To Tortola

Before we took off on vacation last week, I read a book called Amazing Airplanes to Bobby and Mary to reground them in high flying travel.

The book took the kids from ticketing, through the terminal, onto the jet way, up 30,000 feet and down again in a manner that I associate with my earliest air travel experiences. Stewardesses with little hats, compartmentalized meals on the plane, peanuts, drinks, magazines, leg room, guests waiting to greet you at your gate, and lots of happy, eager faces.

'Airplane up!' said Bobby.
'Yes, honey, we're going up, up, up in the airplane tomorrow!'
They couldn't wait for vacation.

***

Shortly after I put the kids to bed that night, I checked my phone's news feed out of habit. Nice was under attack; terrorism striking again. I went to bed jittery. The photos of the massacre on the front page of the Wall Street Journal in the morning were horrifying. Uneasily, I finished packing up the car. I looked at my phone as we backed out of the drive way and saw another message from my Mom to coat myself in insect repellent on a daily basis. She had new facts about Zika to share. The unfriendly mosquito WARNINGS at O'Hare echoed her worries.

The prominently displayed Zika placards weren't the only annotations in the airport to the book I had read to the kids. There were quite a few others and Mary was quick to point them out asking for explanations. Security dogs roaming through the lobby of O'hare. Customer service representatives acting more like the first faces of security rather than bubbly cruise directors. No leg room. No peanuts. And nervous faces masking the happy ones. Or maybe that was just mine.

'Can I pet the dog?'
'No, he's doing his job.'
'What's his job?'
'Making sure there are no bad guys at the airport.'
'I don't want to wait in this line.'
'This is how we make sure everyone is safe.'
'Why is there another dog smelling us?'
'To keep us safe.'
'Can I get a hashbrown now?'
'In a second, but you have to share with Bobby.'
'No.'
'Mary you have to stay right by me. Hold my hand.'
'No.'
'Come here! This is a busy airport, and I don't want someone to grab you.'
'Mommy, are you happy?'
'Yes, honey. Of course, honey.'

I felt bad. I knew my anxiety was apparent, and I just wanted my kids to have the innocent airport experience in the book, but I couldn't shake the recent events.

Somewhere along the four and a half hour flight to Puerto Rico, managing two kids who spent most of the trip running up and down the aisle of the plane while the rest of the passengers slept off the early morning wake up call, the stress started to melt away. By the time we boarded the 8-seat Cessna to hop from San Juan to Tortola, I felt an even greater sense of relief. We had made it. Everything was going to be okay.

We were welcomed into paradise with open arms by our ever generous hosts, Tia and Tom. My kids immediately jumped in the pool, while Tia handed me a glass of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc.

For the next five days, we lived with a group of 27 friends, some old ones, some new ones, some adults, some babies, most somewhere in between, and I felt like there wasn't a worry in the world. The vacation was filled with so much good: food and wine, adventures that took us to the bluest parts of the ocean and the whitest sand beaches, swimming, soaking up the sun, trail running, and sharing everything: toys, parenting advice, dances, laughs, kitchens and the meals served from them.

And noticeably absent was the bad. Removed from the constant headlines that our world is anything but at peace, I was able to find my own sound bites that told the story of fun, rather than fear.

• The only princess among twelve little princes, wearing her blue bird dress and lip gloss to dinner, was more interested in climbing rocks and playing super heroes with the boys than playing the part of a little lady. Good on you, Mary. 
• Mary and Bobby make great roommates. (Something to put in my back pocket for now.)
• There is a name for the dance party that is always happening in my heart and it's called Club Rouge.
• In the absence of Catastrophe de Menthe, Mount Gay provides an awesome, giggle inducing alternative.
• When trying to explain to your kids why Daddy is breaking coconuts by himself on the front lawn at dinner time, blame it on the Mount Gay. 
• Never Have I Ever done anything of illicit interest. 
• The idea of a kids dinner time and an adult dinner time is ingenious, especially when on vacation.
• Cooking for 14 people is actually quite easy when you get to cook in a kitchen with not just one view, but two.  
• There are far more good people in the world, than bad.  
• And despite what the media continue to tell us, you got to live your life, hey-a-hey-a-hey-a, and keep on living it. Because we should 'have nothing to fear, but fear itself.'   

Lo.

Buzzed and Busted

The first time I experienced the state of inebriation was senior year in high school. It was with Champagne. (Smart girl.) And it was after my senior prom.

