Molly O'Brien's

When Molly was in Chicago last summer, she proudly showed off her new bling and said to me, 'my name is going to be Molly O'Brien.' She repeated it in an Irish brogue, 'MOLLY O'BRIEN! Like I'm predestined to be the ruddy owner of a bad Irish bar. Molly O'Brien's.' She chuckled and so did I. But then I thought she was on to something. That would be one amazing bar - a guaranteed good time.

***

Last night, during her matron of honor speech, Liz perfectly summed up many people's relationship with Molly, the beautiful bride du jour. That is, one characterized by laughter. And that wonderful belly aching kind.

Whether it was on the street or in Miss Teresa's jazz class; in the middle of an Ellis dance circle or on Mr. Altman's stage; in the Mustang we had to drive home from New York City or on a D.C. Metro; on the Shadyside House Tour, over brunch at Casbah, or at the bar of Soba; like so many others, Molly has filled with my life with laughter. And yesterday, right before the doors opened to reveal her gorgeous dress and her beaming smile, right before she walked down the aisle, I thought back on all the fun we have shared.

As she made her way to the altar, I imagined that some sort of comedy in typical Molly fashion might unfold, but the Mass, celebrated by the Bishop of Pittsburgh was near perfection. And in place of any boisterous guffaws, I saw her wipe away a quiet, errant tear as she was saying her vows. Sure, it was a tear of joy, but there was something else in it - that feeling that every bride gets, incredulous that this is happening; that she has found the love of her life; that this man in front of her loves her so entirely. But perhaps in Molly's case, the nuptial emotion meant a little more; it was knowing that she had not only found someone who she could trust to be her comedic partner, but someone who she could trust with a tear as well.  

There is more to say; more stories to share of my first night out as a Mom, rusty dance moves, the seen list, and adventures in our Jeep with my pump, but today is someone else's big day to wear a white dress, and I've got to help her primp.

I'll let the pictures do the talking.

Lo. 

Baby of Steel

While this past weekend was momentous for Mary - so many firsts and so many milestone events - 

(First road trip and first stop at McDonald's. First time outside of Illinois, and inside Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. First time at Notre Dame; under the Dome, around the Lakes and in front of the Grotto. 

First time at Nana and Opa's house.

First time meeting Cousin Lyla.

First time at Mass. First blessing from a priest. And first trip to Walnut Street and the Pittsburgh Golf Club.) This weekend, particularly Sunday, was pretty momentous for me as well; it was my first race as a mother.

After making it to Pittsburgh on Saturday night, carbo loading with the family around my parent's table, getting a pretty good night's sleep, and then pumping about eight ounces of milk before double bagging the girls, I made my way down to the Point to run Pittsburgh's half marathon.

As I lined up in Corral A, surrounded by a lot of seasoned runners, set on breaking personal records, I thought, 'Okay. Here I am. So what?' What's the big deal? I've run marathons before and 13 miles used to be a cake walk for me. Why am I nervous? Worse, why am I intimidated?'

Because I realized that running as a mother, especially as a seven-week old mom, added some new challenges. After going through a nine month taper period and birth, I was out of shape. Very out of shape - inside and out. And I was told that I had to wait six weeks before doing anything strenuous again. (Right - I said I'd give it a week.) So running as a new mom meant that I hadn't properly trained and I was about to go the distance without the lungs and legs that I was used to. Even after pumping, running as a mom adds some hefty chest weight to your tour of Pittsburgh. If you are so unlucky, running as a mom can mean finding out halfway through the race that you can't control your bladder - another one of those postpartum side effects. Yuck. And then around mile 10, as you ascend the Birmingham Bridge, running as a mom means separation anxiety; three hours away from your little one can start to feel devastating. But when you reach the finish line, claiming the title 'Runner of Steel' as a mom, you get to claim something else as well. That is, a little bit of your old self. And it felt amazing.


This week brought one more first for both us - our first without Daddy. And we can't explain how much we miss him. Just a couple more days till he can hold you again, Mary.

Lo. 

