Only A Number

On Saturday Night, the extended family gathered around a big table at the Grille to celebrate Grandma Shirley's birthday. As she blew out the candle on her gold brick sundae, she offered some sage advice to the chatty group surrounding her.

She said, 'there's no use lying about your age. When I graduated from high school in 1944, I knew people could look me up. So then and there I owned up to being 18 and I wasn't going back. Regardless, age is only a number. [She paused.] You and you and you can all get older, but I won't.'

God, I love her.

For this elite member of the Greatest Generation, age truly is a mere figure. Earlier that morning she had been evaluating the wind, rain and waves coming into Belmont Harbor, ultimately concluding that her crew should take the Peggy O out for a soggy Harbor cruise. Reflecting on the outing, she told me 'it was great; it showed that we don't just boat on perfect summer days.' (I do.)

At 89, she does Yoga every day and can handle my 22 pound 7-month old. She always has the hair and nails to match her perfectly polished ensemble. She texts and I swear is just short of tweeting. She'll raise you a book recommendation and match you opinion for opinion in a political debate. She tried and ruled out your next health craze 60 years ago; if you ask she'll tell you what works. No matter what life hands her, she survives with a radiant smile. And the only thing she loves more than a great party are the family members that saved the date to be there.

While according to Shirley, the definition of age is relative at best, there is something about the years of life experience racked up that should be taken into account when celebrating another of milestone. 

Take the number of branches and leaves that now stem from the Nebraskan soil that sprouted a sweet little Irish girl in 1926. 

Which roughly translates into the number of people who RSVP yes to your party. 

Or that you can't just serve any old thing at dinner; a seasoned veteran knows what to order and how to eat well ...  

... all while managing that trim figure. 

When the next generation of frenzied explorers needs to settle down, 89 years translates into an evolved grace and care that has an undeniable calming effect on the room.  

   
A lifetime of practice means not sweating, but rather appreciating the small stuff. And knowing which battles to pick, while laughing off the others.
 
After nearly nine decades, everyone knows and respects your name. They can't help adding the words super, great and grand to it.

And one party isn't enough. You need two, three and sometimes four of them.

After a weekend dedicated to celebrating this legendary lady, I headed back to work on Monday. Several fast paced days and too many restless nights followed. When I looked into the mirror yesterday morning, I noticed several lines around my eyes growing more pronounced. After counting up the number of years I've racked up and the number of leaves on my tree, I figured I had earned these stripes. But in thinking about SGS's wise words last weekend, I found myself questioning if I was aging as gracefully. Was I the you, getting older while SGS refuses?

There's no doubt, I'm no longer the 20-something girl with the 20-something perspective that I was. And I'm certainly in a stage of life that can gray hairs and etch lines. But I'm okay with it. And I think according to Shirley, that's the first step.

Hey world, I'm 33! But with a house full of babies, most days I'm 33 going on three. The days are long, the nights are short, and I'm doing more than I ever did as a teen, or collegiate or young professional. (Honestly, I question what I was doing with all my time back then?) But these are great years and ultimately I believe the scars from them will just be reminders of how sweet they were.

Happy birthday Gigi! Thank you for helping to make life so super for all of us.

Lo.

Somebody

I grew up with a Mom and Dad who were somebodies. Big wigs. Court champions. Life savers. Artisan bread winners. And I had a dream of reaching their ranks; basking in my own professional prowess.

As an enterprising youngster propped up by my Dad's proclamation that I'd be successful at whatever I decided to do, I felt that I was well on my way. I dabbled in the homemade greeting card business. I up sold my car washing capabilities. Playing restaurant was no game; there was always a bill and suggested tip for the only meal on the menu I could make. From an early age, I knew how to work. And I envisioned my entrepreneurial experiences adding up to something substantial someday. I wasn't going to be anybody. I was going to be somebody.

***

Last week, my right eye started bothering me. After eight hours staring at my computer screen, it was blood shot, dry, and headache inducing A couple drops and a night of firm shut eye later, it was still irritated so I went to see a doctor.

