all. I tell them I can't hug them enough, the embraced moments always too fleeting. 

Despite the energy I exhaust on both sides of my life, the give it my all mindset that exemplifies how I work and how I mother, I anxiously go to bed every night wondering have I done enough for everyone that needs me? 

Of course not. I couldn't have. I'll skip to it, I didn't. There aren't enough hours in the day. So, Peter's taken on the majority of stuff I used to do. He's got the practice, I'm there for the final performances. I don't cook any more, barely clean, don't wash or dry or fold the laundry of a 7-person household, I don't make the doctor appointments, I don't take them. I don't love the traditional motherly duties, but it's felt uncomfortable and efeminating to take a step back from them. And my heart asks, does not doing them, and does being away make me less of a mom? Less of a wife?   

As I sat in the Newark airport, en route to London on Sunday night, these were my thoughts. Scurrying through my head marinated with a couple of tears. 

Two days into my week-long leadership training course in London, my convenient conclusion is that my pursuit of reaching senior leadership at my company, while attempting to be the best mother and spouse I can be isn't all wrong. And outside of the guilt I felt when leaving on Sunday, I'm generally very happy playing both of the demanding roles in my life. God gave me a lot of energy, and I'm expending it. I also look at Mary's mature helpfulness, Bobby's resilience, Margaret's selfless love, and the Twins happy go lucky tone when they say, 'you're back' and believe their character tells me I'm or rather we are doing something right. 

As I look ahead to celebrating Mother's Day, back home, with my family this weekend, I am filled with gratitude for my husband. Caring for and keeping the kids in a centered state of mind is the only way I'm able to do my job. He's the one who empowers me and emboldens me to be my own, wandering definition of a mom each day. And I'm ever appreciative for that, rooted in his love for me. 

More tales from London when I recommit to being a blogger on the plane ride home. 

Lo. 

Friday Night Lice

Last week, at her piano lesson, Mary's teacher asked what was the secret to her success this week? 

Mary didn't hesitate, 'that you can't depend on your mom,' she said. 

Her teacher chuckled. When I was out of town all week and unable to help her practice, she hadn't played well, and the teacher told her just that. 

'Yes, that,' he said. 'But also, when you count, you get it right.' 

'Oh. Yes,' she softly responded.  

I could see a little tear in her eye. It was a glimmer really. A speck that didn't make it out of her eye, onto her cheek, onto the piano. But just enough to make me understand that she was reflecting on something we talked about weeks ago. That is, growing up is uncomfortable and a little scary for her. She wants to depend on me. She wants her dad to read her stories at night. She wants to be a little girl. I appreciated that, and told her I still wanted to be transported to Neverland.    

The glimmer of a tear started when Mary was given the leading role in her fourth grade musical before Christmas. The title: Stormy the Singing Snowman. Her part: Stormy the Singing Snowman. The show premiered midway through January, and she sang beautifully. She belted out her solo with piercing perfection, looked like the sweetest little gumdrop on stage, and carried a smile that lit up the auditorium. The same one where I acted the part of Loraine Sheldon in the Man Who Came to Dinner a million years ago. 

Her center stage role sparked some jealousy and then controversy in the classroom though. There were students who were frustrated and then envious that they couldn't be Stormy. Which manifested as hurtful comments toward my girl. I got involved because it had reached that point. There were meetings, and reparations, and resolutions, and through it all she handled everything with bravery and a maturity that made me even prouder than her performance. The two of us talked through the challenges, we navigated some new waters together, we confiding in each other, and made our relationship stronger. She does still depend on her mom, and I still want to be there for her. 

It wasn't just Mary though, this has been a season of maturity for all of us.    