B-Unit

To get you to buy their product, many companies use advertising to display a certain aspirational lifestyle associated with their brand. Say the luxury car ads, coaxing you to trade up into the lives of the rich and famous by driving their vehicle. Or the fashion ads, telling you to put down that doughnut and subscribe to the skinny, sultry, ambiguously sexy life characterized by a wardrobe. For me, it's the media that promises the best bar scene ever that brings out my aspirational calling - that of party girl. And admittedly, I've bought into it. Whether it was with the purchase of a plane ticket to Vegas, a couple new cocktail dresses, the best champagne, or the hip hop chart topper, I've purchased and played the role of party girl many times. And it was well worth it.

But like so many others who in reality are shut out from their advertised fantasies by responsibilities, budgets, and waist lines; my bed time, to do list, and hatred of hangovers has prevented me from ever completely realizing the never-ending party associated with my purchase power. However, for the past eleven months, even my aspirational party girl seems to have disappeared as my consumerism shifted from booze and BCBG to Babyland. 

This past week though, Mary's seventh with us, I regained a little bit of turf on the party scene. My Vegas ware still didn't fit and my dance moves remain rusty; the festivities were a lot more family friendly, dinner was on the way early side, and brunch didn't end with a buzz; but there was something about last Saturday night and Sunday morning that even the best ad couldn't capture.

The culprit: The B-Unit. Emphasis on the B; said like a rapper. The B-Unit is my less awkward name for what my bedside companion, awkwardly titled The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, calls the 'breastfeeding unit' - Mom and baby. That is, in essence mother and child are one, inherently tied together through a cord and then nipple. So my nutrition is Mary's nutrition, my warmth is hers, my immunity (or lack thereof this week) is hers. And as far as parties go, my shindig is hers too.

Even though doing things as a 'unit' can be a little more work and take a lot more time and coordination, there is nothing like having a little sidekick. Strolling, shopping, sunning this week - all a lot more fun with Mary around.

And this past weekend, when the B-Unit and the Brewer entertained for the first time in a while, I felt two times better than my latent party girl. I forgot to put on makeup on Sunday, so I don't know if I looked the part, but Mary looked as cute as can be. There was more to talk about than usual, or maybe that's just because I'm on mute for a large portion of any given day. The dishes seemed to do themselves (with the help of guests that insisted on pitching in.) Saturday night brats and brews with the Joerns on our porch was the perfect start to spring. And at brunch on Sunday, the bacon and eggs were trendier, the smoked salmon and bialys were better, and the news on the street from Greg and Juliette was bigger. 

The only problem with the 'unit' though, is that when the party is over, when the next day brings things like vaccinations, the flip side can be twice as bad. Say yesterday, which brought a doctor visit and three little shots that caused a whole lot of pain. Pain that made Mary cry in a way that I had never heard before. Pain that I couldn't sooth or console. Pain that made me cry with her. Luckily, the W-Unit - Claire, Ellie and Joe - saved the day with a little bottle of baby's Tylenol. (Future mothers take note: have this product on hand.)   

We got through it. And just like any good party girl, Mary got some extra hours of sleep this morning, ate a big breakfast, and picked out a new outfit so the B-Unit could roll onto to the next party. Pittsburgh, the Finish Line, Molly and Kevin's dance floor, and Father Grecco here we come! B-Unit!

Lo.

My Baby, My Boo

For the past several months, I've been told to forget about dinner; 'order in', 'get a pizza,' 'buy some of those pre-made meals at Casey's', 'do something easy' and my favorite, 'let Peter fend for himself.' (Aw, never.)

While I admit we've ordered sushi a couple times, I haven't been rolling out my own pasta dough lately, and I've had to forsake a detail here and there, I have been able to achieve a certain standard in my kitchen ever since Mary's arrival. That is, each day I plan a menu, run it by the hubby, go on a little market field trip, infant in tow, and then leverage God's gift to Moms - the Mamaroo - to get dinner started and the table set by the time Peter gets home.

Fine, go ahead and scoff. Roll your eyes. Tell me that I shouldn't complain for being tired then. But there is a reason that I have refused to cut any culinary corners, even with a baby on board. 

