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. 

Here's Looking At You, Kid

A lot went down this week: real life soap operas gave me new episodes and took dramatic turns, graduates graduated, weather patterns took a devastating toll, sports teams won and lost, earnings were released, and countless other headlines produced emotional responses from people around the world. But in babyland - that blissful, oblivious bubble of a world where I'm living - everything seemed copacetic.

Ten must be a magic number when it comes to infant development and my role in it, because at ten weeks things just seemed easier. Gardening and parenting worked in tandem, I slipped into my pre-pregnancy jeans more gracefully, feedings got fewer and farther between, the notion of a good night sleep reentered my vocabulary, and Mary, well she was happier than ever.

Snuggled up in my arms, warm, safe and well fed, she gave me these long, lingering, content looks. Her eyes locked on mine, and mine on hers. My dad caught her doing it when he was visiting on Thursday. He commented on how special it was - how she was telling me that I was her everything. I had felt that before, but when my Dad put it into words, it clicked. And it felt amazing.

In a world filled with too many words, spending time quietly looking into my baby's eyes is so refreshing. Sure, I'm not certain of all the things she's thinking, but I know she can feel and understand my 'It's Mommys' and 'I love yous.' And as she smiles back at me, I know she's saying something like 'Mary loves Mommy too.' 

It's no wonder that when we have visitors - like one from our good friend C. on Tuesday and one from Opa on Thursday - that their eyes are easily diverted from a caviar and champagne clad dinner table right to Mary and her little eyes. 

Back in Pittsburgh, there's another person in need of some serious eye attention right now. Someone who knows that baby look and all that it holds well - a woman who nurtured and nourished eight little ones of her own. But now her gaze and perhaps a signature wink are the only ways she can communicate. And like Mary and all of her babies, I know that when my Grandma's eyes are open she's telling her daughters, son, and grandchildren that they are her everything. That she loves them immeasurably. And that though she doesn't want to leave them, she can't wait to jitterbug with the love of her life in heaven soon.   

From miles away, stuck in babyland for the time being, we are communicating with Grandma Barry in our own way - through prayer and through reflection. And as Mary looks at me, begging me to say something new, I've been telling her about her beautiful, wonderful Great Grandma who would have just loved her so much. 

Lo.        

Toyland

The only time I fired a gun was at Calvary Camp. It was 1998, and I had a huge crush on the counselor responsible for teaching a bunch of lazy campers the art of riflery. Like many others, I had opted to hang out on a grassy knoll in lieu of actually participating in the elective, but on day 5 of 5, my crush told me I needed to try hitting the target. So, I moseyed up to the gun, ready to make a bold, sharp-shooting impression, aimed and fired. Christmas Story style, the bullet ricocheted off something and hit my lip. I quietly sulked away from my station, drops of blood running down my chin, totally embarrassed and quite certain that my sandy haired instructor would find nothing sexy about my exhibition. I swore off guns then and there. The memory was too painful: unrequited love, facial scars, nothing good could come of them.

That is until I got engaged and both Bloomingdales and Williams Sonoma told me to pick up one of theirs and fire away. The ease with which I performed retail's version of target practice, knocking off Waterford, Versace, and Cristofle (oh my!) restored my faith and confidence in discharging.

When I was tasked with filling out a baby registry midway through my pregnancy though, I felt that I was weapon ready but entering a frontier that was completely unfamiliar. Inundated with suggestions, referrals, recommendations - brands that I had never heard of before - exhaustive lists of stuff that I 'needed' to care for my five pound infant - I spastically started hunting. 

I knocked off the necessities first: the stroller, car seat, high chair, bottles and bibs. I sorted by color, randomly selecting items that best went with my favorite outfits and my house's decor. What I found particularly mind boggling though were the number and variety of toys and contraptions for baby. How in the world could an infant, content playing in amniotic fluid for nine months need all this crap? I ended up shooting a couple things - items that were less of eye sores than others - and hoped for the best.

Now more than two months into motherhood, I have found that there are necessities; or at least items that can make your life a whole lot easier.

The Mamaroo. We didn't register for this, but it was a welcome surprise from friends at work. It vibrates, it rocks, it swings, it totally mesmerizes your baby. If you desperately want to put your infant down so you can cook, clean, blog or just stretch your tired arms, this is the place to put her. Register for one.

A Rattle Toy. Mary loves the sound and stimulation of this one Lamaze rattle toy we have. She is particularly fascinated with the mirror. At first I thought she was tapping in to an innate issue with vanity, but I think she likes the light that bounces off of it. You can also hang it from an infant carrier, which makes car travel a little easier.

Pottery Barn's Play Mat. Not an eye sore, in fact, very cute and the colors match our nursery. Mary loves flailing around under the owls, especially when I shake them for her. The mat can keep her occupied for 20 minutes or so at a time, which gives me ample time to pump. We've also had a lot of success with tummy time on it. 

