From Little Rock with Love

Last week, I broke the news to my husband. I needed to start traveling for work again; the first trip was on Thursday; destination: Little Rock, Arkansas.

Bummer, he said. That's our anniversary. 

My mind had been moving so fast at work and at home, that I had forgotten to line up the dates. I frowned and got a little teary eyed with disappointment.

Oh. no. 

I reassured him (and myself) that it was an in and out thing; that I would be back by 8:00 PM; and that we would end the day the way we had started our wedding celebration; with a champagne toast.

That Thursday, I woke up bright and early to squeeze in a run before my flight to the land of Bill and Hillary. Afterward, in an effort to ensure Bobby had enough milk for the day, I pumped in the kitchen as Peter descended the stairs to wish me a happy anniversary. Given my bovine appearance, thinking back on how glamorous I looked four years ago, I felt bad. Sorry, honey.

The kids woke up shortly after, right before I needed to head to the airport. Ten minutes of flurried chaos ensued. I gave an abrupt goodbye to everyone in the house. And sped as fast as any parked car on a Chicago Interstate could to O'Hare.

In the never-ending security line, I thought back on the morning spent with my girls, getting my hair curled, make up done, and dress zipped, buttoned, and clasped. I thought about my Dad looping his arm around mine, escorting me down the aisle, and handing me off to my Prince. I thought about all the people in the congregation, enveloping us in their love, making our day feel a little more like heaven.

35,000 feet in the air, I thought about drinking Veuve in Mellon Park, the ballroom doors of the Fairmont opening for us, icing, chocolate, more champagne, and the best dance party the Knot.com failed to document.

Driving through Clinton-ville to Conway, Arkansas, I thought about our European escape; the decadence of Monte Carlo, the views from Eze, the posh beaches and Picassos of Antibes, the dazzling lights of Paris, yachts, water skies, lavender, triple creams, saucissons, strawberries and even more champagne shared with my favorite travel partner.

Throughout my meeting, my mind wandered to the walls, stairs, and doorways of the houses we have owned.  I thought about the delicious dinners and corresponding dialogue we've shared; from rigorous to endearing. I thought about delivery rooms, nurseries, and the milestones that have punctuated the little lives we've made. I thought about tears, hugs, stress and laughter.

I thought about how lucky I was to have stumbled into a classroom, then a chapel, then a bar, and then a boat with the person who undeniably was the match for me.

As I drove back to the airport that evening, then waited for the gate agent to assign my seat, I thought about the sound our flutes would make as they sounded our humble, yet bubbly celebration. However, my mind flew back to reality when United said ...

We're oversold. Looking for volunteers. $250 travel voucher. Come see me. 

Crap. I had no seat and there is no room left. More and more and more business men getting on. Consultant after consultant. Damn consultants. No volunteers. Crap. Crap. Stronger words.

That's everyone. Sorry, honey. This was the fifth flight today that was oversold. For future reference, you should never book a ticket that doesn't have a guaranteed seat. 

Arguing didn't even register in my mind, I went straight for tears. Pitiful, I'm missing my wedding anniversary, I'm the food source for my seven-month-old, I'm hormonal and tired tears. I was hustled to American. They were oversold too. I was hustled back to United. They couldn't even get me out on Friday. I was urged to return to American. I could get out at 9:00 AM on Friday. The tears showed no signs of withdrawal. I conceded my ability to ever show my face in Little Rock again. (Sorry, boss, next trip's for you.) As the gate agent tried to find me a room at the Economy Inn, I heard a last call for American Flight get-me-out-of-here at Gate 3. Robert so-and-so had one minute before the gate was closing. I ditched United and sprinted down the terminal to beat Robert to the punch, and somehow, miraculously, found myself in seat 16A, going home to see my hubby on our anniversary.

My romantic idea of surprising Peter turned into him thinking I was a burglar, Mary screaming, and me putting her back to sleep. By the time I made it to bed, Peter was nodding off and I couldn't wait to close my eyes as well. There was a kiss goodnight, but no champagne.