For the past six weeks, Peter and I have been working day and night on a new, sometimes challenging relationship with our little girl. We've diverted the time we would have spent snuggling with each other toward cozying up with her. We've put her needs first: her sleep, her hunger, her exercise, her hygiene. And we've saved our best dances, songs, and funny faces for her. All so we might see one of those beautiful smiles that she started giving us this week. Simply put, many of the amazing dimensions of our relationship have either changed or been brushed aside to make room for someone who needs a lot of love and attention.

For instance, potty language, the very vocabulary that was once banned as mealtime conversation (I'm recalling a certain mention of diarrhea at breakfast that received a vile reaction), has become a staple of our dinner dialogue.
Just changed her. 
Blow out? 
Oh yeah. Explosive. Yellowish Brown. Chunky.
Good. Good. 
Cheers. Dig in! 
When we count down to Friday, our big weekend plans include who is napping when. We never seem to just sit and linger over a great glass of wine or a home brew anymore; one of us is either walking, rocking, or feeding Mary and the other is rushing around to get all the stuff that we haven't done yet, done. The hypothetical movie night I keep suggesting is cancelled night after night because I really need to go to bed at 8:00 PM if I'm going to be up again at 11:00, 2:30 and 6:00, boob in hand. And the sheer fatigue that compounds after x number of restless night in a row makes me wonder how a couple even finds the time or energy to make a couple of Irish twins. 

With that said - with all that has changed as Peter and I embrace the role of parents - there is a constant that I wasn't going to sacrifice - an element so crucial in our relationship that I couldn't envision our life without it - dinnertime. Even if it's later than usual; even if it's one-handed; even if it turns into a PG-13 scene; I'll always exchange a 'dinner is served' each time Peter says, 'honey I'm home.' We'll always have our 'special time' and given a new learning this week: pumping and bottle feeding around dinner time - special is turning extra special at our table for three.

It doesn't have to be baby; it could be a stressful job, a new pet, an injury or illness, a big move and the new house that goes with it, family drama. Regardless, there are lots of things in life that can take you and your boo into a very different place. Whatever the catalyst though, I believe that if you can find that one thing or a couple of them that uniquely make you guys, you, and make sure to keep them alive in your relationship, you'll be able to laugh through the challenges and realize you couldn't do it without the person sitting across from you.

Lo.

Lobster Bisque
Adapted from Saveur
Serves Two

Ingredients:
2 lobster tails, cut in half lengthwise
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 sprigs thyme
2 sprigs parsley
1/4 cup Brandy (I used Grand Marnier)
1 large shallot finely diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 carrot finely diced
1 celery stalk finely diced
1/4 cup yellow onion finely diced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
2 1/2 cups fish stock
1 cup rose wine
1/2 cup heavy cream
Cayenne pepper
Salt
Chives

Directions: 
In a large pot, melt butter and olive oil. Add lobster tails with shells still on. Add the thyme and parsley. Cook for approximately seven minutes, until shells are bright red. Add the brandy and steam in liquor for an additional minute or so. Remove the lobsters from pot. Take lobster out of shells, chop up, and set aside, reserving any juices.

In the same pot in the remaining butter / oil / brandy mixture saute shallot, garlic, carrot, celery and onion until caramelized - about 15 minutes. Remove the thyme and parsley sprigs. Add tomato paste and cook until slightly browned, about five minutes. Add the white wine, scraping up the brown bits, then add the fish stock. Add a pinch of cayenne pepper and salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and let simmer for 20-25 minutes.

Add cream. Season additionally to taste. Serve with chopped chives on top, crusty sourdough bread, and a glass of brut champagne.

Queen's Quest

I was just about ready to skip my five-week update; with a bombing in Boston, a tragedy in West, Texas, and massive flooding in my neck of the woods, Mary's progress report didn't seem like big news. But in my world, which only takes up about 1,800 square feet, her news broke before the rest of the nation's. And it happened to be good news, which helped to brighten a rather somber week. So here's my report from a sunnier side of life.

First, let me take you back a couple decades. While your early 90's gaming experience might have included a couple of Mario Brothers, a hedgehog, or a virtual duck hunt, mine was dominated by a blond-haired princess named Rosella.