I had never been to an eye specialist before, so I wondered if he would find anything that I hadn't already detected. Vision checked out. Coloring was fine. But yeah, there was something on my eye. It was an ulcer. And I needed to take steroid drops to make it go away. Guarantee baby #2 will be bigger than Mary's slight 5 pound birth frame.

Toward the end of the exam and around the time I had finished explaining my current occupation as Burger Girl, he saw something else in me.

'So you're somebody,' he said.

I perked up at the classification and the novelty of it in my life. My ears rang with pride. Sure, I left out the layers of leadership above me making the real decisions, but I had done it. Even to a physician, I had escalated to a person of interest.

The next day, still high on my somebody status, Mary and I pulled up to her great grandmother's house to take some fall photos. And as always, I was humbled in her presence.

'Gigi,' Mary said.

She welcomed us with her warm smile and sweet embrace. She showed Mary her bronze bull in the kitchen and her doll from Guatemala. She had cookies shaped like pumpkins all in a row, waiting for her little loved ones. Dozens of poses, snap shots and outtakes later, she was still smiling and laughing, surrounded by her bevvy of beautiful great grand children.

When our little fall photo shoot was over, she offered to take all of her grands and great grands to the most magical place in the Western Suburbs - McDonald's. 'Gigi,' Mary said again with a glow. Yep, honey, that's Super Great Grandma Shirley, SGGS.  

It made me think of the way that Mary says, Mommy. When she points to my car in the drive-way. When she introduces me to her friends on the block. When she tells me to sit right there, next to her. When she needs a hug in the middle of the night. To Mary, I'm love, comfort, and care. I'm silliness and songs; explorations and adventures. Colors, happy ghosts, and chalk. I'm somebody, no matter what rung of the corporate ladder I'm able to reach. 

You're only somebody if you're somebody to someone else. And when I was snapping SGS' photo last weekend, I stopped and said, now that is somebody. 

Lo. 

Operation

A wise old minister who laughed all the way to the bank once said, 'all you really need to know, you learned in kindergarten.'

While I picked up a few more of life's lessons in the elementary, high school, and collegiate stages of my education that followed the eight sweet months that my classmates and I spent in two temporary trailers parked outside of my under construction school; I do believe that Robert Fulghum was on to something. Figuring out how to work and play in this world is based on simple truths and intuitive building blocks.

This week, inspired by Minister Fulghum's thesis, I started to develop my own philosophical musing. That is, everything I need to know about motherhood, I learned from a box set of Milton Bradley board games.

Take Operation. This classic electrical game gave me insight and ample practice leading up to the strategic, careful, and quiet removal of boogers from Mary's nose with this little suction bulb. The mere brush of the rim of her nostrils creates a cry far worse than Operation's heart attack inducing buzzer.

Mastering Memory has made finding the match to the lone sock in Mary's drawer much easier. Under the dining room table. Nope, that's the binky. In the car. Yes. Match.

I always thought that collecting presents for each child you had in the game of Life was crazy. Seriously, $1,000 per kid? Turns out their estimation wasn't so far afield. And those presents are essential if you assume, contrary to the wise minister's postulation, that an education beyond Kindergarten is necessary.

Five nights in a row without a decent night sleep feels like that fifth peg hitting and sinking your Battleship. However, night six - the night she sleeps for 14 hours straight - feels like you just took a ride up the tallest ladder, positioning you a couple blocks away from winning Chutes and Ladders.

Connect 4 is more like collect four as a Mom. My whole goal in the day is to collect four six-ounce containers of milk, line em up in the fridge, and present them to Day Care the next morning. Score for the only Mom in Day Care still exclusively breastfeeding her baby.  

Feeding is kind of like Hungry Hungry Hippo. Each month the baby seems to eat more and more and faster and faster, and if you can't keep up, you are bound to hear in so many cries, 'now I'm angry.'

But for all this maternal marginalization, the one thing that has slipped through the cracks, proving my lackluster hypothesis wrong, are those days and nights when baby is sick. Not even the longest game of Monopoly against the most stubborn hoarder of Boardwalk can prepare you for the stress and fatigue that awaits.

