Buzzed and Busted

The first time I experienced the state of inebriation was senior year in high school. It was with Champagne. (Smart girl.) And it was after my senior prom.

It was the year 2000; the new Millennium. I had lost a couple pounds, I had the dress (an ombre slip number from Saks), THE shoes (four inch Stuart Weitzman rhinestone studded strappy sandals), a simple swept up do, a date (and remember, I went to an all-girls school so never a given), and some new moves inspired by TRL's latest line up.  

My girlfriends and our dates (a combination of male Calvary Campers and Central lacrosse players) gathered at my parents house for a pre-party photo shoot. We awkwardly made conversation with our respective matches while sizing up the opportunity to switch with someone later on. The event was at the recently renovated Holiday Inn in Oakland. I remember eating a couple pieces of honeydew for dinner and dancing as much as I could. 

Afterward, we went to Rebecca's house in Edgewood. My best friend boasted a big old house, a trampoline, lenient parents, and an exclusive guest list. There was champagne, beer, and cute boys. To date, it was one of the best parties I've ever been to. 

I don't remember how much I drank that night - maybe two or three glasses of champagne, followed by a beer. I also played some beer pong, but made my partners drink most of the losing cups. Regardless, it was enough to add a little haze, build my confidence, giggle (and giggle and giggle), flirt with the two boys at the top of Central's pecking order and kiss one of them. It was a night straight out of Can't Hardly Wait; and I was a pivotal character in it. 

The next morning, my Mom picked me up, likely alarmed at the disheveled household and boys passed out on couches and area rugs around the living room. As I gathered my things, and pounded a couple glasses of water, she pummeled Rebecca's Mom with questions about the past twelve hours. 

On the ride home, I told my Mom all about my fairy tale prom. The champagne fizz was still pulsing through my veins; I felt like I was glowing, or at least my blood shot eyes were. My Mom seemed enthused. That's great, and what about this? And what about that? I relayed all the stories, except the parts that involved wine glasses and beer cans.  

'So,' my Mom continued, 'did you get to drink a little champagne last night?' 

'What? ... Huh? ... No ... definitely not.'

'Did you drink a little beer?'

'What? .... No! ... Why would you ask that?!' 

'Well, Rebecca's mom said she gave everyone some champagne and beer last night to celebrate.'
(BUSTED!!!!)  

'Oh ... that champagne ...' 

I scanned her face for anger. The kind that grounds or sentences manual labor. There was a stern face but it didn't look as threatening as I've seen in the past ...

'Mommy doesn't want you to lie.'
'Uh huh ... um ... um ... (I was her girl, her good girl, who followed the rules) ... yes, yes, I did.'
'Did what?'
'Had some champagne.'
There was a pause. She was obviously processing the new development in her big girl's life.
'Mommy loves you ... but I don't love when you lie.' 

It was her classic line. Every time I got in trouble growing up, every time my Mom lost her temper, grabbed my ear, and banished me to my room, she would come upstairs minutes later, as loving as ever. She would sit beside me on my bed and say, 'Mommy loves you, but ... ' And I knew in that moment, that her love surpassed my every flaw. Even as a senior in high school the line worked wonders. As I sat in the car next to her, ashamed of drinking underage and worse lying to my mom who inevitably always deciphered the truth, I knew that my Mom would always be there for me.  

***

I don't remember all of Mary's first words, but I remember that many were based on the things she saw and heard every day.
Momma. Dadda.
Bottle.   

Train. Train. Train. 

Truck. 

Car. Car. Car. BLUE Car. 

Bus. 

Back pack.  
Gracias. (Thank you, Dora) 

While there are similarities in Bobby's early vocabulary (Momma, Dadda) there are some more ominous additions.

Ball. Ball. Ball.
No. Mine. 

Ouch! (MARY!!!!)
Baby. Baby. Baby. 

No. Mine.  

Ouch! (MARY!!!!)
Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. 

No. Mine. (EWWW!!!)

Hot. Hot. Hot. 

Ouch!

No. No. No. No!

Mine. Mine. Mine. MINE!
Show? (Yes, fine!)

Notably, he learned 'mine' at a much earlier age than Mary. Also, I've apparently been saying 'no' to him a whole lot. He's at the age and of the gender, that he gets into everything, and everything that he's absolutely not supposed to.  

Mary is at the age though, where saying 'no' isn't enough. Where sometimes, her mistakes make me lose my temper. Because she knows the difference between hot and cold; mine and ours; yuck and the opposite of yuck. And when she chooses wrong from right, it frustrates me to no end. 