Throughout my childhood we were a console-free household. Many Christmas wishes for one of those magical boxes were denied with the staunch warning that video games would rot our brains. So our technological fun was limited to the family computer and a collection of more educational games that went with it: Carmen Sandiego (Where in the U.S.A and Where in the World), Myst, Sim City, and King's Quest Four: The Perils of Rosella.   

Because I was never very good at the trivia that revealed the locale of Carmen and because there was something about Myst and Rosella that kind of scared me, I always approached playing a computer game as a team effort. My sister Erin took the mouse and I sat next to her for moral support and the occasional coax to call the hint line.

Our most memorable effort happened over the hours, days, dare I say, months dedicated to solving Rosella's puzzle. Quick break down: Rosella is the daughter of King Graham who is dying of some incurable illness. A fairy named Genesta tells Rosella about some magical fruit from the Land of Tamir that can save her father. You become Rosella, suspend your disbelief, and get teleported to Tamir where you go through a virtual story book to-do list, helping dwarfs, getting swallowed by a whale, fending off ogres, rescuing unicorns, helping Pan, turning a frog into a prince, shooting cupid's arrow, etc. on your way to defeating the evil queen, Lolotte and getting the life-saving fruit for your Dad. (The extremely rudimentary graphics of Lolotte and the ogre scared me.)

You are equipped with a limited vocabulary and a satchel to hold the stuff you are supposed to pick up and divvy out amongst the characters as you go. For instance, in one frame you find a flute - you type in 'pick up flute' - you do - you get a point. Several frames later you find Pan crying - you type in 'give Pan flute' - you get some more points. This activity goes on through many, many scenarios, until you get to the finale when you type in 'pick fruit' - and win.

This week, I decided that figuring out the puzzle of motherhood is a lot like the Perils of Rosella. You only have so many words you can use and every day you are tasked with pacifying the fussing baby, crying baby, hungry baby, grunting baby, tired baby with a limited number of props in your satchel.

During the first four weeks, figuring out what to pick up and what to do with it so I could help Mary was challenging. There were no 'Game Over' scenarios, but there were times when I wanted to call a hint line. This week was different though. This week, things just started to click.

For instance, I encountered a fussy baby and immediately commanded myself to 'take baby for a walk.' Problem solved. Point.
I encountered a crying baby; 'use pacifier and rock baby.' Point.
Hungry baby; 'stick boob in baby's mouth.' Point.
Grunting baby; 'move baby's legs.' Toot. And point.
Tired baby; 'place baby in MamaRoo to polish her off.' Point.
Asleep baby; 'use crib.' (NAP TIME!) Double points.

Because a lot of navigating through baby land happens when I'm home alone, I'm pretty proud of the role I've played in this very real quest. I've definitely graduated from the moral support seat. But as I've said before, I wouldn't be scoring as many points without my team, sitting beside me, taking the mouse at times, and helping me through the scary parts.   

It's a little delayed, but a happy one-month birthday to little Mary; super special guests, cupcakes, and Fizzy Marys were an amazing way to celebrate how far we have come. 

Lo.

A Reflex

When you have a quiet baby, and you happen to be a quiet person, and it's just the two of you in a quiet house all day, suddenly, mundane noises can become quite loud. When all you've heard in a given day is the breathing and cooing of your infant, unloading the dishwasher, closing the dryer door, opening a can of Diet Coke, grinding the pepper mill, sneezing, even turning on the faucet get magnified to the decibel of a thunder clap. And if one of those cacophonous sounds happens to occur right as your baby is drifting off to sleep, they are bound to startle her back into wide-eyed alertness. 'Grrreat,' says Mom after a very bad night of sleep.

These noises can also spark what Dr. Don calls a moro reflex - the medical term for a natural, protective reaction that babies make in response to a loud sound or unexpected movement. It's like a more dramatic flinch. In Mary's case, this reflex triggers her arms to extend above her head then come back toward her body, as her eyes bug out and her brow furrows. It's her I'm scared / nervous look and it always makes me feel bad, especially when I'm the one who sparked it. 

