4th and 1

I can boast a good understanding of the game of football. I often call holding violations before the refs throw their flag. I'm able to find the open man before Brent Musburger breaks it down for the television audience. And I've been known to throw a mean spiral. But one thing has always perplexed me; why teams punt on 4th and 1. It's one little yard and nine times out of ten the team going for it, makes it. So why do coaches give up the drive and punt the ball?

Yesterday, I feel like I got the answer. That final yard is different than the previous nine. The defense comes on harder, the pressure is heavier, and the stakes are higher. It can be the longest, toughest yard of the game, so to play it safe, most teams just avoid it. The realization came to me as I was running my own fourth and one.

It's my fourth time down a 26.2 mile road, but my first time doing it as a mother. And it's a whole different ball game. Getting a good night's rest isn't possible, my stride isn't the same, my breathing is off, my pace is slower, and yes, my boobs continue to be a burden. Around mile 13 of 16 yesterday, I was about ready to punt. With each hot step of those final miles, I asked myself why I was doing this? I was already up - why should I keep driving?

The shirt I was wearing reminded me though. As a member of Team RMHC, I'm going the distance to support the more than 8,000 mothers who are staying at Ronald McDonald Houses this evening. They are there, watching over their babies as they fight illness or injury in the hospital. I'm running so if God forbid, Mary got sick - so sick that we had to travel to receive the best care for her - we would have a place to call home temporarily. I'm running so I could be there to hold her little hand, give her hugs and kisses, and help her fight.

It hurt a little more than usual, but I ended up converting yesterday. And we celebrated of course. With champagne, friends, and a whole lot of smoked protein.

It's been a tough call and a tough training season, but I have no doubt that I will be able to find a hole and push through the finish line on October 13 with more than 600 of my fellow Team RMHC runners.

Your support helping me get there, is always appreciated. Your support helps give children the best medicine of all - their families.

http://teamrmhc.kintera.org/teamlo

Lo.

Meritages

When I bellied up to the tasting bar of Seghessio Vineyards in Sonoma, California, I felt like I was expected to discern certain taste points. The informative vineyard guide, Mediterranean in skin tone and hair quality, waited with baited breath as I sipped. I did the swirl and smell - a pre-tasting ritual I had seen countless time in the movies. Mouth slightly ajar, I swished and swallowed.

With eager eyes, luminous really, she asked me, 'so what do you think?'
'Delicious.'
She was polite, patient. 'Great. Great. I like it too. Here's what I taste.'
She went through the tannins and just where they should hit. She described the mouth feel, legs, and rich color. She told me about the complexity of Fuji apple, honeysuckle, melon, Meyer lemon and minerals coming together in a glass. She broke down rich combinations of coffee, plum and Bing cherry, with subtle notes of smoke. She told the seductive stories of earth, vine, grapes, age, and people. Virginia Madsen would have been proud; Paul Giamatti would have made out with her. She described the perfection in ratios - 80% Chardonnay, 20% Pinot Gris. 75% Cab Franc, 25% Merlot. 65% Zinfandel, 25% Pinot, 10% Cabernet. 100% amazing. 

I took another sip and made one more verbal contribution. 'Very' was added to 'delicious.'    

As much as I love the precise vocabulary dedicated to the art of wine consumption and as much as I respect the careful marriage of varietals and history to create an idyllic wine, when I find a glass that I really like, that's all that matters. It tastes amazing; I'm drinking it; and it's part of a moment that I will remember forever.


The same can be said for other things that have made bold statements in my life. Say the blend I found when I walked through the doors of the Mendoza College of Business for the first time in August of 2007. High-waisted black pants, green tank tucked in, black stilettos, Furla tote. I took one look around and quickly assessed a ratio that was too good to be true; 75% single men, 15% single women, 10% married; a balance that was better than any meritage I tasted this past weekend. I didn't waste any more time thinking about it - I was in a place and position that felt right. Delicious, really.