Mary has had a high fever for more than 36 hours now. I have been this close to driving to the emergency room twice. I've used my lifeline, my Dad, more than my allotment. And Mary's pediatrician will definitely be getting a unwell visit today.

There's nothing I want more than to get Mary safely to the healthy, happy home tower in the game of Sorry. Having her out in the middle of the board with another piece ready to pick her off is too much to handle at times. And I can't think of a game or a lesson I learned in Kindergarten to make her feel better.

Something my Grandma always said eases the pain a bit.
"This too shall pass."
I'm waiting. And hoping and praying. But I'm an impatient player. And I really want this fever's turn to be over.  

Lo.

Better with Age

I had a couple whopper pimples on my wedding day: like one on my chin, one on my cheek, and one that was subterranean, nesting until it could properly grace me with its presence when we stepped off the plane in Nice to start our honeymoon.

The photos that I carefully selected to be displayed in my house and in others don't capture the whole story - a great make-up artist, good lighting, and a killer photographer helped the situation too - so I had all but forgotten about the blemishes. That is until Peter and I in a moment of nostalgia this week went through the complete wedding reel to reminisce about a perfect day (minus a pimple or two.)

Seeing a couple shots where my skin looked a little like Jessica Simpson's before pictures in her Proactiv commercial, I remembered something I said on my wedding day. I shrugged and told myself, 'well it's probably better this way. So many brides look back and think that's the best they've ever looked and they're never going to look like that again. I on the other hand am glad there is room for improvement.'

***

Something about having a baby, the invasion of weird hormones, and a general lack of time leading to a make-up free existence has done wonders for my skin. And last night, as I looked in the mirror and threw my hair into a ponytail, getting reading to go to Grandma Shirley's birthday party, I had a little revelation. Maybe, despite all that we're told, women do get better with age.

A couple hours later, my theory became a conviction. Last night, I hung out with one of the most beautiful people I know. Her hair and nails are always done, she's always dressed to impress, and although she's just about 5 foot 1, there's no one that stands taller. Mostly though, the thing that makes her so radiant is her smile - a grin that captures 87 years of happiness each time it's shared with another person.

In that smile are the plains of Nebraska, the sun of Florida, and the snowfalls of Chicago; there are boat rides, and swims, and namastes; there are 24 trips to Paris and a world tour; there is an irreplaceable husband, three wonderful children, five grandchildren, and five more great grandchildren; there are thousands of loads of perfectly laundered laundry and hundreds of batches of cookies; there are all the patients and all her kids, nursed back to health; there is loss and there is pain, but there is the courage to always persevere; there is faith and an undying love for her family, friends, and life.  

That is beauty. And I guarantee next year, SGS's radiance will shine even brighter. A couple pimples down and I'm hoping I'm on my way to be the same kind of 87-year old when I grow up.

Happy birthday Super Grandma Shirley.

Lo.

My Generation

In between the 12:00 - 2:00 and 6:00 - 8:00 PM viewings on Wednesday, Peter and I drove back into the city to take Mary to the pool for the first time. She's been growing immensely recently and I needed to see her in the suit that finally fit. (Turns out Mary wasn't a fan of the chilly baby pool, but she did like posing poolside, much like her Mom used to do.)

Growing up, I never would have dreamed of going back and forth from Pittsburgh to Peter's Township like that. A trip from our house on Bartlett Street to my grandparents' in McMurray seemed like an eternity as a child. In fact, we were in my Mom's Olds 98 long enough that there was bound to be a crossing of lines in the back seat, an altercation, and the transition from tamed hair to messy, which in turn merited a stern scolding and the need for my Mom's little pink brush.

I never knew its origins, but I can't remember a time when that brush didn't exist. Measuring no more than five inches, carrying a small tuft of black bristles, strong enough to care for a hairsprayed updo and gentle enough to part a baby's soft locks, and enforcing its visibility with hot pink coloring, it was the staple of my mom's purse. Whatever bag she carried, the little pink brush was bound to be there.

As we would turn off Washington Road, the sign that we were almost at Grandma and Grandpa's house, my Mom would open up her purse, take out pink and tell each of us to brush our hair. A couple strokes later, we were polished and ready for the Barry party du jour, prepared to quickly get our hair messed up again. 

