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. 

My Two Weeks

In the Fall of 2002, my junior year of college, I took the pursuit of Art History to Rome. As a Varsity Athlete, my collegiate sojourn abroad was a little more problematic than others; that is, there was a high probability that while away, I would lose my starting spot to some up and comer, leaving me benched upon my return. Whatever. I decided to gamble. I could smell the focaccia, gelato, and Italian leather from South Bend. Go ahead, duke it out on the field; I was going shopping. Internationally. And I was never coming back. 

I had packed my lacrosse stick, a pocket sized training regimen, and the intention of staying in shape, which I took to the smelly, spandex ridden Italian gym promptly after unpacking. But a couple weeks into my love affair with Europe, I traded in sprints for long leisurely runs that stretched from Brunelleschi's arms to Constantine's feet. I translated weight lifting into carrying fresh vegetables home from the market. I put away my shot guns and took out Barolos and Chiantis. I found a host of unathletic friends who taught me to laugh in new ways. And I loved every second of it. 

When November turned to December, I started to dread by return home. Never was suddenly now, and I wanted to avoid it at all costs.

After the holidays, I walked onto the turf for the first time in six months. A two hour practice, weight lifting session, and timed sprints later, I crawled off the field in tears and called home. I told my Dad that I was quitting. Then and there. I wasn't the same person anymore; I had matured; out of this and into something else. My Dad digested my garbled sentences, told me to give it two weeks, then passed the desperate message onto my brother. In so many words, my younger sibling told me I was idiot; he told me to get down off my four inch stiletto pedestal and back on the field. 

I told myself I was doing it for them. So I would go back tomorrow. And the next day. The first couple weeks were tough. Our first game that season, when I warmed the bench after working so hard for my starting position the year before was even tougher. My body ached and my spirit was bruised. But bit by bit, I regained lost ground, won back my spot on the field, and found a rhythm and balance to my experience at Notre Dame that fit. I was still able to keep the identity that I had uncovered in Rome while riotously laughing in the locker room. In the end, I think I was a better student and a better lacrosse player, because I did both to the fullest. And to this day, I thank my Dad and brother for telling me to stick it out.  

***

Just about two years ago, I dropped Mary off at day care for the first time, and drove to work as wells of tears fell from my eyes and soaked the steering wheel. They were sad tears - like really sad tears. It was an uncontrollable pain that I had never felt. The little baby that needs you, her mom, so much is suddenly separated from you for eight or nine hours a day, and you have no real oversight over her care from minute to minute. I could sense her fear, hear her cries, feel her hunger from miles away, and I hated not being able to comfort her. Three days in a row my boss sent me home at noon. The puddles of tears around my desk were starting to flood the office. And she knew I needed a lifeboat.

Each night, that first week back to work, I cried as I nursed Mary to sleep. I looked up at Peter with the most pathetic pout and asked how we could make it if I stayed home instead of working. We ran some numbers. We could make some concessions if that's really what I wanted to do. But just like my Dad and brother, he told me to give it two weeks. 

Day by day, as Mary settled into her new routine, and as I settled into mine, life got easier and I was finally able to come up for air and dry my eyes. Mary seemed happy in her day care classroom. My mind was ecstatic to be exercising again. And our house knew nothing but love and joy when everyone was reunited under one roof at the end of the day.

Last week, I thought back on previous returns. And last Tuesday morning, I was prepared for tears. But they didn't fall. I went back to work almost ceremoniously. I waved goodbye to the kids as they were enveloped in love by our Mary Poppins, and drove to the office with a competitive charge pulsing through my body. I was ready to get back on the playing field, to help turn the business around, to take my starting position, and to kick Taco Bell's ass. 

The past two weeks at work, despite the tenuous business environment, have been wonderful. (My colleagues are likely rolling their eyes.) And with each passing day, I confirmed something about myself. I'm a better mom as a working mom. And I'm a better employee because I'm a mother. I realized, more than ever, that I need the kind of balance in my life that comes from two intense regimens. There's no denying that there are days and weeks when it's really tough. Generally, I'm always exhausted. And there are certainly sacrifices that we, as a family, have to make. But honestly, everyone seems happier choosing their own adventure during the day, then coming home to tell their unique tales around the dinner table. 