I often get asked if getting an MBA was a good investment. While I could probably pull facts and figures that would demonstrate an outstanding ROI: list companies and jobs, preach values-based business models, weigh salaries, impact, published articles, products developed, products launched, stocks traded, bonds sold, and problems solved: the one thing that made my MBA experience so valuable was the dating meritage that put the odds in any single girl's favor. 

So when my questioner is a woman, the answer is always an overwhelming, 'yes,' with the hint that she might just end up with a duel degree: an MBA and an MRS. And I bet at least eight other women I went to school with would say the same thing. Including my friend Carrie who radiantly walked down the aisle this past weekend to say 'I do' and create her own perfect B-school blend.


After a wonderful weekend, a wonderful wedding, and a whole lot of wine, I can safely say that some of the best blending I've ever tasted is in Sonoma. And we will definitely return. But for now, onward toward finding a more realistic meritage; that of work, family, and of course, wine.

Lo.

Gary

Gary, Calvary Camp Director / Manager / Pocket-sized Poobah / I don't really know what his title was, he was just Gary. The guy who always wore Sambas. Who taught us the Titanic song. Who sat on a stool on the first night of camp and told us the rules. Treat each other with respect. Participate. No smoking, drugs or alcohol. And absolutely no going outside the boundaries of camp. He would slowly, methodically recite the longitudes and latitudes that defined our white-washed world for the next two weeks and gesture in the direction of each.
That tree line.
Lake Road.
The counselor's cabins. 
Lake Erie.
The only way we were allowed to cross said limits was hand in hand with a counselor.

As a young camper, I liked and respected the defined space of camp. It was safe, protected. As a 16-year old (even ugh 17-year old) camper, promoted to the league of Junior Counselors, I questioned and pushed the boundaries. I had crossed countless busy streets in my lifetime; the fact that I couldn't cross Lake Road unattended was exasperating.

With the return of my outstanding camper, confident in her camp prowess, this past weekend, Camp LaGrange was back is session. Joining her was a very little camper, excited for her very first summer camp experience. Because my camp co-director had the weekend off, I found myself playing the role of Gary. Toms replaced Sambas. The big comfy nursing chair replaced the stool. But there I was, laying out the ground rules and boundaries.

While Mary listened attentively, Erin interjected her opposition:
'This is so different from last year.'
'We used to be allowed to do that.'
'Can't we go down to the Lake yet?'

I pulled Erin aside and told her she was right - it was a different year - but she was a JC now and the most important thing was the safety of camp's littlest camper. So instead of biking, tennis, and boating electives, camp took a more low key course. Mary chose her electives wisely: reading, strolling, drinking milk, Bumbo chairing and bathing. 

And hand in hand with her counselors, she also got to venture out to La Grange's sister camp, Camp Naperville for a night of milk, margaritas, and melt downs. 

But even with the more baby friendly approach to camp this year, Erin and I still made room for evening devotions and a special JC elective - wine tasting. Our recommendation: the St. Supery Virtu.

To my campers - it was one great session. To Aunt Erin, you were the best JC ever and Mary and Mommy miss you so much!

Lo.

Amarycana

Like most national holidays, the Fourth of July isn't restricted to a day anymore. It takes up a week and in my neighborhood characterizes much of the month. Little red, white and blue flags line the streets, barbecue wafts from yard to yard, and just about every night you can hear a straggling firework explode.

It's the new New Year's - the holiday where people feel obligated to outdo last year's party; find the better Fireworks display, eat one more hot dog, drink one more Bud, make the memories last a little longer, then post photos that demonstrate an undying commitment to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

While in years past we could have staked our claim at beating out the Joneses when it came to Independence Day regalia, this year we downplayed our celebration. Basically, we went to the zoo and grilled burgers. I wish I could elaborate on Mary's first Fourth or at least tell you a baby's first fireworks story, but Mom and daughter were in bed by 9:00. Honestly, the only photos to commemorate our day were of wildlife.