Bobby turned eight in January. At his special birthday dinner at the little restaurant down the street from our house, he told Peter and me that his favorite part of being a seven year old was hockey. And that the thing he was looking forward to most as he turned eight was hockey. He is a boy obsessed. A boy on a mission. A hockey mission. Moving to Pittsburgh gave him the opportunity to Learn to Skate with the Penguins, and now Learn to Play with them. He gears up in roller blades or ice skates every day and furiously practices to became Bobby the great. For a kid who has always been dragged along to sports - soccer, tennis, basketball, baseball, you name it ... he has finally found something that he loves. And he's doing so well at it. My only worry is how his hockey obsession will impact our afternoon and weekend logistics.  

Margaret. Poor little delightful Margaret. This month she has been through a stomach flu, pink eye, congestion, and then last week's drama, which I'll get to. But through it all, she continues to grow and mature. At her parent-teacher conference last week, her teacher let us know just how special she is. Always happy. Always helping. A friend and partner to all. And by the way, making significant progress on her handwriting and math skills.      

Then the babies. Talking more than ever. Best friends to the end. Lovers of snacks. Scooter riders. And getting their back tickled before bed. They had progressed so much that I thought, hey let's try to see if they can get pushed ahead in school. While only two, I applied for them to do 3-year pre-school in the fall. They got assessed, and then firmly rejected as not at all ready for this elite nursery school programming. They did receive glowing remarks on how cute they were though. 

Peter and I also matured - we had some very real conversations around the state of our partnership, in light of our move, a shift of jobs and a shift in roles, the outlook for the year, and projections for the next five. In the middle of our daily chaos, we don't have a lot of these discussions. And while all the change we've taken on this year has been challenging, it's forced us to connect and calibrate on a much deeper level, supporting and cheering for each other in new ways.  

As I've looked and reflected on everyone under our roof, I've seen how far we've all come. It's still a house of five kids under ten. It's still a challenge. But everyone is coming into their own. Taking on additional responsibility. Leading in their own ways. 

So much so, that I actually have a vision within grasp. I might just get to sign off from work on a Friday evening, have a glass of wine and a slice of pizza, laugh with the family, maybe watch a movie, play a game, stay up a tad later, because heck, it's Friday night. And everyone is getting so much more self-sufficient.   

Last week, I brought the kids home from their overpriced piano lessons - the one where I started this story. They had done well. Actually, really great. I walked in, dusting off the cold, and reapplied lipstick. 

'Ordered the pizza,' Peter said. 

He had a beer. I poured myself a glass of wine. Friday had never felt so good, given all this maturity blooming in the house. The smaller kids watched a show. Mary and Bobby chatted it up. The pizza came and tasted absolutely delicious. Mostly because I didn't make it. 

A piece down, a glass of relaxation consumed, and the twins came roaring down half wanting dinner, half wanting to sleep forever as they hadn't napped. Roars turned into frenzied fanaticism. They went nuts, so I threw them in bed early. Slight deflection from my perfect Friday night, but once in bed, it was quiet again. I came downstairs to continue talking with Peter, and he said, 'I might be over thinking this, and I don't want to raise alarm, but I feel like there are flies in Margaret's hair.' 

'Um, yes, let's be concerned.' 

I went upstairs and looked through Margaret's hair. Alarm raised sky high. Peter was at CVS two seconds later. 

Five minutes more and we were all scrubbing our hair, sheets, towels, blankets and stuffies. We were spraying and disinfecting every room in the house. We were combing the kids' hair strand by strand. And then Peter was doing the same to me. Gross. Just gross. The babies were sleeping, so I just prayed the bugs weren't in their room too. 

A couple more rounds of sanitization and nit removal and the problem was gone. The too late announcement from school saying lice was going around dinged in my email box as I was going to bed. Yep, it sure was.   

I'm still itching from the trauma, but our maturity paid off. We laughed through it. Friday night lice I called it. Another shared experience, and another family story we'll chuckle about years for now. 

In all, pre-teen drama, travel and lice included, I've found that Mary's piano teacher wasn't quite right. You can grow and mature and gain independence, but whether out of town or not, you can always depend on your mom. 

Lo