All In The Family

Last weekend, around 4:30 Saturday morning, the kids were out of their beds, and in mine. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't have been allowed ... but we were in South Bend for the weekend, Daddy was in Colorado for a wedding, loud revelers screaming 'Go Irish' had been clamoring outside of the thin walls of my parents condo all night, I figured I had no choice but to open the door to my bed and let the kids in.

When I woke up (and I use the term loosely as I never really fell asleep that night), Mary was curled up on one side of the bed, Bobby was nestled in the middle, and I found myself trying not to fall off. As dawn shed its soft light on my slumbering little angels, I gushed. Man, did they look cute.

A couple minutes later, Bobby started stretching his little body out, opened his eyes, rolled over and popped up into a plump sitting position. He looked a little confused. Where was he? Out of his house, out of his bed. He looked at me, smiled, now reassured in a sense, and said perfectly clearly, 'Mama.' 

I gave him a big cuddle and my heart melted.

This whole week, he's been saying my name more and more. It's mostly when I put him down, and he wants to get back up in my arms. It's the one word he needs to know; that has all his needs wrapped up in it. He says 'Mama,' and I can't help but scoop him up.  

***

Last weekend, while Bobby was learning his first lesson in genealogy, Mary was getting a broader education. On Friday night, as we read through our collection of Halloween books from Aunt Dee Dee, Aunt Joyce, and Aunt Amy, I told Mary that we were going to meet lots of people from our family over the weekend.

Mary knows the word family well. And will frequently say that Mommy, Daddy, and Bobby are her family; that she wants to go back home to her family; and that she's loves her family. Kills me. It's when we start to extend the definition of our nuclear family unit that things get a little confusing.

Our family is also ... Nana, Opa, Erin and Joe. And Aunt Dee. They're all here with us. Uncle Adam and Aunt Laura and your cousins couldn't make it; Mimi and Opa are back in Chicago, so are Ellie and Joe. 
Aunt Claire and Uncle Trent too. 

So far, so good. Saturday morning. We enter the Log Cabin on Notre Dame's campus.
Who's that?
That's Cousin Chris - Daddy's cousin. And that's his wife, Kassen who is also one of my best friends from college. A Shamrock Sister let's say.

Who's that?
Well that's Great Uncle John. He's our neighbor remember?
Who's that?
That's cousin Meghan, and Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Tim. Or are they your cousins too? 

Who's that?
That's Mia, another Shamrock Sister. And those are her babies. 

And that's Lam, one more sister, and those are her babies. 

And who's that?
That's Father Mark. He's Aunt Laura's Uncle. He's the one who loves Mickey Mouse!

Who are those peoples?
That's Opa's Brother, your Great Uncle Jim, and his wife and some of their kids. And their kids. They're all cousins.

And who's that baby?
Oh ... that's a very special, new part of our family. That's your very special third cousin, Everett. 
Oh. I like him. 

Back home, Mary might have remembered a couple of the names I told her. Uncle John, cause he lives a couple blocks away. Baby Everett because it was his party. Aunt Joyce, Aunt Amy, and Aunt Dee Dee because their names are on Mary's favorite books. But based on the knowing smile she shared with each new family member she met last weekend, I think she gets that there are a whole of people out there, connected to her by branches, vines and leaves on an ever-growing family tree. And that those people will be there to love, care, and cuddle with her. For me, it's an incredibly comforting fact.

For now though, Bobby. Mama (and we'll work on Dada) is the only name you need to know.

God Bless all of the people that I call family.

And God Bless little baby Everett. 

Lo.  

Call On Me

In a world before mobile devices, there were pay phones. Large, clunky machines, jacked into a wall or booth were standard in any public building or facility. A mere 35 cents (the last time I used one) earned you a 10 digit call for a set amount of time, but if you didn't have change, you could always call collect.

At my dance studio, the pay phone was located on a wall to the right of the door, tucked behind a staircase that led up to the gymnasium where the early 90s versions of Chatham College students would work out and shoot hoops in unflattering gray sweat pants. My class though, was straight ahead through the double doors and down three steps.

Within my hour long tap class, I would float away to a world where I was triple ball changing with Shirley Temple and Gene Kelly. It was the highlight of any given week. Surrounded by mirrors reflecting my best self, pumped with the rhythms of Paula Abdul, removed from the judgement of my schoolmates, I passionately danced in leotards that proudly exposed my 6X tummy.

An hour later, as the 6:00 PM adult jazz students started arriving and putting their shoes on, I would return to reality, and the pending worry that accompanied it. Would I have a case to take the pay phone off the receiver tonight? Please say no.

After changing, my classmates and I waited outside, looking for our rides to come around the bend. Divya went first. Then Meghan, Nuka, Ozzie, and Devon. Sarah and Jackie were next. It was down to me and Mandy. It was always okay with one other person sharing my burden. Five minutes went by. Six. 'Ah, there she is,' Mandy sighed. 'See you next week.' One left. Me left. Seven minutes, eight. No tears. No crying. Nine minutes. Ten. Eleven. I dug around in my dance bag, no change. The tears started coming.

I walked back inside and picked up the phone.
1-800-C.O.L.L.E.C.T. Ding!
Please enter the number you would like to call.
412-Home.
Please say your name.
A quivery Loooaaaaa.
Please hold while we connect your call.
My mom would answer as if totally surprised to hear from me. I could hear Evening Magazine and my brother and sister in the background. She said Dad was on his way.
Okay. Pull yourself together. Don't let the collegiates see you with red eyes. Inevitably, a minute later my Dad would be there. Phew. Let's get out of here and eat some Linguine with clam sauce.