The Sleep Sheep. Mary is almost sleeping through the night. She has been waking up for one feeding around 2:30 AM and falling right back asleep at 3:00. The ease with which I am able to lay her down though, I owe to this cuddly little lamb. You press one of its settings, and for 23 or 45 minutes (you choose), it lulls your baby to sleep with sounds like a heart beating, the ocean, or rain drops. Mary loves the heartbeat.

Books. Thanks to an awesome library-stocking shower, we have an amazing collection of books. While I thought it was premature to begin building Mary's vocabulary, I recently learned that reading to her, even at this young age, is an excellent activity. Take the 8-hour ride home from Pittsburgh last week. Halfway through the trip, she was up, alert, and desperately wanting to play. When the rattle didn't work, I started telling her my own made up stories, then remembered (aha!) we had some books in the car. I ended up entertaining her for two hours with the words and pictures of Dr. Seuss. It was awesome.

I remain a minimalist though. And with summer right around the corner, and a weekend that made us think it had already arrived, I'm convinced that the best thing for your baby can't be found on a registry. It's the great outdoors. Just being in the stroller, on the lawn, or at a cookout are Mary's favorite past times right now. 

One more thing you might need though, a sun hat. And if you are lucky enough, Mimi and Opa's toy boat can help too.  
 
Lo.
 
Spring Panzanella












Salad Ingredients:
Bunch of asparagus, trimmed, blanched and cut in half
One yellow pepper, chopped
Cucumber, chopped
One ear of fresh corn, kernels removed
1/2 of a small red onion, diced 
Small loaf peasant bread, cut into one inch pieces
2 tablespoons butter
Salt

Dressing Ingredients:
2 tablespoons fresh parsley
4 mint leaves
3 chive sprigs
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 anchovy and a little of the oil from the container
Salt, pepper

Instructions: 
Make croutons: Toss cubed bread in melted butter, salt to taste. Bake at 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes until bread is golden brown. Set aside.

Toss salad ingredients together.

In a blender, mix together the dressing ingredients. Pour over salad ingredients and toss. Add croutons at the last minute.

Bath Time

When I left the hospital with a baby who weighed a mere four pounds, fifteen ounces, I wondered how this scenario could be sanctioned; clueless, new, half delirious parents going home to raise a teeny tiny baby - I was petrified. I was scared that her weight would continue to decrease, worried that I wouldn't be able to feed her. I was nervous that I would drop her or break her little arms as I pushed them through a onesie. And when it came time to give Mary her first bath, I was afraid that she would drown or freeze to death.

The little pink bath tub seemed to frighten Mary at first too. Although the feeling of being in water must have felt familiar, the marketed smell of clean baby, the experience of being lathered up, the site of me hovering over her and the stark contrast between wet and dry, hot and cold were a shock. So bath time guaranteed some hearty sobs. I'm pretty sure the neighbors could hear the wails coming from the bathroom of the white house.

But as Mary put on some pounds, she not only started to accept the soggy part of her routine, she seemed to like her baths as well. What was once an in and out agenda item, dragged on for fifteen and twenty minutes at a time. And this past week in Nana and Opa's little tub, there was even splashing, squirming and smiling through bath time.

So, when Sunday came around - Mary's big Baptism day - I felt confident that we had this water on the head thing under control. We would surely walk away with the best behaved little Catholic in Pittsburgh's diocese. That is, until it was time to get to dressed and out came the fussing. Then get in the car seat; there went the crying. By the time the car was parking, we were at all out yelps for help. With 11:30 Mass, a 1:00 Baptism, and a 2:00 party to make it through, I started to panic. As soon as we arrived at the Church, I snatched her from her car seat, held her tight, walked around with her, and just like that, she passed out, deep in sleep.

She slept through Mass, through the choir's belts and the brass section's wails. She slept through her costume change - from party dress to a very special, 101 year old Christening gown - the same one that her great Grandma, Opa, and mom wore.

She slept through the arrival of all her aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. She slept through her scheduled feeding. She even slept through her anointing and the heavy smell of chrism. But just as she was about to get her holy bath, her little eyes opened and I thought, 'oh no, here it comes.' Maybe it was all the practice or that she knew she was on center stage, but she was as cool and calm as a cute little cucumber. I'd claim the best baby title, but Deegan Robert was just as good.

At the after party, as she was passed around more frequently than the tea sandwiches and Fizzy Marys, she kept on soaking up the spotlight and sharing her smiles.

Yes, it was my big first Mother's Day on Sunday as well. And seeing my baby girl baptized, getting to celebrate so many wonderful mothers at once, scraping the burnt almonds and icing off of my favorite Prantl's torte, sipping champagne cocktails, startling the Chanel clad moms as I gave Mary her dinner in the Ladies Lounge of the Golf Club, and being spoiled in iconic Burberry fashion by my hubby was the most fantastic way to ring it in. While I know Mary was the one receiving all the blessings on Sunday, I couldn't help but feel showered by just as many.

Lo.