So there are time outs, preceded by an arm grab perhaps. Mary cries and screams beyond my comprehension of despair. Distanced between her door, we each need a second to cool down. I have to take a deep breath myself, come downstairs, and think of ways to reconcile the situation. Moments later, I march back upstairs, sit down next to her and tell her just what my Mom told me over and over again growing up. 

'Mommy loves you, Mary, but ... you can't hit / push / kick / steal toys from your brother.' (Her most frequent offenses right now.) And just like I did with my Mom, she melts into my arms, as if those simple words make everything right again. Her tears are dried, she regains her composure, and she's ready to play once again. She just needed to know that discipline didn't mean a lack of love.  

There is no manual on parenting; every kid and every family are different. But much of what I practice came from my parents, which came from a state of pure love. And it makes me think just how many wrongs could be righted, how many courses could be diverted in this world with the simple statement that somebody loves you, and always will.

Lo. 

Cat Lover

Toward the end of our vacation, we would always lose my Mom as we explored one of the nation's 'Old Towns.'

'Where's your mother?' my Dad would ask. 

'I think she went into that store,' I replied and pointed ominously, as if the shopping Gods lured her in, never to be seen again. It was particularly dangerous if the retail detour reached across multiple souvenir genres. That is not just t-shirts, but locally made jellies, pinch pots, hand woven baskets, AND artisan jewelry. The store of no return.

Each of us would take turns trying to coax her out of the shop, into the car, onto lunch.
'Mom. Come on! No one wants this stuff.'
'Mom, I'm starving!'
'Mom, Dad's starving!'
'Mom, get this, right here, and let's get OUT OF HERE!'

Two or three hours later (in ten year old time), she would emerge victorious. She would pompously get back in the car,  celebratory smile starkly contrasting with our grumpy, hungry pouts.

'Well ...' she would start, 'I got a cat pin for Barb. And I got cat earrings for Jeannette! And I got a cat bracelet for Chris. All made by local artists. They will love them. You know how they all love their cats so much. I'm just so pleased.'

Barb, Jeannette, and Chris worked with my Mom. With these new dangling additions to their collection, they could now fill a whole litter box with the mountain of feline paraphernalia that my Mom had purchased for them over the years. My Mom's joy, and her associates pending happiness, was countered by our rolling eyes and belittlement. Nothing could rain on my Mom's parade though.    

***

Recently, I have been noticing another disparity between moms and non-moms. That is in their storytelling material. A mom goes straight for her kids: the source of her daily comedy, frustration, tears, joy, and pride. A non-Mom goes for anything but a kid, and doesn't find the story the Mom just told nearly as funny. I know, because I've been there.

In my twenties, as a single woman without a baby, dog, cat or fish to call my own, I used to nod my head in acknowledgement of the story co-worker / mom A was telling, trying to feign interest as co-worker / mom B burst out in laughter. (Oh, that was a punch line. Totally missed it.) As co-worker / mom B countered the first story with her personal, inevitably longer iteration of it, I covertly mapped my escape route. The only thing worse, was when co-worker / mom / cat lover C would join the conversation and bring in pet narratives to round out the ennui.

Present day, as a parent, I know why so many Mom stories revolve around kids. I know Moms tear up when they hear the struggle of another mom. I even know how a Mom can relate to a parent whose only baby is a cat. And now on the other side of the conversation, I've watched the 20-something girl look for her escape route or segue as I pull up photos on my iPhone to illustrate just how cute my kids are.

I also now see why my Mom so enthusiastically bedazzled people in cat crap over the years. As the oldest of eight, and a mother of three, my Mom cultivated a particularly empathetic maternal soul. She was never an animal lover; she took a back seat to nature; and she denied every plea for a family dog. But she listened to every cat story and looked at every cat screen saver that her secretaries and associates shared with her. She didn't just feign interest, she related. She saw a mom in each cat lady, and sought those little tokens that told them what great moms they were.

There are so many things about my Mom that continue to impress me, inspire me, and push me to be a better woman. Her empathy and desire to connect with everyone she meets are just examples.

It's terribly belated, but happy Mother's Day to my ever loving Mom, whose role as care and present giver has extended to so many people over the years.

And Happy Mother's Day to all the wonderful Moms I celebrated with on Sunday.

Lo. 

 

Bill

My new favorite thing to do with Mary on a Friday night is watch a movie. Bobby generally lasts through ten minutes of it before he makes a final flurried mess of the basement and starts to ascend the stairs, waiting for me to scoop him up and put him to bed. I check to make sure the movie isn't at a scary part (read a Mommy or Daddy dying), take a refreshment break, and then come back down to snuggle with my two-year old and finish watching one of my and now her childhood favorites.

