At 36,000 Feet

The chartered bus ride home from Conneaut, Ohio to Pittsburgh marked the last two hours of camp. Two final hours to sing campfire songs in unison, exchange back rubs, laugh about the girl with stinky feet, drool over the dreamy counselor of cabin 7, envy the girl who went to the Banquet with Rory, and exchange phone numbers.

As the bus veered off of I-79, and onto the branch of the winding interstate bound for my hometown, I started to remove myself from the banter and laughter associated with camp’s honored memories, and transitioned out of my role as camper and into that of my parents' daughter.

Every year, I felt like I had changed after spending two weeks away from my mom and dad. I had new skills, songs, jokes; I had gotten a little leaner, a little faster; I had learned a new summer style, adding to my wish list; I was less awkward, more confident in who I was and what I had to offer.

As the skyline came into view, I found myself preparing to capture my mom and dad's welcome home hugs, wondering if they would notice I had changed while locked within their embrace. I envisioned how the back row of my dad’s Transport Van would feel, how my room would look after two weeks spent uninhabited, how goulash, salad, French bread, and a tall glass of milk would taste, how my bed would feel that night. I wondered if everyone, everything was ready to receive the new me.

Undoubtedly, my parents would always comment, giving me a once over. Thinner. From too many lunches and dinners left untouched, relegated to slop buckets at meals end. Tanner, rosier. From forgetting to apply sunscreen on too many occasions. Bigger. Older. Wiser. And somehow altered in a way that my parents probably couldn’t quite identify.

While it was a moment of pride for me, looking back on it, I bet the realization of their daughter's continual maturation year after year was bittersweet for my parents.

***

As I left home yesterday morning, bound for Oklahoma City, I nursed Bobby one last time, and put him down for his morning nap. I hugged Mary mid-motion as she ran from one side of our front porch to the next, pretending she was a lion cub in her cage. I caught her kisses as I backed out of the driveway and replayed her farewell message in my head as I drove to the airport. It was a 24 hour trip, but I knew by the time I got home they would have changed just a bit.

Mary will add a couple more words to her arsenal of vocabulary and moves to her interpretative choreography. And she’ll be a little more aware of the distance between today and tomorrow night. Bobby will be taller, rounder, hungrier. And likely, as he teeters on the edge of another milestone, he will be over it by the time I walk through the door this evening.

The other night as I was nursing Bobby to bed, he turned his head as if to tell me that he’d had enough. Okay, little one. Then night night. When he woke up at midnight upset from hunger pangs, I turned to my natural taming device to lull him back to sleep. He turned his head and cried harder. I offered again, but he seemed more frustrated, inconsolable. Finally, I pulled an emergency bottle out of the refrigerator and soothed him back to sleep with it.

Without a back-up bottle in the morning, I coaxed him into nursing, but I could tell he was losing interest. He wanted his bottle. Not me.

I remembered when Mary turned her head to me as well, cried harder, demanded her bottle. She signaled to me that she had grown up, asserting a pearl of independence that I wasn't ready for. She was my little baby, and I wanted her to stay that way. So if like Mary, Bobby figured out how to wean himself prematurely, I at least know that I got to cherish the last moment we spent in our chair, cow to calf.

Everyone more senior tells me that they grow up too fast. I'm too aware. In fact, I'd say the second seems faster than the first. But while I know each day, whether I'm there or not, my babies will grow and change and find a way that is all their own, they will always be my babies. And my love, warmth, and desire to nourish them will always be there. They will never outgrow my embrace.

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. 

The Mommy Blogger

You know that feeling you get after you've been out of the country for too long, after you wait in line at Customs, and after the officer sternly stamps your passport and says, 'welcome home.'? That's the way I felt yesterday night, when our newly painted red door said, 'welcome home' to me after being in what seemed like an alternate universe for three days.

It wasn't so much the multi-colored Salt Lake and or its namesake city which with the desert, craggy mountains, metallic hued water, and modern skyscrapers resembled a future settlement on Mars. It wasn't the surreal moose spotting on my hike yesterday morning. Or the creepy loss of power that plagued the entire resort one afternoon and evening, leaving me to navigate my room en route to bed with a complimentary glow stick.

Rather, it was the people that made my short work trip so foreign. (And I'm not talking about the Mormons.) More than 300 mommy bloggers gathered together for the EVO conference in Park City, Utah this weekend. And I've got to say, I've never encountered a group quite like this.

According to Mashable, there are almost 4 million mom bloggers in the U.S. Even though only about 1% of them make enough money through advertising and sponsorships to label their job as lucrative, there are star examples like the Pioneer Woman and the Bloggess both published and quite rich, who are inspiring more and more young women to take up the profession. The problem is, to be among the rich and famous you need to explore new frontiers, which are few and hard to find this late in the game. You've got to provide content that has not been offered yet. And you've got to be the kind of mom that no one has met or read about before. So in 2012, with most of the maternal material already posted, the aspiring mom blogger seems to get weirder and weirder.

So what exactly does the extreme mommy blogger look like? Here's what I've observed: 

• They bring their children everywhere.
• Some of them are quite literally larger than life. 
• They love their characters. (Who doesn't though?)

