Young and Younger

Before Peter and I walked out the door last Saturday night, I encouraged our babysitter, Camille, to watch the Olympics with the kids. I shared my love of the games with her; how I had fallen for them back in 1996.

I started rattling off the heroic names and gilded moments that exemplified the magic for me.
Kerry Walsh and Misty May winning gold in the debut of beach volleyball ...
Uh huh.
Gary Hall Jr., the shadow boxer. Amanda Beard and her teddy bear.
Uhhh ...
Michael Johnson and his gold cleats. Gail Devers and her nails. Carl Lewis and that last long jump.
Hmm ...
Kerry Strug. Kerry Strug?! The girl who landed her vault on one foot because she had sprained her ankle? Nothing ringing a bell? America's games. Atlanta, 1996. Come on!

Oh.
Oh my gosh, you weren't born yet. Right?
No.
When were you born?
1999. 

Oh wow.

I was in eighth grade during the 1996 Olympics. And I remember them like they were yesterday, particularly the gold medal night for the U.S. Women's gymnastics team. My brother and I had accidentally knocked over a lamp in the sun room hours before, and were then and there banned from watching coverage as punishment. I snuck down to the basement to watch though. I mean, come on.

I was a senior in high school when my babysitter was born; 18 years of life behind me. When she said 1999, I felt so old, aging myself in front of corporate America's talent of the future. But in that moment I also felt a little sad for her - she had missed a lot of great things in the 80s and 90s.

***

Last weekend, I also attended two birthday parties: two reminders of just how old, or young I am. One of a five year old in Hinsdale. The other of a 90 year old in Chicago.

First, Mary's friend Audrey turned five in fairy tale fashion. Butterflies decorated trees around a table set with pink china, hydrangeas and grassy place mats. The little girls, with wings fastened to the back of their party dresses, sipped pink tea at the fairy tea party, ate butterfly cookies and licked the icing off their slices of cake. They made magic potions, gathered around to hear fairy stories, and of course opened presents.

It was the cutest birthday party I had ever seen and I thought how awesome it was to be a little girl in the age of fairies, Pinterest, and Amazon.com. When I was little, we dressed in smock dresses, played pin the tail on the donkey and drank liter cola at birthday parties. I aged myself again.

The next day, we celebrated Shirley's 90th birthday party at the Chicago Yacht Club, right off of Lake Shore Drive. Always a boater, it was the perfect place to bring together her family and friends. As we toasted this special woman, ate, drank, cut the massive cake and ate some more, I thought of all the things Shirley could say that would unveil her age, and remind me of my lack of experience in this world.

Say ...  

I went to the movies during the Great Depression, when they only cost a quarter.
I went to college and became a nurse just as World War Two ended.
I saw the healing tranquility and elegance in the white capped Zermott, which I painted while visiting post-war Europe.
During the Cold War and Civil Rights movement, I found my inner peace through yoga. And have been practicing it ever since.
I hosted parties on our boat in Burnham harbor when there were just a few boats docked in the Lake.
I've lived in Western Springs since it was a dry town, and it was cooler than it is now back then.
I went on a world tour when air travel was still elegant, when cities were less crowded, and when time moved a little slower.
I have seen the world change and then change some more. I have watched kids and grand kids and now great kids grow. And despite some of the terrible pains along the way, I have found beauty and joy in it all. And if the world is going to keep accelerating, than I'm going to keep moving and shaking along with it. Because in her words, 'age is only a number. You can all get older, but I won't.' 

The next day, I texted her some of the photos I had taken, and she responded immediately.
Thx.

  
      
     

Sometimes, the world (or maybe its just corporate America) positions aging as a bad thing. And with it, we don't want to reveal that we saw something live, before it was well known, first. But I think age should be a pride point, and the experiences that we have collected over years should not only be celebrated, but tapped into.  

And Shirley's life to date, at ninety, is certainly something to listen to, learn from, and revere. 

Lo. 

And to my Dad, whose special day I'm missing this weekend; a very Happy Birthday! We love you! 

My Little Princess

Three years ago right ... about ... now ... I held a 5 pound, 7 ounce Mary in my arms for the first time. After laboring through the night (without any drugs), I was dazed and exhausted, but completely in awe of the little being nuzzling against my bloated body for added warmth.

She was here. I was a mommy. Peter was a daddy. Wow.

Besides the hints within the excerpts I had read of a couple bestsellers on parenting, I was clueless. I had heard it was as simple as diapers and milk; and as complicated as philosophical decisions about child rearing. Scared and overwhelmed I left the hospital with a hands on tutorial on nursing, some extra diapers (check, check) and at least a couple theories on how I would shape my little girl over the years. I was going to raise her to be ...
Breastfed. Not formula fed.
A crib sleeper. Not a co sleeper.
Smart. Not beautiful.
An engineer. Not a princess.
In the library. Not in front of the TV.
Eating fruits and vegetables. Not baked goods.
Healthy. Not skinny. Not fat.
Faithful.
Colorblind.
Kind.
Never mean.
Loved.
And beyond my current understanding of the word.

***

Three years later, I have caved on a majority of my convictions. In her 11th month, she was introduced to formula. I co-slept on several occasions. And while Mary is certainly intelligent, she loves when people comment on her looks.
'I love your dress,' they'll tell her.
'What a beautiful little girl,' they'll gush.
She lights up and responds almost on cue, 'oh why, thank you! This is my ball gown.'
Or as I cringe, 'Oh ... I know!'