A couple months ago, my Mom lost her 40+ year-old brush. I could tell how sad she was when she told me, and I couldn't help but feel the same way. In its lifetime it saw a myriad of my mom's handbags, the inside of court rooms, the bathrooms of the finest restaurants, planes, trains, bikes, boats and automobiles, it detangled countless knots, it helped raise my brother, sister and I, and it was a tireless companion to my mother.

The loss of this iconic tool - a symbol of the relationship my mom shared with her children - seemed to foreshadow a transition in my life - that from child to adult. And the past couple days, with the loss of my last surviving grandparent, her funeral and burial, and the celebration of her beautiful life, I feel like that transition was sealed. I am no longer the child. Instead, now I'm the brush bearer, or in my case, the comb carrier. And it feels weird. A little sad, a little scary, but exciting at the same time.

This generational transition didn't seem to be isolated to me. There seemed to be a comprehensive shift in my family as my grandma passed from this life to the next. Suddenly, my generation had more weight to carry, more music to make, air time to fill, and jokes to crack.

 

The older generation had more cookies to bake, hugs to dish out, photos to pass around, stories to remember, and wisdom to share.

And the newest generation had fresh faces to drip on, clean hands to soil, and straight parts to mess up.

Regardless, whatever our new roles, just as Grandma and Grandpa did, we will remain a family that stays together - laughing, loving, and living for each other.

And in both heaven and here on Earth, there will always be dancing.

 Lo.

A Bedtime Story

Sometimes, after a busy day it's tough to fall asleep. After helping daddy make a brew for the first time, giving mommy a hand with brunch, putting on extra good behavior at Mass, meeting new friends, gardening, grilling, and giving everyone so much to smile about, it can be hard to close those little eyes and wait till the sun comes up to resume the fun.

That's when story time can be helpful - a perfect transition from wakefulness to sweet dreams. With the turn of a couple pages a princess and her pea, an engine that could, Horton and his Who, or a ladder to the moon can lull little ones to sleep.

While our library is stocked, tonight I won't be reaching for a book. Tonight, Mary's bedtime story is in my head.

Mary.

As much as you are my daughter. And as much as you are daddy's little girl. You belong to so many more people. Your lineage of love goes on for generations. To your Nana and to your Mimi. To your German Opas. All the way back to your great grandparents and even farther than that.

Today, we said goodbye to a very special part of you. Today, your Great Grandma Barry closed her eyes for the last time and drifted past sleep into a world more beautiful than anything you can imagine. There, she is happily dusting powdered sugar on her nut rolls in God's kitchen while she looks out her window at the love of her life tending the asparagus in God's garden.

I wish you could have met her. You would have loved her as much as I do. But just because you won't get to feel her hugs and squeezes, you will always know her.

You will know her in the framed wall paper in our sun room. It used to hang in her second floor bathroom. And it used to make her laugh and laugh.

You will know her in the rolling pin that mommy uses and the beef birds that mommy makes.

You will know her when mommy tickles your arm and sings you Irish lullabies.

You will know her in the words we use in our house - code words that your classmates won't understand. A fat person is a chab. A fart is a fritzer. Cheers is jivjeli.

You will know her by looking into my eyes - there, you will see hers as well.

You will know her in Nana's kindness, in her thoughtfulness and care.

You will know her in Aunt Dee Dee's Hungarian pastries, in Aunt Amy's stuffed cabbage, and in all the goodness that comes out of Aunt Joyce's big yellow bowl.

You will know her in Uncle Mike's sense of humor and his booming laughter.

You will know her in Aunt Meg's ability to fiesta and in Aunt Kay's sense of style.

You will know her in Aunt Beth's impromptu operatic performances.

When you see all your cousins and watch our family grow and grow, you will know her in the values that we all share. 

Most of all, you will know her in your name. Mary - her favorite woman. The one who she prayed to every day. The one who we saw at Mass today. And the one who is helping her sleep peacefully tonight.

Goodnight Mary.

Goodnight Grandma.

  Lo.