It was the year 2000; the new Millennium. I had lost a couple pounds, I had the dress (an ombre slip number from Saks), THE shoes (four inch Stuart Weitzman rhinestone studded strappy sandals), a simple swept up do, a date (and remember, I went to an all-girls school so never a given), and some new moves inspired by TRL's latest line up.  

My girlfriends and our dates (a combination of male Calvary Campers and Central lacrosse players) gathered at my parents house for a pre-party photo shoot. We awkwardly made conversation with our respective matches while sizing up the opportunity to switch with someone later on. The event was at the recently renovated Holiday Inn in Oakland. I remember eating a couple pieces of honeydew for dinner and dancing as much as I could. 

Afterward, we went to Rebecca's house in Edgewood. My best friend boasted a big old house, a trampoline, lenient parents, and an exclusive guest list. There was champagne, beer, and cute boys. To date, it was one of the best parties I've ever been to. 

I don't remember how much I drank that night - maybe two or three glasses of champagne, followed by a beer. I also played some beer pong, but made my partners drink most of the losing cups. Regardless, it was enough to add a little haze, build my confidence, giggle (and giggle and giggle), flirt with the two boys at the top of Central's pecking order and kiss one of them. It was a night straight out of Can't Hardly Wait; and I was a pivotal character in it. 

The next morning, my Mom picked me up, likely alarmed at the disheveled household and boys passed out on couches and area rugs around the living room. As I gathered my things, and pounded a couple glasses of water, she pummeled Rebecca's Mom with questions about the past twelve hours. 

On the ride home, I told my Mom all about my fairy tale prom. The champagne fizz was still pulsing through my veins; I felt like I was glowing, or at least my blood shot eyes were. My Mom seemed enthused. That's great, and what about this? And what about that? I relayed all the stories, except the parts that involved wine glasses and beer cans.  

'So,' my Mom continued, 'did you get to drink a little champagne last night?' 

'What? ... Huh? ... No ... definitely not.'

'Did you drink a little beer?'

'What? .... No! ... Why would you ask that?!' 

'Well, Rebecca's mom said she gave everyone some champagne and beer last night to celebrate.'
(BUSTED!!!!)  

'Oh ... that champagne ...' 

I scanned her face for anger. The kind that grounds or sentences manual labor. There was a stern face but it didn't look as threatening as I've seen in the past ...

'Mommy doesn't want you to lie.'
'Uh huh ... um ... um ... (I was her girl, her good girl, who followed the rules) ... yes, yes, I did.'
'Did what?'
'Had some champagne.'
There was a pause. She was obviously processing the new development in her big girl's life.
'Mommy loves you ... but I don't love when you lie.' 

It was her classic line. Every time I got in trouble growing up, every time my Mom lost her temper, grabbed my ear, and banished me to my room, she would come upstairs minutes later, as loving as ever. She would sit beside me on my bed and say, 'Mommy loves you, but ... ' And I knew in that moment, that her love surpassed my every flaw. Even as a senior in high school the line worked wonders. As I sat in the car next to her, ashamed of drinking underage and worse lying to my mom who inevitably always deciphered the truth, I knew that my Mom would always be there for me.  

***

I don't remember all of Mary's first words, but I remember that many were based on the things she saw and heard every day.
Momma. Dadda.
Bottle.   

Train. Train. Train. 

Truck. 

Car. Car. Car. BLUE Car. 

Bus. 

Back pack.  
Gracias. (Thank you, Dora) 

While there are similarities in Bobby's early vocabulary (Momma, Dadda) there are some more ominous additions.

Ball. Ball. Ball.
No. Mine. 

Ouch! (MARY!!!!)
Baby. Baby. Baby. 

No. Mine.  

Ouch! (MARY!!!!)
Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. 

No. Mine. (EWWW!!!)

Hot. Hot. Hot. 

Ouch!

No. No. No. No!

Mine. Mine. Mine. MINE!
Show? (Yes, fine!)

Notably, he learned 'mine' at a much earlier age than Mary. Also, I've apparently been saying 'no' to him a whole lot. He's at the age and of the gender, that he gets into everything, and everything that he's absolutely not supposed to.  

Mary is at the age though, where saying 'no' isn't enough. Where sometimes, her mistakes make me lose my temper. Because she knows the difference between hot and cold; mine and ours; yuck and the opposite of yuck. And when she chooses wrong from right, it frustrates me to no end. 