So I'm giving working moms the same advise I was given by working dads in the past. Give it two weeks. Or a little more, if you are still on the fence. Don't quit until you're absolutely sure that you can't stop the tears. Don't quit until you find a childcare solution that really works for you and your family. And don't quit until you've found a job that gives you the balance you need as a Mom. We need more Mothers in the workforce, working their ways to the top. You earned that spot after all. Don't let the pompous Freshman take it from you.

And let me just tell you; the weekends (oh the weekends); having work weeks, makes quitting time on Friday so. much. sweeter. 

                 

Lo. 

The Best Job Ever

In sixth grade, I was on a mission to replicate Au Bon Pain's tuna salad. They had perfected the recipe in my mind; light on the mayonnaise, shaved carrot, seasoned with a hint of lemon; and I was convinced, armed with a can of Chicken of the Sea, I could bring it home. By the third trimester of that school year, I believe my version rivaled theirs, and buying a better baguette from Breadworks was my trump card.

That Spring, as I was mixing up yet another batch, I asked my Mom if she wanted me to make her a sandwich as well. She nodded as she told the school secretary, Mrs. Feeley, that I wouldn't be coming in today. Instead, I would be shadowing her, participating in Take Your Daughter to Work Day. I was so excited; not only to miss school, but to ride next to the Road Warrior all day, solving the mystery of what makes her power suits so powerful.

After dropping the kids off at school, my Mom and I used the car phone (novel technology in 1994) to check in with the office. Through a sniffily nose, her secretary Chris said everything was quiet so far. We hung up, then made our way to Mount Pleasant, a small coal mining town about an hour outside of Pittsburgh. We had one mission today: take a deposition. It was a term, like asbestos, toxic torts and dictation, that I had heard a thousand times around the dinner table, but like everything my Mom, esquire, did, I had a (very) limited understanding of what the legalese meant.

During my day on the job with my Mom, I learned that a deposition happens outside of a court room, that lawyers ask a lot of questions, that small towns have comically gigantic books where they record all that has gone on in their sleepy history, and that people from Mt. Pleasant speak a mean Yinzer. The thing I remember most though, was sitting side by side in my Mom's maroon Buick Park Avenue eating tuna salad sandwiches after the deposition was over. There in the car, my Mom broke out of her litigator tone, laughed with me about the size of the massive ledger, called Grandma to give her the play by play, and complimented me on a sandwich well made. Sure, she was one of the top lawyers in Western Pennsylvania, but in that moment I could tell her favorite job was being my Mom.

Despite not digesting the finer points of litigation, I learned a lot on Take Your Daughter to Work Day. Namely, that I wanted to be just like my Mom when I grew up. I wanted to have a career, and a car phone, and silk blouses tucked into tailored pant suits. More importantly, I wanted a family that I was working to support. I knew, judging from the occasional angst my Mom directed toward the PTA Moms, it would be a challenging pursuit, but I couldn't imagine doing it any other way.

After all, there was something more magical about my Mom pulling up in Sewickley to watch me play Field Hockey, or seeing her smiling face in a pew at Chapel or opening the lunch she had packed for me, labeled with her stylized handwriting. I knew how busy she was and how stressful her job could be, but my brother, sister and I always came first. And in her way, she took us to work every day - framed and arranged on her desk, as dividends of her pay checks that made private educations, vacations, dance classes, piano lessons, ski school and Au Bon Pain lunches possible, and in her thoughts and prayers as she road the interstates from Pittsburgh to Wheeling, West Virginia.

My mom taught me that motherhood is the best job of all. That family always comes first. And that paychecks are much better spent on the people that you love. As I head back to work on Tuesday, I will keep my Mom's example close, and my family closer.

To my Mom, on her special day, thank you for loving me so much and working so hard for me.

To my husband, on my special day, thank you for making me a mommy two times over. I am so (SO) blessed.

To SGS, thank you for hosting such a lovely, bubbly celebration at the Chicago Yacht Club today.

And to all the other mommies in my life, thank you for passing along your tips of the trade. Your support over the past two years has been invaluable.   

  

 

No doubt about it. I have the best job ever. 

Lo.