The thing is, had Peter turned the camera the other way and instead captured the walkways snaking through the Brookfield Zoo, he would have captured a more honest portrait of Americana - an image that likely would have shocked Dick, Jane, and all the Mayberry-like Moms of my town - a census of the nation's population defined in two terms: diverse and fat.

It got me thinking about being American. A descriptor that characterizes such a variety of people and a notion that continues to change through the years. 50, 60 years ago, the crowds gathered at the Brookfield Zoo would have looked a lot different. Today, Mary will grow up with an understanding of being born and raised on U.S. soil that greatly differs from mine, just as mine differed from the generations before me. What I experienced in the past 30 years will be history lessons for Mary. Meghan won't just be your cousin; she'll be a national hero. The make-up of classrooms might make Mary a minority. She'll likely text to vote. And I'm hoping she'll finally see the day when all parties in this great nation are treated equally.

But what remains consistent is that being American means freedom and opportunity. That being a little patriot means Mary can do and be whatever she wants to - that no one can hold her back.

That everyday is a celebration of culture, tradition, and of course, food that melt into one nationality.

And above all, that genuine happiness is out there if you look in the right places.

Our celebration of America this month was merely a continued commemoration of our pursuit of happiness fulfilled - Mary. And the joy she brings to our lives everyday.

Lo.


Grilled Ratatouille 
Adapted from Bon Appetit 
Serves four

Ingredients:
Eggplant, cut into one inch slices 
Zucchini, sliced thickly
Summer squash, sliced thickly
Red bell pepper
2 plum tomatoes
5 bunches scallions
2-3 Tablespoons olive oil
1 Tablespoon white wine vinegar
Salt, pepper
Fresh tarragon

Directions:
Heat charcoal grill. Toss vegetables in 1-2 tablespoons olive oil and salt. Grill until just starting to char around the edges. Tomatoes will take the longest, so I would put them on first. The scallions only take about a minute, so they should be last. Remove everything. In a blender, puree the tomatoes with the rest of the olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. Chop up all vegetables into 1/2 inch pieces - bite size, letting juices escape but reserving all of them. Toss vegetables in bowl and pour tomato vinaigrette over them. Top with fresh tarragon and serve.

My Right Boob

A couple weeks ago, the priest at Mass took out his notes and started preaching the age old lesson that everyone has a cross to bear. I looked around and noticed certain members of the congregation postulating on theirs. The guy with the wrestling ear touched his lobe. The mom with the children who always misbehave held them tight. The fat kid put his arms across his chest. I pushed my right boob down.

My right side (the dominant one) - right calf, right hand, right bicep - is slightly bigger than my left. I run right, type right, eat right. What I didn't expect though was that during pregnancy (aka my stint as a bactrian camel) and nursing the same phenomenon would happen to my twin peaks. While my left boob has played a more mellow role in the nurturing of Mary, my right boob has been over eager to store, spurt, and overfeed. I remember waking up about four days after Mary was born, looking in the mirror and nearly fainting at the size of my engorged breast. It could easily have taken first prize at the county fair. 

So the first thing that came to mind when I heard, 'cross to bear' - was the burden that it is my lopsided right boob. While the general appearance of my listing chest is annoying, it's really something else that can be hard to bear. The judgement it and I get, particularly during my runs.

It's marathon training season in Chicagoland. It's also hot and humid. So I have been boldly going where perhaps no breastfeeding mom has gone before - running in a sports bra (well a double bagged one.) And with the removal of a mere layer, I have noticed the general female population turn against me.

While the leers I get from men, mouth agape, 'jackpot' mentally registering in their eyes make me want to run the other way; it's the looks I get from women that really get me riled up. They often come in pairs - two gossiping women, power walking or jogging along the street. Suddenly, their verbal exchange is hushed, their eyes roll, their heads shake, and I propel myself forward a little faster to avoid their assault.

