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. 

   

Vegas to the 5th

"Of course sinful places never look their best in the daylight. I remember thinking that Las Vegas looked rather endearingly pathetic when viewed over a cup of coffee and a doughnut. All that noise and electric energy that is loosed at dusk vanishes with the desert sun and everything suddenly seems as thin and one-dimensional as a film set."
- Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There

I have watched the sun come up over the Strip the past two days. Bill Bryson nailed it. At 5:00 AM, looking out the window from the 29th floor at the Cosmopolitan onto the Bellagio Fountains, a line-up of the best hotels in the city - Caesar's, The Venetian, Palazzo, Wynn and Encore, and then onto the mountains in the distance, Las Vegas is illuminated, brilliant, rich, textured, and alive. At 6:30 AM, it is entirely different - like the endless, flat film set that Bryson describes.

What he didn't capture in his dead-on description of Vegas' dichotomy, is how terribly boring the city is, not only during the daytime, but in the evening and into the wee hours of the morning, after you've been here five times in a year - how predictable, scripted, and lackluster it is when you've experienced it time and time (and time and time and time again.)

• The confident Crew-enhanced, Aqua di Gio saturated guys ogling the biggest boobs at the bar are five times skeezier.
• The second hand smoke is staler, stuffier, and smellier than you can possibly imagine.
• The life progression of a woman from hot, hopeful hostess with a platinum bob, to disappointed cocktail server with bags under her eyes, to disgruntled, over-the-hill, cigarette sales lady in the too-tight dress, to homeless person looking for a down payment on her next bottle of moonshine seems transparently apparent.
• The crowds and their lack of spatial awareness are particularly stupefying.
• The blinking lights and siren-like sounds of the casino floor penetrate five times deeper into your already established headache from your desert-induced dehydration.
• The food, though good, doesn't taste nearly as sumptuous as it should because the service staff at just about every celebrity chef-owned restaurant in town is snootier than the next.
• The exponential growth of reflective surfaces and mirrors in the city make it and its visitors vainer than ever.
• And the lines - for the buffet, the newest show, the hot Club du jour, the roller coaster, the chance to cross the street, or the privilege to stare at one of the many seedy pole dancers are five times more thoughtless. (Seriously, your wife is ten million times more attractive than the cracked-out import from overseas whose only move is bending over, jiggling, and showing off her fake boobs that the casino floor manager donated to her in exchange for an exotically wild night.)   

How do I know all of this? Because I have literally taken off from Chicago and touched down at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas FIVE times this year.That is three, four and five times too many. I'm here for a marketing conference, and although content-wise, it's a good one, I wonder why conference coordinators don't realize that Vegas is no longer the choice locale.We've all been here before!


On the plane ride, I was sitting next to a Vegas first-timer. Like the stinker I can be, and as the proud owner of the right to open and close the shutter whenever I saw fit, I shut it so I could read without the interference of blinding sunlight. Around the Rockies, the girl started leaning over me, halfway into my seat, totally disregarding my spatial boundaries to look through the crevice that I had left open. Seriously, it's just a bunch of mountains, girl.

But after considering my first time, back in 2004, right after graduating from college, and all the excitement and fun that went with it, I thought better of my decision and granted her a full view. She didn't stop staring until we landed, and although annoying, I gained a little bit of her perspective.

I saw her rush off the plane and into a cab so she could meet up with her best friends; the itinerary for the night starting with a primping party in the room; their strut four-abreast down the strip to Caesar's for drinks, a light dinner, and dancing; the hope that the guy she had baited and captured at the VIP table could against all odds be Prince Charming; the realization after he called her "babe" that the past three hours were nice, but not worthy of her full time; and the hangover nursed with laughter about last night's antics with her girls.

That's the Vegas that I loved. But as I sit here missing Prince Charming at home in Naperville this evening, I know I'm no longer in the market for those kind of nights.

The lights are back on all along the Strip and the magic that Bryson describes is back. And I hope tonight is just that, magical, for the girl that sat next to me on the plane and for all the other first or second timers out there.On my last night of 2011 and perhaps of this entire decade in Las Vegas, I'll be toasting 702, the Ellis Girls, TnT, my wedding party, and all the conference attendees past that have made this city so much fun.

Viva Las Vegas!
Lo.

The Dress Rehearsal

Before the lights come up; before you quell the stage fright and spit out your first line; before the tears, laughter, and thunderous applause from the audience, comes the dress rehearsal. That ever important part of making sure that the production goes as close to flawlessly as possible.