Last weekend, it was Bambi. We're kind of working in an ascending order from least scary to most, and with films like Cinderella, Robin Hood and the Jungle Book crossed off the list, I figured the next best option was the story of a little deer. Whose Mom gets shot by a hunter. Oops.

At the introduction of Bambi's friend Flower, an adorable little skunk with huge blue eyes, I took note of just how charming the stinky little critter was. And started thinking about a certain pattern in all Disney movies. That is, the general cutifying of critters. He made it into an art form. The Rescuers; Bernard and Bianca and all their miniature mousecapades. The cuddly forest animals that lead Snow White to the Dwarfs' cottage and help her with her chores. The mice in Cinderella, Roquefort from Artistocats, the Great Mouse Detective and its cast of crime-fighting pests, Minnie and Mickey for crying out loud. Why the romanticizing of rodents? Generally speaking, not the experience I have had with them. With that said, they make great characters. 

***

On Sunday night, as I was walking downstairs to get my glass of water and bowl of animal crackers (bedtime snack addiction that I'll presently blame on nursing), I saw a mouse. On the counter. Crawling. Creeping. Tail wagging. Or swaying or whatever a mouse's tail does. Up onto the stove and then into one of the vents of the oven. I screamed and shrieked and did the complete opposite of whatever a Disney princess would have done in that situation. 

I ran upstairs. Alarmed, Mary asked, 'what's wrong Mommy? What did you see, Mommy? Was it a ladybug, Mommy?' (Mary's worst fear - We haven't gotten to a Bugs Life yet.) 

Shaking, 'Sure ... yeah ... it was a ladybug, honey. Peter, it was a 'M-O-U-S-E' without the 'M-I-C-K-E-Y' in front of it. Daddy, can't read to you anymore. He needs to help Mommy. NOW!'

I took over the never-ending bedtime regimen while Peter went to work in his tool closet, concocting a plan to get rid of it. 

That night, I had nightmare after nightmare about that stupid mouse. Let's call him Bill. The mouse, rather Bill, coming to get me from under the covers. Bill crawling over Mary's head and hair while she was sleeping. Bill gnawing Bobby's leg in his crib. Bill nestling into some little den under the oven laughing off whatever poison Peter put out to exterminate him and inviting his friends to come over for a feast of Mary's bowl of cinnamon and sugar, which I'm now blaming for the incident.

Still fearful of the little critter that may or may not be burrowing deeper into the recesses of my house as we packed up and headed to Pittsburgh yesterday, I was more than happy to strap myself in to an eight hour car ride with my kids.

Goodbye Bill and goodbye Snow (although, I cherished the first snow in Chicagoland this year) ... 

Hello vacation, turkey, Thanksgiving ...

And my favorite city in America.

And honestly, after watching the Nightly News for the first time in a long time with my parents last night, I feel pretty thankful that my biggest fear right now is a little mouse named Bill. 

Lo.

The Darndest Things

After a week of hearing conversations that were tiresome at best, I needed something a little lighter on Friday night. The weekday dialogue had centered around slides, and decks, and briefs; incremental, and trade, and profitability; complication and simplification; labor and loss; yeses followed by a big no; storms and delays and holding patterns over Peoria; 11:00 PM arrivals and 8:00 AM meetings the next day. Mad, and madder. Done, and doner. I needed a civilian sounding board and a drink.

I left work on Friday in search of both. Peter was headed out of town, so no go there. I put in a couple last minute pleas to mom friends, but to no avail. Planning ahead has a purpose I suppose.  

So it was me and the kids. Correction: Me, a glass of wine, and the kids. 50% isn't bad. And undoubtedly, the conversation was certainly disconnected from my workday experiences. It strayed from Woody and Buzz, to Baby Lion (Mary's alter ego) and Baby Dragon (Mary's alter alter ego.) There was bartering over chocolate. I entertained airplane rides, raspberries and attacks of the Mommy Giant. There was 'No Bobby' don't climb up the steps, 'No Bobby' don't eat that and 'NO BOBBY' stop pulling that electrical cord! There was fifteen more minutes, then ten, five, and bedtime everyone. (Including Mommy.) 

We headed upstairs and as I was sitting in Bobby's room, nursing him to sleep, I heard Mary pick up the toy remote in her room, hold it to her ear and push buttons as if she was calling someone.  

'Hi Daddy. I miss you,' she began.

There was a pause. 

'No I gotta stay home. It's real late. The sun went night night. Camille's coming over (Correction: tomorrow). Joe's at his house. Nana, Opa are in Pittsburgh.' 

Another pause. 

'I know. You're hunting ducks. Ew.' 

Pause. 

'Mommy's here. She's feeding Bobby with her milks. She was in Arkansas. (Correction: New Mexico.) Ew. She got me new undies. They're FROZEN!' 