A day later, en route to the place that started it all for us, we laughed about my adventures in Arkansas as Mary and Bobby were lulled to sleep by the holiday weekend commuters. In a way, I wasn't phased by our lack of formal celebration. Thanks to the grandparents, there would be a night out and a babysitter in our near future. I was just thankful to be in the same state, in the same car, on the same page of life as the love of my life, looking forward to a long holiday weekend. Looking forward to sharing a lifetime more of frameable memories that I can browse through on future flights home.

Lo. 

Who's That Girl

Like any proud bride, I have several wedding portraits displayed around my house. They are beautiful moments frozen in time - memories of love, lights, cameras and glamour.

Looking at them, I can feel the butterflies and the tears that I couldn't prevent as I walked down the aisle. I can see the loving looks, and feel the hugs and kisses. I can hear the first and last dances as the band played until the wee hours of the morning. I can taste the champagne and the icing on the cake. I can smell the flowers and my perfume. I can feel the sun (and the heat) as we took one last picture at Mellon Park. I can see the ballroom doors opening and the most opulent gift from my hardworking parents unveiled. I can see my ever-growing family. All my friends. The dress. The hair. The makeup. Love, perfectly posed as Purvis directed, toasted with expensive champagne.

Mary is in a phase where she loves identifying who or what is in a picture. I point. She tells me what she sees.
Meow. Meow.
Dog.
Mooo.
Nana.
Apo.
(Opa, honey.)
Mimi.
Oh! Oh! Yaya.
(Lyla, close enough.)
TRUCK!
BUS!
TRAIN!
Daddy.
And ...
And ...
And who's that, Mary?
Who's that girl?

That's where she goes blank. That's when she wants to go downstairs and color again. She is stumped and thus the name game is over.
That's Mommy, honey. Mommy.
She gives me a once over. ''Mommy,' she says as she points to me. She looks at the picture again and thinks, riiiiight. I try not to take offense, but I can't help but think, do I look so different?

Maybe it's because she can't imagine my baby bump or baby boobs fitting into Vera Wang.
Maybe it's because she's never seen my last single girl shoes.
Maybe it's because my hair is never down, and certainly never looks as good as it did on that day.
Maybe it's because she's not wriggling her way in between Mommy's and Daddy's arms.
Or maybe it's because she sees Daddy's queen as a little less dressed up. And the love that her Mom and Dad share every day as something less formal - more down to earth. Something that is celebrated less royally, and committed to more quietly.

Three years later, a baby and a half later, I still look back on September 3, the days leading up to it, and the glamorous honeymoon that followed, as best evers. I look at our pictures as if they can't be topped. And I wonder if I will ever look quite that good again.

Maybe. Maybe not. But the thing is, the every day 'I dos' - the offerings, thank yous, embraces, jokes, and I love yous, squeezed in between early mornings, busy work days, and those dreaded cries in the middle of the night, are sometimes more beautiful than couture. And I know that when Mary looks close enough, she'll recognize the smile of the girl in the picture. It's the same one that Daddy's given Mommy each day he has shared with her.

Lo.

Annivirusy

While I mentally prepared myself for the arrival of Mary, I planned for sleepless nights and fussy days; I calculated the approximate number of hours dedicated to eating and pooping; I said goodbye to my skinny jeans and hello to a whole new world of underwear; I failed to prepare for one thing. That is, the plethora of viruses and bacteria that would be entering my house, through the cutest little carrier of course. And I forgot to plan for death by day-care born disease becoming Mommy. And Daddy.

***

The other day, my mother-in-law asked me what a second anniversary was associated with. Like the first was paper ... what is the second? I had no clue and told her I would get back to her once I figured it out myself.

On Friday, around 2:30 PM, I got the answer. Our second anniversary, was that of the Rotavirus. It would be our annivirusy to put a pithy spin on it. And no amount of cotton balls could swab up the mess that was about to ensue.