A couple paces ahead, I replay the comments I assume their making in my mind:
What is this Baywatch?
That looks terrible.
Gross.
Put a shirt on.
Get a better sports bra. 
Just who does she think she is?!

Who do I think I am. Well, let's see.

I'm Olga's granddaughter and apparently I earned these aberrations of assets from her. I've been exercising and for that matter playing competitive sports with them all of my adult life; so I'm someone who is strong enough to carry an extra ten pounds on the trail with me every day.

I'm a breastfeeding mom - a woman who needs that right boob to take good care of her baby. I'm a mother who can't help the fact that her suckers store an insane amount of milk - an amount that even the best industrial grade pumps can't get out.

Yes, I'm a double D runner. And I'm likely running farther and faster than your triple A battery set will take you.

I'm someone who is perpetually annoyed with the selection of sports bras available for well endowed women. No, LuluLemon your ridiculous Ta Ta Tamer does not work for anything more than a downward dog pose.

I'm someone who hates them too; who thinks they look just as ridiculous, bouncing up and down as you do; who is embarrassed by your stares.

Really, my cross, like so many others', is my humanity - the skin that masks all that I am underneath.  Whether it's our size or shape, skin color, gender, or BMI. Whether it's a scar, mole, pattern of baldness or missing tooth. Every day people fight to help others understand that they are so much more than the sum of their parts. And sometimes, like today, it really frustrates me. 

As I put Mary down for a nap just now I wondered what mark would be her cross? Those rolly polly thighs? That widow's peak she inherited from her Mom? Whatever, my hope is that someday soon, we'll raise our children not to judge outward appearances and instead assess the soul.

Lo. 

Road Warrior

Have you ever seen one of those large SUVs or minivans, barreling through the side streets of your town, blowing stop signs right and left? Typically, it's navigated by a white-knuckled, crazed driver visibly cussing at every car that comes in her path. Female. Maybe 5'2 or 5'3. 120 pounds. Couldn't hurt a fly, but clearly on some sort of crucial, death defying mission.

I used to have a particular hatred of these vehicles and their careless drivers, because as a runner I was pretty sure they'd one day run me over. But on Monday afternoon, I decided to cut them a bit of slack as I discovered the treasure that they were likely pursuing: their children.

As the clock inched closer to 5:00 PM each day this week, I started mentally mapping the shortest route between me and Mary. In seven minutes or less, she would be in my arms again. I couldn't wait. And I couldn't stand the slow moving Cadillac in front of me yesterday.

I'm not going to lie, the past three days were tough. I had to drink an extra glass of water a day to replenish the tears that I shed. They say nothing can prepare you for labor. True. But mother to mother, nothing, NOTHING could have prepared me for the pain of leaving my daughter with virtual strangers while she cried for me to stay.

I survived though. And so did Mary. In fact, by yesterday afternoon, I would say I was actually feeling pretty good. While my fourth of July look is less fresh than I would have hoped - the eyes still sting a bit - my working mom outlook is a lot brighter. Every mother is different and like I said nothing can prepare you, but for my friends who will be in the same boat soon, here are some things I learned:

• Everyone told me to take it one day at a time. I would edit that statement; take it one hour at a time. 
• Tell your co-workers to treat you as if there was a death in your family. I felt like I was in mourning all week and was so grateful to the people who talked to me about other things besides the infant that I was missing; office gossip, office politics, the zit on your chin - all wonderful topics of conversation. Tell your coworkers never to ask, 'so how was it leaving your baby at day care?'
• Everyone advised me to make dinners and freeze them back in February - that we would need them when the baby arrived. Those dinners are finally coming in handy. Stock up now.
• Don't wear makeup to work.
• Put a pair of sun glasses in your desk drawer and pack some cucumber slices with your lunch.
• If you can, go back to work on a short week. Thank you, Fourth of July!
• Find a day care close to your office, not necessarily your house. Being able to visit over my lunch hour was invaluable.  
• Come back to work when you know your devices are seriously outdated. Getting a new phone and a new computer in one week was pretty awesome.
• Hold off on introducing yourself to your new officer until you know your tear ducts are dry.
• Work for my company. Coming back to beautiful flowers and chocolates on my desk, compassionate colleagues who are lined up to hug you, a wall covered with photos of Mary, an early dismissal, a quiet mother's room where it's okay to shed a couple extra tears (and of course your milk), lunch dates, inspiring work assignments, and the best boss was invaluable. I love my McJob, my McFamily and the amazing support they offer working moms.
• When you get home hold your baby as tight as can be.
• And cherish every second of a day off.