So there are time outs, preceded by an arm grab perhaps. Mary cries and screams beyond my comprehension of despair. Distanced between her door, we each need a second to cool down. I have to take a deep breath myself, come downstairs, and think of ways to reconcile the situation. Moments later, I march back upstairs, sit down next to her and tell her just what my Mom told me over and over again growing up. 

'Mommy loves you, Mary, but ... you can't hit / push / kick / steal toys from your brother.' (Her most frequent offenses right now.) And just like I did with my Mom, she melts into my arms, as if those simple words make everything right again. Her tears are dried, she regains her composure, and she's ready to play once again. She just needed to know that discipline didn't mean a lack of love.  

There is no manual on parenting; every kid and every family are different. But much of what I practice came from my parents, which came from a state of pure love. And it makes me think just how many wrongs could be righted, how many courses could be diverted in this world with the simple statement that somebody loves you, and always will.

Lo. 

Easter Bunnies

On Saturday evening, we were all out in the yard. It was 62 degrees and sunny; assuredly, dinner would be grilled. Peter was at the helm, turning the plump brats over and steering their optimistic scent toward the neighbors, who had inadvertently left spring weather and aromas for the lure of Tropical destinations. Their loss. I was sitting on the stoop of our patio, teaching Mary how to write her name in bright pink chalk. And Bobby was milling around the yard, pointing to every tree and identifying each one as such. 'Tree .... Tree ... Tree ... Touchhhh. Tree.' The boy loves trees.

As I took a sip of my wine, Bobby sensed the need for camaraderie. 'Cheers,' he said from his grassy perch. I chuckled and said cheers back to him, raising my glass without getting up from my concrete seat. That wasn't good enough though. He wanted to hear the sound of plastic on glass ringing through the yard. He stood up, walked over, raised his cup and clinked my glass. 'Cheers' he said definitively. 'Cheers,' I repeated back to him, laughing a little harder this time around. 

While I could write a whole blog on the role of 'Cheers' in Bobby's limited vocabulary, this is about something else. That is, Bobby's recent declaration of independence. With the acquisition of the skill to walk, Bobby no longer feels tied down so to speak. As a crawler, he might not have made the hurried move from center field to the bench to toast me; but as a walker, he was bound and determined to make the sippy salutation sound. He is a true boy. And he loves using his little legs to dart around the house and yard in search of all the things he's not supposed to touch, put in his mouth, bang, clang and break. 

He's not the only one expressing an air of entitled freedom though. Mary has also been making some bold statements of independence recently. As a three year old, she sees herself as a big girl. She no longer wants to entertain the addition of a diaper to her wardrobe, at any time of the day (or night.) She wants to pick out what she will wear, and put every article of clothing on herself. She wants to cut her food, do puzzles, read books, unlock my iPad, run, bike, swing and slide all by herself. And given her snappy tone when I offer to help, my hand is nearly forced to keep its distance. 

No, I can do it. 

Okay, okay. 

Ahhhh ... I can't do it. 

Let me help you then. 

No! I can do it. Go away.  

Fine. 

AHHHHHH! AHHHHHH!

Come here, I will help you. 

NO! Leave me alone .... Ahhhh ... There, I did it. 

(Sigh) Good girl. 

Patience is definitely at a premium these days. Getting dressed and undressed for that matter, eating, using the potty, bath time, story time, bed time, potty time, story time, potty time, story time, GO TO SLEEP time (!) all seem to take twice as long recently. Every one wants to assert his or her freedoms and as a Mom that wants their kids to learn and mature, I've been loosening my reins a little more.

***

As I listened to the Homily at Easter Mass on Sunday, I took note to remember the real meaning of the holiday. While the bunnies, eggs, and pastel Easter frocks are cute, it's about Christ doing something completely profound for all of His children. And as I shoved another goldfish in Bobby's mouth and got another crayon out of my purse for Mary, I thought about just that.

We are all God's children. And He created us to think, act and speak freely. To try, and fail, and try again. And just as I get frustrated with my kids as they exercise their independence, it must be terribly frustrating for God to see us struggle with simple truths in his mind; simple choices between right and wrong. Or worse to abuse the freedoms we've been given or squash the freedom of another person. Yet, with all of our flaws; with all of humanity's malice, violence and wrong doing, He loved us so much that He died on the Cross and rose to save us all, preserving the beautiful creations He made in his image. Truly humbling. Truly joyous. Truly Magnificent.

Easter is the most wonderful time of the year. There's just no song on the radio proclaiming it as such. But the pretty pastel parties are perfect ways to celebrate. And celebrate we did.  

  

  

    

Cheers!

Lo.