***

Comparatively, picking up my Mom last weekend in our ever connected world was a lot less dire. On Friday night, we heard that she was stuck in New Orleans. On Saturday morning she was stranded at Midway, in need of getting to her golden destination. I knew that feeling well, so we packed up the car, kids and all, and came to her rescue.

Where are we going (clap, clap, clap) 
Save Nana! 

We didn't have definitive weekend plans, so it was no sweat off our backs; rather a chance to dress the kids in their Irish ware ...

... hang out with Nana and Opa, run into old friends, take some Domerific photos (pardon the pout), and further indoctrinate our children into Notre Dame's cultish culture.

My parents were very appreciative (Peter even got to go to the game as a thank you.) I figured how many times had my parents driven out of their way to pick me up, see me play or perform, or show me something new? I was happy to be the in case of emergency number, and when we were running fifteen minutes late, relieved that I could text my mom and say we were on our way. She showed no signs of teary eyes when we pulled up at entrance 2.

Looking back on it, I don't know why I used to get so nervous about my parents being a couple minutes late to pick me up. It's ridiculous, but I think with each passing minute, I feared that I would never seem them again. Yes, dramatic, but a possibility in my young mind.

This week, as I was flying higher and higher above the Midwestern landscape and south into Arkansas, the same fears I had as a kid started creeping up. I got nervous that something would happen, that I wouldn't make it home in one piece and that I wouldn't be there to pick up my kids when they were waiting for me.

I reasoned my way out of the paranoia and into my book, and lucky for me there was cell phone reception on the other end of my flight. With it, pictures and texts relaying news about Bobby crawling up stairs and cruising, Mary wearing undies all day, and Daddy surviving the night without me. Better than that, there was Facetime in the morning and more photos throughout the day. Finally, there was ultimate reassurance when I texted, 'landed' late Wednesday night.

I think that's the hardest part about being a working mom, and in particular traveling for work; the gap that exists each day between you and your family. It's challenging and a little scary at times and there's always that possibility that you are going to be late. But knowing you have an amazing partner and extended family at home, making the wait fun (as well as a cell phone with a charger) makes all the difference.

Lo. 

R and R (and R)

A couple days ago, on the way home from our resort's posh pool complex, Mary fell asleep in her stroller. The veritable war against her nap had been getting out of hand while on vacation; my ears were beginning to ring with, 'NO SLEEP! NO NIGHT NIGHT!'; so on that particularly hot, humid, Georgian afternoon, when I saw her head start to lilt and her eyes slowly draw to close, I decided to keep walking. Four lazy miles and a couple blisters later, she woke up refreshed and ready to play (hard) once again. I on the other hand, knew that it was 5:00 right where I was.

While many may diagnose this type of stuff as classic two-year-old behavior, I'd like to argue that Mary has a genetic strain of what I call calendar horror vacui: my family's unique fear of empty spaces in a daily agenda; the urge to seize every second of every day and gauging the success of any given day on the number of things you could fit into it. Mary clearly inherited some of that, and thus treated her vacation like one of the big kids last week. Play hard. Don't nap. Ever!

For other families, and for Bobby, vacation is purely about rest and relaxation; not only a break from work, but a respite from diets and workout regimens, an excuse for indulgent meals and lazy morning afters, an agenda cleared of responsibilities and filled with refreshed beverages. While the notion of rejuvenation is a vital component of our vacations, we tend to do it by adding another r to the equation: that is relentless activity.

In my family, vacation has always acted as a chance to recommit in a frenzied way to those things that tend to get squeezed out of your life by work. And this year's summer holiday was no different. Exercise in all its various forms and formats was the theme of each day; and from sun up to sun down everyone did their best to pursue as many passions as possible.

Morning walks to watch the sunrise.

Fishing for something to eat for dinner

And fishing for lost balls.

Running, biking, swimming, logging mileage, and congratulating each other for achieving a virtual triathalon every day.

Leveraging creative capacities and exploring nature's beautiful creations.

Pursuing the Southern art of cooking, baking, and barbecuing. 

  

Dancing and singing along to beachside crooners.

Catching up on movies, books, and games, while sipping one last glass of wine.

And photographing all of it.

But perhaps one of the most challenging, yet rewarding exercises that the family tried all week, was an exercise in living under one roof again. It was far removed from 6524 or 1026, but Cottage 155 on the 13th Street of Sea Island played host for a week of ultimate bonding within a shared (luxurious) living space.

It was an exercise in passing germs again, in particular one little virus that went from kid to kid, and now Mom to Mom.

It was an exercise in sharing a kitchen and the meals that came out of it.

It threw us back to shared rooms and with it shared bedtimes regimens.

It prompted a couple spats and splashes of spit up; but nothing that couldn't be promptly cleaned up.

There was a good old fashioned birthday celebration.

Everyone played a parent, taking turns watching the kids and taking the time they needed away from them.

We shared laundry machines and a Mom that uses them so well; sand toys and beach towels; a pantry and the snacks it held; remotes and WiFi; bikes, strollers, cars, and a living room where we could congregate at the end of the day to relay our adventures du jour.

As we started our trek home to Chicago yesterday, my foursome parted ways from the extended group and spent an afternoon soaking up a little history in Savannah before boarding our flight home. Trimmed down to size, my nuclear family seemed a little quieter and dare to say a little sleepier.

And this evening, as I watched my kids run and roll around in our front yard after dinner, home sweet home once again, I couldn't help but think how fast they will grow up; how soon our house won't be big enough; and how much I will need a vacation like the one I just shared with my extended family.

A big thank you to my parents for getting the gang back together, under one roof, for a non-stop fun family vacation. And a big thank you to the Cloister and Sea Island for entertaining and serving us so beautifully all week. We did it all. And I'm pretty sure we'll be back to do even more next time. 

Lo.