Pause.

I was mad today. I am a tough kid. I had a fight. Cause I was mad. She took my party shoes. They're my favorite. Mommy's gonna read me stories. Clifford. And then Me and My Dad! That's my favorite.' 

Pause. 

'I love you. (smack).' 

Lulled to sleep with a full tummy, I put Bobby in his crib and made my way into Mary's bed. 

Were you calling Daddy, honey? 

Yeah. 

Why were you mad today? 

Because.
Who said you were a tough kid?
Eva. 

Why did she say that?
Cause I got into a fight. Cause Lilian took my party shoes. 

Oh. You didn't hit her or anything, right?

No, I was just mad. She gave them back. 

Okay. I love you honey. (I gave her a big hug and started on the stack of books she had laid out.) 

I love you too, Mamma.  

From all the business I digested throughout this work week, I felt I went to bed the past two nights a little smarter not because of anything I had solved in my cubicle, but because of the things my kids shared with me. 

I heard Mary say that she was mad or frustrated a couple times this weekend. Mad that Bobby had her Memory cards in his mouth. Those are mine, Bobby! Frustrated that she couldn't get her shoes onto her feet. It won't work, Momma! I felt her pain; I sensed the emotion this week as well. With each outburst of angst though, I went over and talked her through it, made it better, loved it out. 

In thinking and praying on the events in Paris on Friday, it made me think about the root of anger. The strength of that emotion even in a child as old as Mary. How just being there for someone, listening to them, guiding them, preventing something from festering, can make all the difference. It made me think about love. The smothering hugs and kisses I give to my kids every day. The reflection of it in Mary's return embrace, Bobby's smile, and Peter's texts from the Duck Shack. 

On this beautiful fall Sunday afternoon, I'm still shaken, heartbroken, and scared of the pure madness that exists around the world today. Anger that could only exist in a vacuum of love. I feel helpless in a way; disposed to whatever greater forces can help keep me and my family safe. But despite that, I know that the most important thing I can do, is keep on sharing my love. 

My hearts and prayers go out to Paris; the victims of Friday's agonizing terror and bloodshed; and all the families and friends that find themselves in utter grief today. I hope that in the beautiful city of light and love, a city that I have fallen in love with repeatedly, people can continue to let their hearts shine.  

  

Lo. 

My Lap

A couple weeks ago, the extended family gathered in a row of $20 balcony seats at Hinsdale Central's auditorium to watch my niece, Ellie, chasse and pirouette through her first ballet recital. Initially, I thought the steep fare was a suburban rip off, but the combination of baby ballerinas, seasoned company performers, and catchy tunes was well worth the money.

Bobby and Mary shared a VIP seat during the show. Mary had it for the first half; Bobby for the latter. Perched on my lap, they both felt the rhythms that carried the dancers from one bar to the next; they heard the lyrics of 'California Girls' and 'Put on a Happy Face' echoing in their ears; and they hopefully inherited a little more of my enthusiasm for the performing arts.

Around the fifteenth number though, Mary made an escape so she could practice her own routine in the aisle, while Bobby was snatched up and moved from one hot seat to another. As his face went from a gaping smile to perplexity, Mimi laughed and said, 'he knows this isn't his Mommy's lap.'

While he was content shortly after, it did make me think about the kind of comfort I offer my kids, how they perceive me, and just what my lap must feel like?

Even now I can remember exactly how my Mom's lap felt. Falling asleep on it in the car; sitting on it to read stories, crying on it when the world seemed too big for a little girl to handle. It was soft, embracing, warm, and filled with a cushy kind of love that made everything okay.

While the former lacrosse player in me doesn't love that my lap has gotten a little squishy over the years, I know my kids have appreciated the extra padding. They've loved the pony rides, booster seat, and proximity to their food. And as they start to realize that at times life and its bee stings, boo-boos, rainy days, teeth, and bad dreams can be a little scary, I love that scooping them up and offering them an insulated seat can cure any ill.

This week alone, there were thunderstorms, a reoccurring nightmare about a 'scary man', pangs from first teeth, a bee sting(!), and several other cuts, scrapes, and bumped heads.  

But as fast as fear approached, there were chocolate chips, ice cream, carousel rides, rice cereal and extra doses of hugs and kisses from Mom, Dad, and Eva as rewards for bravery.

In a way, I wish they could always stay on my lap, safe from the world. I know as quickly as Bobby turned five months, they will crawl, run, and graduate off my lap and into independence. And I will long for their little bottoms. But I love that each week brings new developments, adventures, and lessons. And I couldn't be more proud of the accomplishments they've already made.

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.