Yesterday, while doing the laundry, the inevitable slamming of both the washer and dryer doors, (Bam, BAM!) startled Mary into a moro reflex. Up went her arms and on went her frightened face. I held her tight and said, 'You're okay. Mommy is never going to let anything bad happen to you.' 

The moment I said it, I started to think about the implications of that promise. I looked down at the little pimple blooming on her left cheek (another symptom of a newborn's adjustment to life) and I thought, well, what happens when that pimple shows up with a vengeance and invites ten more of his friends when Mary hits freshman year of high school? Will I be there to fend off the nastiest comments from the meanest girls? I thought about angry coaches, ornery teachers, bad boyfriends, and parties that get out of hand. I thought about falls, missteps, and wrong turns. I thought about skinned knees, bruises, and even broken bones. Then yesterday afternoon, I thought about terror. I thought about Mary making her Mom proud, literally following in my footsteps or perhaps running by my side, crossing a finish line. And I heard the blast that echoed through every news outlet yesterday. I thought, no matter what I do I won't be able to keep my daughter safe from the loudest, scariest, most hurtful noises - the sounds that don't deserve a place in this world.

Really, the reassuring words that I offered Mary were a stark impossibility. Sure, in the moment nothing bad was going to happen. She was safe as can be wrapped in my embrace, but soon enough I will need to let her go. And she will need to use her own protective mechanisms.

The problem is, even with natural and learned reflexes, helping us fend off the bad stuff, there is only so much we can do to combat the unforeseen, unnatural evil that keeps getting louder and louder. And it seems that no matter how much money, regulation, or resources we put against it, the terror continues to plague us.

While I'll likely continue to hold Mary close and tell her that I'm going to keep her safe, I realize that it can't be from everything and for always. And because this is so, I will also tell her, 'It's okay. Mommy is going to teach you how to be braver, stronger, and faster than the cowards who continue to try to destroy the beauty and innocence of our world. We'll cross many more finish lines anyway.'

Lo.

Moby Mom

Yesterday, I attempted to swaddle myself in a ten foot black blanket better known to clued-in mothers as a Moby Wrap. The goal, as the picture described was to neatly tuck my baby away within the folds of a massive piece of fabric, thereby freeing up my hands, relieving some of the pressure from my back, soothing my tired, fussy infant, and (poof!) turning me into the mega multitasking Mom that I long to be.

For the first time in my life, I read instructions and proceeded to fold, wrap, criss-cross, tie and tuck the black garb around my frame. Confident in my handy work, I looked in the mirror to see how I had done. Wow. Not what the picture looked like. (And I really need to run a comb through my hair.) I gently inserted Mary into one of the crevices, hoping that together in the hippie wrap, we would look like the promotional materials.

Nope. Still awkward.

I walked around the house like a marsupial for about fifteen minutes, but my inept Moby styling seemed to be adding more pressure to my back and Mary didn't look all that comfortable, so I unwrapped, called it a day, and turned to the mom duty that I've become quite good at - feeding my baby while granting myself a little guilty pleasure - likely the tenth or eleventh viewing of an episode of Sex and the City.

Sitting there with my hands full again, watching Carrie contemplate one of life's little mysteries, I started to think about one of my own - that is, what kind of Mom I will be.

Unable to create my own personal baby bag, peacefully stare at my child for 45 minutes as she nurses, give up artificial sweeteners, or live without my house being Pine Sol scented clean, I've ruled out being an au naturale hippie Mom.   

As my sister commented on my choice of shoes - 'so do you only wear Toms now?' - I ruled out being a designer Mom. Right now, my look includes a make-up free palette, whatever jeans or stretchy pants fit, and the shoes that are the closest to the door. For the past four weeks they've been my Toms. 

Just looking at all the intense Pinterest projects and the time associated with doing them I'm steering away from being a crafty Mom. And because the girls that I'm dying to hang out with right now aren't moms, I'm guessing I won't end up being a cliquey west suburban Mom.