Happy Fourth of July!

Lo.

Just

In an effort to reconcile my mixed feelings about going back to work on Monday, I'm trying to figure out what exactly I accomplished over the last three and a half months. See, I had deemed my leave from work, a maternity sabbatical, rather than something HR could classify as short term disability. I was going to visit friends from coast to coast; I was finally going to write that book; I was going to garden, redo our patio, and host multiple parties lawn side; I was going to have play dates with Cristine (sorry, totally spaced on Thursday) and lunches at the Zoo with Peter; I was going to go to Mass everyday and read the Bible cover to cover. I was going to have a baby, make a million cakes, and eat every single one of them. Long story short, I didn't do any of that. Not one stinking thing. And I'm sitting here wondering how - how was that possible?

Cue the 'aha!' moment. Mary. Motherhood. Took up all my time. I can't market, sell, or account for what I accomplished over the last three and a half months, but giving the best care I could to my little girl was the most valuable experience ever.

Admittedly, and I'm honestly embarrassed to say this, I used to qualify house mothers with a 'just.' Oh, she's 'just a stay at home mom.' (Eek.) It was a demeaning statement filled with ignorance. And I apologize for it, enlightened by my non-stop, full-time, often exhausting role taking care of Mary.

As the daughter of a power mom, and niece, friend and colleague to many more, I've spent a lifetime culturing an innate urge to work, nickel and dime every activity I did and watch my deposits add up. I had high flying places to go, problems to solve, and things to say. After landing a dream job, putting my heart and soul into it, and finding myself on an exciting professional trajectory, I never once thought about leaving my career for house work. But on my so called sabbatical, I certainly got an education - Mary care is the most rewarding, meaningful and important job I can do. And I'm a little sad that I can't make it my full-time career.

Why? There are a lot of reasons, but the biggest one is because it doesn't pay. The government doesn't subsidize it, there are no private investors lining up to my fund it, and I was buying cocktail dresses and shoes when I could have been saving to support it.

Mary, I know you are just a baby, but I'm nervous that you are going to think that I have abandoned you tomorrow morning. And I'm sorry that you might get scared. But know that when I leave you in the expert care of my helping hands tomorrow, our time apart is just temporary. Know that in the taste of your milk and the smell of your freshly laundered blanket, I am still with you. And know that you are still with Mommy - on my desk, across my computer, in my heart. Know that while the work I did watching you every day was irreplaceable, I'm helping other children and families now too.

I'm going to work because I want to make sure your home is always comfy and cozy. Because I want to take you back to Edgartown again and all around the world. Because I want you to be able to go to the college of your choice. (Although, you're still applying for every scholarship they offer.)

I'm going back to work because I want to help make sure that if you and Mommy and Daddy ever need a Home Away From Home, we will have one. Because I want to make sure that all children can get the kind of care you have received over the past three and a half months. Because I really love the work that I do - I love telling the stories of other children, even little babies like you, and their families and how our programs helped them heal. And because, yes, I want your brothers and sisters to inherit a little ketchup in their veins as well.

I'm going back to work because I want to be able to tell you stories of the far-reaching adventures I've had and I want you to have adventures all your own. Most importantly, I'm going back to work because I want to make sure that every minute I spend with you is a cherished one.

Know that I'll be counting down till pick-up time and that every hour in the evening will be dedicated just to you and daddy. 

Lo / Mommy