Which means, she is enamored with princesses: their clothes, their songs, their dances, and their handsome princely matches. She hosts daily performances in our sun room inspired by her favorite Disney characters. And if a duet, Peter is brought in to play her prince. Instead of a Lego building party, which I might have envisioned three years ago, Mary's birthday celebration on Saturday was a Coronation Ball. There were crowns and pink plastic everywhere.

While she loves the library and can 'read' (almost word for word) many of the books that line her book shelf, she also loves her shows. I no longer fight (a limited amount of) TV time each time. After all, she has learned a heck of a lot from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Umizoomi, Dora Dora and Daniel Tiger.

To this day, she could care less about baked goods, unless they are iced, and then she will just lick the frosting off. But she also won't touch vegetables. When the pediatrician asked her what she eats at her yearly check up, she told her chicken nuggets, spaghetti and meatballs, honeydew and apples. Do you eat vegetables, she asked? On sandwiches, she responded. So no, she doesn't Dr. The 'sandwiches' she eats come out her play kitchen. With the void of vegetables in her life called out, the opportunity to have a Hershey Kiss is only extended after a serving of vegetables now.

For almost three years, I have proudly avoided using the word fat (or skinny) around Mary. Chubby cheeks, yes. Fat, no. That is, until the Very Hungry Caterpillar introduced it a couple weeks ago. 'He wasn't a little caterpillar anymore, he was BIG FAT(!) caterpillar,' Mary would read enthusiastically, and laugh and laugh. Words out I guess.

With all the variance on the parenting judgments I had placed on my newborn daughter three years ago, the latter ones have largely stayed the same. She understands prayer and reflection. She has never commented on the color or appearance of another person. Despite fighting with her brother over any number of favorite toys on a daily basis, she is a good girl. Kind and quickly embarrassed when she is reprimanded. Sweet, loving ...

And loved. Truly beyond my understanding. Not just by me and her daddy. But by all the people in her life.

At three years old, I love you for the funny, opinionated, verbose, dramatic, talented, fiercely smart, and beautiful little princess that you are. And you know what, in this day and age, we might just need more sweet, smart princesses to save the day. So play away.  

Happy birthday sweet Mary.

Mommy Lo. 

   

Sitters

We were well acclimated with babysitters growing up. We had many over the years. And each hold a special place in my heart because of the contributions they made to my childhood.

There was Patty; my first nanny. (My sister's third.) She covered ages 0 - 4. Although she's so much more, I could sum her up with her white Beretta car, Tic Tacs, Matzo, hard boiled eggs, the Goody Closet, leg painting, arts and crafts and visits to the Squirrel Hill Library.

There was Debbie; my second nanny. Ages 4 - 8. She was frosted hair, crimping irons, white Reebok high tops, neon, a Maroon Buick Grand Prix, Haluski, auto parts, back rubs, Debbie Gibson and Madonna blaring from the radio. She was a perfect poster woman for the 80s who inspired some of the confidence I carry today.

Then there were the evening babysitters. Either one of my Dad's residents or Edy. Chanted, 'E-D, E-D, E-D,' whenever my Mom had lined her up to sit on a weekend.

Most nights, particularly when we were young, my parents were home having dinner with us, giving us baths, and putting us to bed. But occasionally they caught a movie, went to a black tie affair, or just wanted to have dinner together in relative peace and quiet. Or maybe that's an assumption I'm now making based on my family dinners recently.

I don't remember their occasional absence as traumatic; rather a chance to dance, play, and read stories with an alternate cast member. And Edy was a star.

Edy's arrival meant Yahtzee, Bingo, and as many hands of 500 Rummy as possible; an extra cookie for dessert because she was having one more too; getting under the spigot(!) to rinse off; and going to bed with the smell of her over-sized silky leisure ware fresh in my mind.

I imagine my parents went to bed those nights refreshed and relieved. Not only did they have a great night bonding over good food and company, their kids were safe, sound, and sleeping peacefully with a new set stories to relay in the morning.

***

While Eva holds down our fort during the day, we've recruited a new person for a new shift. It's called the Mommy and Daddy can't take this anymore shift. So welcome Camille. Thank you, Camille. You can take it from here, Camille. (And replace Camille with Mimi sometimes.)

Not that I don't love my kids. Not that I don't want to spend all day, every day with them; run while pushing them ahead of me, do yoga while Mary makes her dolls scale my downward facing slope, bake cakes while Mary licks the icing off my spatula, and work while they try to pound the keys on my computer. But at their ages, it's chaotic. And exhausting. And I need to remember what life, and particularly dinner, was like when it was just me and Peter.

So we've been calling up the sweet girl from our church who just loves kids to come over and fill in, while we check out. And in turn, check in with each other in a real way. We've used three restaurant gift certificates over the past four weeks; a couple that were quite dusty from the years they've spent in my dresser. We've made memories just the two of us again, and it's been awesome.



As a working mom, I guilt myself into thinking I need to be there every second that I'm not at work. But from what I learned as a kid, babysitters are there to mix things up, add a little more character, and give your parents the break they deserve. There's still plenty of room for family time in the schedule.

A very happy 89th birthday to Oma; a woman who has always put family first. And whose Bronco's gave her the best present of all last Sunday! We love you (and your socks, blankets, perfect pound cake, and cat stories so much!)

Lo.