Our big Labor Day weekend plans - a weekend we've always done so well: from first dates, to our engagement, to our wedding - were sidelined, just like Johnny Football, for a weekend of house arrest, alternating naps, and a very intense, highly discouraged cleansing diet called attack of the Rotavirus.  

I've got to say though, you don't know true love until you've been through it all together; through the noises and smells, aches and the pains, moans and groans. And you don't know true romance until you can cuddle up next to your partner in pestilence and ask, 'it is over yet?'

While we will likely be having yet another slice of toast with peanut butter for our celebratory dinner tonight, the true champion of our second anniversary, is our little carrier. Who beat the bug with one awesome immunization and all weekend long, landed on top.

Happy anniversary to the love of my life, who I will always love in sickness and in health.

Lo.

Measuring a Year

Whenever I came home from Calvary Camp in the summer, I felt a league ahead of the rest of my class - like I had learned a new skill, story or song that was bound to make me cooler than the average sixth grader. I could braid leather into a series of bracelets; I was equipped with a whole new set of Four Square rules; I had picked up insider knowledge that couldn't leave the circle of trust at Devotions; I knew all the lyrics to Fluffhead before my class even figured out who Phish was. And in eighth grade, I returned to school with a slew of novel melodies - with words and harmonies to a soundtrack imprinted on my mind. That summer the musical Rent permanently occupied the airwaves at Camp and female campers from Cabins 11 to 20 belted out every last word.

I was among the group that hadn't actually seen the hit musical yet - who only knew the foggy details of the plot. But it didn't stop me from singing along and figuring out exactly how many minutes are in a year.

During freshman year of high school, I finally got to see the show when it came to town with the Broadway Series. I was so excited to pair visuals with the lyrics. Dressed in Laura Ashley's finest, I cozied up in my seat at the Benedum, popped a couple Junior Mints in my mouth and anxiously anticipated the curtain rising.  

It came up. And suddenly, the Baroque hall was converted into a rock concert. It was loud (too loud.) Grungy. Bright and then dark. Mean. Crude. And shocking. So shocking. I didn't get the jokes. I didn't like the costumes. And I hated the absence of glamor. All the things that I loved about coming to the theater with my family - the beautiful chorus girls, controlled vibratos, plastered smiles, high kicks, tap dance cadences, and happy endings were absent. It was a complete departure from what I was used to. I didn't like it. I didn't get it.

Now, 15 years older and at the wise age of 30, I think I would have a new found appreciation for the show and its characters. A year deep in my marriage, I certainly have a renewed affinity for the musical's signature song, Seasons of Love. In my cabin at Calvary and at 15, it was the highlight of the show - it was the soft, simple, non-confusing part. At 30, it just became the aha! moment behind defining a year that flew by.

It's been more than 525,600 minutes since I walked down the aisle to say, 'I do.' More than 525,600 minutes since we posed for pictures, popped the bubbly, and partied until the wee hours of the morning. More than 525,600 minutes since I honeymooned, moved in, and started my life with Peter. And I don't know how to capture it - describe it - measure it. 

In fish caught, in dinners, in brews, in racks of ribs?

In miles run, in laps swum, in blocks walked, in rifle shots?

In flights, in cruises, in car trips, or in bike rides?

In ripe tomatoes, in flower beds, in rooms decorated, in boxes unpacked?

In parties, in cocktail dresses, in champagne toasts, in caviar dreams? 

In words written, aquarium cleanings, records played, or photos snapped?

In touchdowns, in home runs, in winning goals, or in victories?

In presents wrapped, in ribbons untied, in surprises created, in joys received?

In deals made, in races won, in milestones, in high fives?

In hugs, in kisses, in tears wiped away, in laughs? 

Whatever the measure, it's not in perfect, choreographed minutes, hours, or days. It's in imperfections, new harmonies, goofy moments, and the beauty of two real people, making life a lot more fun for each other. 

This past weekend, Peter and I celebrated our first anniversary with friends, family, and the city of Pittsburgh. And we looked back on an amazing year that was undeniably filled with seasons of love.

 Lo.