• They enjoy a good arts and crafts table and are quick with the exaggerated compliments to someone who is outperforming the rest of the table at foam art. 
• They tend to have one of four different personas: 
• The super chic, super sweet, super skinny Mom who talks to her children in a quiet, high registered voice and pretty much lets them get away with anything.
• The snarky, politically incorrect, overweight Mom who has rewritten the guide to parenting, precluding every chapter with a 'psshah, whatever.' 
• The earthy, hairy, granola eating and feeding, au naturale Mom who carries her child in a papoose and has no qualms about breast feeding in public.
• And the crafty Mom - the one who won't stop talking about felt, hot glue guns, Michael's, and the number of times she's been repinned on Pinterest.

• They roll in clicks. The fat moms hate the skinny moms. The crafters don't get along with the cooks. The conservatives can't stand the liberals. The professional photographers don't like the Instagrammers. But boundaries are crossed when the power goes out.
• They love sharing, or should I say over sharing.  
• In Utah at least, a lot of them don't drink. They pass up the Chardonnay to indulge in progressive dessert parties, stacking up a sampler platter complete with Mickey Mouse rice crispy treat, snow cone, local cheeses, and a McFlurry.
• They are always looking for a new angle on their profession - the winner from this conference was the surrogate Caucasian mom who gave birth to a giant Asian baby. 
• They love giveaways, deals, and steals, and they aren't afraid to share rooms, beds, and couches with other mom bloggers to save a buck.
• And as more women contribute their perspectives on motherhood to online communities, the observations above become more and more exaggerated. 

So after three days saturated in mommy blogger land, I'm glad to be home, sweet home on familiar ground. While I believe pushing the norms can be noble, I'm pretty convinced that when it comes to me, the non-mom blogger, I'll just take the path that has already been tread, but with my own feet, eyes and voice tell a new story and hope that at least my Mom gets a kick out of it.

Lo.

Hot.

It has been an inferno outside. For the past week, we've watched the fiery red color on the weather map expand, burning up the yellow and orange respites that dotted the few remaining municipalities with temperatures below 100 degrees.

Chicago was no exception. Thursday and Friday were nearly unbearable, but shortly after the power walk that Peggy and I took through 95 degree heat on Friday morning, a storm ripped through the city and in about 10 minutes, the temperature had dropped 30 degrees. The drought was over, the air was comfortable, we had survived, hallelujah! 

But Peter and I aren't ones to shy away from hot spots. And if the heat had left Chicago for the weekend, we found it necessary to follow it, drifting southeast, where the temperatures weren't only teetering on 100 degrees, but far exceeding it.

On Friday afternoon, Peter and I flew to DC. After surviving the tundra-like temperatures of the plane, airport, and Metro, we stepped out into the fresh D.C. air and just about lost our breath. It was stifling. Humid. Hot. Hot. HOT! We slowly, step by step made our way down 4th street through Chinatown, wondering how the old Chinese man was roasting Peking duck outside, how the colorful trombone band was dancing, blowing, and sliding on the sunny side of the street, and how the happy hour goers were opting to sit on the balconies of their favorite hot spots. Perhaps the people of DC had learned to live with the heat. To beat it. I obviously had some catching up to do. 

So throughout the weekend, with the help of my cousin Meghan, who after four tours of the Middle East with the Army had definitely learned something about heat resistance; a bunch of Aussies who have adapted to living under the hole of the ozone layer; and a stunning bride who didn't produce a bead of sweat throughout her wedding day, I started to learn how to live in harmony with the heat, and in the end, probably helped make it hotter.

Here are ten things I learned:

1. Hydrate (often.)

 

2. Linger over long meals, and when the restaurant apparently wants you to linger longer, graciously accept when they offer to over hydrate you on the house. 

3. Stay with someone who won't lose power during a big storm.
4. Sweat it out. Go for an 11-mile American history tour run in the morning, but take it slow, run up to see Lincoln, check out the White House vegetable garden, pause on the Key and Memorial Bridges to look at the views. Figure out how to breath in and use the hot air. Finish just as the heat index is registering 100 degrees.

5. Stay with someone who has a sweet roof top pool with views of the Capitol and Washington Monument. Get in said pool as frequently as possible.

6. Turn off your cell phone (it's a rule) and go to an exclusive party at the Metropolitan Club - one of the hottest destinations in town which was perfectly air conditioned.

7. Witness the beautiful bride, who quite literally looked like Cinderella, and her Calvin Klein clad prince charming get married and seal it with a kiss. Keep cool and composed during the Our Father because you went to an Episcopalian grade school and had learned the alternative ended to the Lord's prayer. 

9. At the reception, relax first, ease into the evening, sit back and listen to some of the coolest, most well-written, witty, warm, and emotional speeches I've ever heard at a wedding.  

9. Power yourself with beef medallions and cake. Then keep the temperatures rising on the dance floor. But try not to be the sweaty girl in the yellow dress. Oh, that was me.

10. Find the shortest mass in town. Pray that it cools down.

By the time we were flying back to Chicago, I felt like a champion - like I had conquered the heat. Really, it's not that hard - you just need to schedule an amazing weekend, in a great city, with some really fun people. Thank you Meghan, Molly and Dav for making it happen.

Lo.