I have been through many, MANY dress rehearsals in the past: From long, hot dance recital ones at Chatham College's Chapel, to Charlie Appel and Charles Altman school play ones at St. Edmund's and Ellis. From Glee Club concert dress rehearsals at Heinz Chapel to piano recital dress rehearsals at the Jewish Community Center. From walk-throughs the morning before the big game to final run-throughs of the presentation for the Board, I am versed in the art of the perfect dress rehearsal.

I know how to dress as closely as possible without spoiling the finishing touch. I know how moving from practice to final, full hair and make-up makes the execution of each scene just a little more real. I know how the lines that you've been saying over and over again, all of a sudden take on a new meaning and you say them with a little more oomph and gusto. I know how dress rehearsals make you stand up a little straighter and smile a little bigger. And I know how they start to shake your core with jitters you haven't felt since the last play .

I also know you should have a supporter in the audience. And I always had a special friend or family member, usually someone who couldn't make the final production at my dress rehearsals. Sometimes it was Grandma or Grandpa, sometimes it was Mom or Dad, sometimes it was Patty or Debbie, and once it was even Aunt Ann and Uncle Dick. It was just nice to know that my fans took the dress rehearsal as seriously as I did and that I would have practice applause to go along with the practice curtain call.

Last night, I added another dress rehearsal to my portfolio. And I've got to say, it was just about the best rehearsal yet. The chemistry with my leading man, was better than it had ever been. My costume - a pearl, off the shoulder dress, Kate Spade pumps, BIG hair, and full make-up looked awesome.

My lines - short, simple, sweet - "I have" - "I will" - "I do" were executed without error.
Like rehearsals past, I did get a little more nervous, the final production became a little more real, and I hammed it up the best I could. But unlike rehearsals past, it wasn't just a friend or family member cheering me on, it was a crowd of supporters that was a hundred fold. And it was so special.

It was a beautiful, memory-making night at Sacred Heart and the Phipps Conservatory, and I can't thank my family and friends enough for being there to shower Peter and I with their support. I don't have the pictures to share yet, but they will be up soon enough.

And although, I know it's supposed to be a surprise, I'll give you a teaser of the big unveil - the climax of the show. It ends in a kiss. And at the dress rehearsal, it looked really good.

Lo.

Bibbidy Boddiby Boo

Growing up, there was a small selection set of movies we were allowed to watch. During a Friday evening trip to West Coast Video, which was by no means located on the West Coast, but on Murray Avenue in Squirrel Hill, my Dad would escort us away from the New Releases and into two coves that he recommended for our viewing pleasure - Kids and Classics/Musicals.

We each got to pick one. I usually countered Erin's Pollyanna or The Parent Trap and Adam's Old Yeller with a Disney princess flick or a Shirley Temple movie. My Dad rounded out our cinematic education with a classic western or drama.

Captivated by all movies from an early age, they each influenced me, but the bummers of rabies, paralysis and reoccurring divorce, focused my fresh, impressionable character on the princesses. Their romantic lifestyles were my aspirations and I would frequently make-believe I was a combination of my favorites (with a little Shirley Temple thrown in as well.) Make-believe in the Woods became princess Aurora's hide-out, make-believe in the pool became Ariel's quest to be 'part of that world,' make-believe while doing chores became a Lumiere show, and make-believe just about everyday was me getting ready for the ball, ta-da-ing, and dancing with Prince Charming.

In my twenties, I started to stop pretending, and as the princess bubble burst and reality set in, that's when all those fairy tale endings started happening. I graduated in essence, and today, I take on a new role - one that I believe will be far more challenging than that of a princess. Today, I become a Fairy Godmother, and to not just anyone, but to my (soon-to-be) niece Ellie.  

Playing the princesses is easy - sweetly singing through forests, bonding with woodland creatures, looking pretty, happening to run into Prince Charming on his noble steed, getting rescued while you take a snooze. I've pretty much done all those things or pretended to. But being the Fairy Godmother - being left with the task of making a really bad situation, unbelievable, geez! Now that's pressure!

But I'm optimistic, especially with Peter, the Godfather, by my side. I won't be able to turn a pumpkin into a sweet ride, mice into personal escorts, or rags into the most glamorous ball gown around, but I will watch over you, and care enough to be there when you need a little pick me up - when you need a little Godmotherly magic that lets you know how much you are loved. 

And a little piece of spiritual advice, since that's what it's all about - listen. This is one of those techniques that I haven't mastered yet, but I've found that prayer tends to work best when you listen more than you talk. When you give God, or people, the silence, space and time to respond, you'll actually find some of the answers.

So for you godchild, on your baptism, a dozen Ellie Ears (or Palmiers) so you can grow up to be a good listener, and when you just need to talk it out, bibbidy bobbidy boo, I'll be there for you to vent.

And yes, that's just a half on the end, I couldn't resist a morning pastry. Love you little one.  

Lo.

The Godparents