Likely, I'll ultimately embody a characteristic or two from each of these profiles: I'll keep shopping, buying, and cooking organic as much as possible, I'll eventually get back to my cocktail dresses and shoe boxes, I will pride myself in the picture perfect lunches that I pack, and I might need a local running or wine buddy soon. Then I'll probably add a couple characteristics unique to my style of mothering, and I'll wrap them all up into a slightly neurotic working Mom profile come July. As my friend C. says, 'ta da!'

Whatever type of Mom I turn into though, I'm certain that I will always be a Mom who needs help. And a lot of it. This week alone, my sister came to town to lend a hand, carrying, soothing, and playing with Mary for hours on end; Mimi came over three different times to sit with Mary so I could just get out of the house; and my husband - what can I say - I wouldn't be running again, getting a little extra sleep, cooking, or finding a couple minutes to relax each day without him.

BM - Before Mary, I was pretty sure that I could do it alone. But I've got to say, without help, I would be a mess right now: a sleep-deprived, ornery, hair-frazzled, cabin-fevered, starving, struggling, stinky, scary Mom. And Mary wouldn't be nearly as content as she is right now, snuggled up in my arms as we watch the rain come down. 

As we hit the four week mark, I'm raising my Sauvignon Blanc glass to the village that has helped me raise Mary so far. And to another kind of Mom that I have more respect for than ever - the single Mom. How you do / did it, I have no idea, but I'm in awe.

Lo.

Candid Camera

This week my hair started falling out. Word of mouth told me it was just another one of those lovely postpartum symptoms. But I believe there was something more to it - another culprit per se. This week, I came to the realization that motherhood is really tough. 

Like the rest of my overachieving generation I've been stacking my resume for the past three decades: high honors, glee club, lacrosse star (they were my glory days, I want to call myself a star), marathoner, artist, dancer, actress, amateur chef, wine enthusiast, marketer, writer, blogger. I've developed a laundry list of skills, experiences, and talents that supposedly defines me on paper.  And three weeks ago, I added another attribute: 'Mom.'

I've been clamoring for this special role for a long time. And like everything else that I have tackled in my life, my expectations are high, aimed at being the mother of the year. The thing is, it's difficult to tell how I'm actually doing or for that matter, stacking up against other moms. There aren't really any big wins. There's no one telling me 'great job' every step of the way. Apparently, baby won't give me any social smiles till six weeks. And this week, that coveted role of Mom was shaded with less rosy descriptors: laundress, spit up target, milk vessel, pacifier, pooper scooper, and most notably zombie.

On Tuesday evening, somewhere in between sleeplessness, yet another feeding, and a really sore back, I phoned a friend, texted two others, and emailed one more, trying to decipher if I was royally screwing up or just hitting par for the course. After getting sage advice from moms who had been there, I wondered why these conversations were happening so quietly. Why wasn't the meat of motherhood - the real stuff that helps you earn your baby badge of courage - posted all over my social streams when everything else is?

I decided to blame my generation and our obsession with being perfect. Three years ago, my Facebook newsfeed turned into a stream of white designer dresses, smiling brides, and dance circles surrounding the newlyweds, hair down, beer in hand, cummerbund waving in the air. 18 months ago, the wedding scenes turned into a social baby boom. And just like all the glistening bridal photos, there was nothing but smiling babies in the arms of airbrushed Moms filling my screen. All the outtakes were strategically removed before the publishers hit upload.

It's what we all do. But this week, after talking to some strong moms and looking a little deeper in the mirror at myself, I learned that a lot of the beauty and strength of motherhood is found in the candid moments that we tend to edit out. It's the make-up free, puffy eyes, 'crap I put the diaper on wrong', 'honey, you want me to come home?' 'I can't believe you just took that picture' days when you can't get the baby to stop crying, and fussing, and wailing that make being a mom so special. 

And it's days like today - the calm after the storm - when the baby is clean, pacified, sweetly cooing as she slumbers, and totally content - that let you know you are doing it right.

So for now, I'm stocking up on patience, eliminating coffee from my diet (apparently it makes a breast fed baby very gassy), giving all the kudos that I have received in my life to my little girl, and leaving the edited portraits for Mary. 

Best tummy time exerciser ever? Hell yeah!  

Lo.