More

Mary graduated from nearly eight months of day care with several original pieces of artwork, a close-knit group of baby confidants. an iron immunity, and one piece of baby sign language: the word more.

While the framework for this language acquisition was likely learned around the Cheerio distribution circle, Mary has creatively applied the command to all aspects of her life. If she likes something, she offers immediate feedback by signing and asking for 'more.'  

Over the past week, as we vacationed in Seabrook Island, South Carolina, 'more' was the order of most every hour.

More bikes and more boats.

More beach toys. 

And more people to share them with. 

More digging.

Keep going.

More poooooool. And more jumping in it.

More corn bread.  

And lots more ice cream. 

 

Definitely more Yaya. 

More everyone really.  

More horsies. More doggies. More feeesh.  

More board walking.

 

More big houses. 

And more fun ways to reach them.

More sun filled days with Mommy and Daddy. 

More really big trees.

And little bridges.

Her enthusiasm eventually reached me as I found myself asking for more pink skies. 

And more elegant wake up calls.

More stress free dinners

 

And more time just to take my time.

More days spent outside of my in-box. And with the people I love. 

And just as I pulled up to the United ticket counter, packed and ready to go back to reality, I was ready to barter for a little more vacation. 

Turns out it was an easier exchange than I thought. Vacation apparently worked. We had inherently lost track of time and with it, our flight. As we missed our boarding time and found a place to stay, Mary's final plea for more came true. So here's to one more night of vacation. 

Lo. 

Who's That Girl

Like any proud bride, I have several wedding portraits displayed around my house. They are beautiful moments frozen in time - memories of love, lights, cameras and glamour.

Looking at them, I can feel the butterflies and the tears that I couldn't prevent as I walked down the aisle. I can see the loving looks, and feel the hugs and kisses. I can hear the first and last dances as the band played until the wee hours of the morning. I can taste the champagne and the icing on the cake. I can smell the flowers and my perfume. I can feel the sun (and the heat) as we took one last picture at Mellon Park. I can see the ballroom doors opening and the most opulent gift from my hardworking parents unveiled. I can see my ever-growing family. All my friends. The dress. The hair. The makeup. Love, perfectly posed as Purvis directed, toasted with expensive champagne.

Mary is in a phase where she loves identifying who or what is in a picture. I point. She tells me what she sees.
Meow. Meow.
Dog.
Mooo.
Nana.
Apo.
(Opa, honey.)
Mimi.
Oh! Oh! Yaya.
(Lyla, close enough.)
TRUCK!
BUS!
TRAIN!
Daddy.
And ...
And ...
And who's that, Mary?
Who's that girl?

That's where she goes blank. That's when she wants to go downstairs and color again. She is stumped and thus the name game is over.
That's Mommy, honey. Mommy.
She gives me a once over. ''Mommy,' she says as she points to me. She looks at the picture again and thinks, riiiiight. I try not to take offense, but I can't help but think, do I look so different?

Maybe it's because she can't imagine my baby bump or baby boobs fitting into Vera Wang.
Maybe it's because she's never seen my last single girl shoes.
Maybe it's because my hair is never down, and certainly never looks as good as it did on that day.
Maybe it's because she's not wriggling her way in between Mommy's and Daddy's arms.
Or maybe it's because she sees Daddy's queen as a little less dressed up. And the love that her Mom and Dad share every day as something less formal - more down to earth. Something that is celebrated less royally, and committed to more quietly.

Three years later, a baby and a half later, I still look back on September 3, the days leading up to it, and the glamorous honeymoon that followed, as best evers. I look at our pictures as if they can't be topped. And I wonder if I will ever look quite that good again.

Maybe. Maybe not. But the thing is, the every day 'I dos' - the offerings, thank yous, embraces, jokes, and I love yous, squeezed in between early mornings, busy work days, and those dreaded cries in the middle of the night, are sometimes more beautiful than couture. And I know that when Mary looks close enough, she'll recognize the smile of the girl in the picture. It's the same one that Daddy's given Mommy each day he has shared with her.

Lo.

#MattWedsKat

In the past couple years, I've been to at least a half dozen weddings that have leveraged hashtags. The social identifier becomes a billing for guest participation, an open invitation for selfies, and a means to aggregate a collection of wedding shots and commentary in real time.

Mostly, the subjects of these indexes were my age like the majority of their guests. By the last dance, dozens of outtakes had registered on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. In retrospect, nothing compared to the vast, scrolling library of images and messages that Matt and Katrina racked up last night.

Matt is my first cousin, once removed. Cousin Bob's son. Growing up, Matt and his brothers were the smaller versions of my little brother. Equally athletic, equally as emotional about Notre Dame football, equally as dressed up at Family Reunions. Katrina, his blushing bride is a St. Mary's grad, passionate non-profit marketer, and the original subscriber to my blog. (Love her.) Both mid 20s. Both among the younger half of the Millennial generation.  

Yesterday, they joined hands in marriage while their friends and family tweeted the play by play. It wasn't just the avid social sharing that made this wedding day distinct, there were other Millennial monikers that stood out.

There were more single ladies lined up to catch the bouquet than I have ever seen.
And man, did they know how to dance.
The couple had practiced their kiss, so they were going to get it right for the camera.
Chipotle got a nod during the maid of honor's speech.
Frozen got a standing ovation.
The Bridesmaids dresses were a whole lot better.

The little bubble blower was mine.

Everyone had an iPhone.
And everyone used the hashtag.

But mostly, next generation nuptials have more in common with their predecessors than not.
Still, nothing beats the second the back door of the Church opens.

Or that moment that a beaming bride gets lost in an eye lock with her handsome prince.

There will always be proud fathers and teary mothers.

I dos ...

will be followed by a kiss that seals the deal.

There will be thunderous applause after Mass.
(More of that, Mommy.)

Little girls will want to look just like Princess Katrina someday.

Brothers will sit together, remembering when.

Cousins who grew up will dance circles around each other.

Cocktails will be served at dusk.

And dancing will go on till dawn.

All day, the love shared by the couple will reflect in the eyes and hearts of those in attendance.

And a whole lot of people will come together to wish the bride and groom love, laughter and a lifetime of happiness today. 

Tomorrow.

 And all the days of their life. 

Congrats Matt and Kat!  
Lo.    

Illinois

The other day, a little girl on the street showed us the bug she had caught. I coaxed Mary to take a closer look at the potato bug as Anna crinkled up her nose and told me it was a rolly polly! It's not the first time that terms and phrases from my childhood have confused others. Lighting bugs. Oh, fireflies. Hello Dollies. Oh, seven layer bars. Fritzers. Yeah, those would be farts.

Growing up, Hello Dollies or seven layer bars were a seasonal cookie, available just twice a year: the week of Christmas and the week we were in Quincy, Illinois with my grandparents.

Usually that trip required a flight to St. Louis; then a two-hour drive in our family-sized Buick rental, boasting just enough room to prevent space wars from breaking out.

You could tell we were almost there by the slowing pace of the world - the car pulling off the Highway and onto Broadway Street, the light softly setting over the Coca Cola plant, the gentle sway of the Sycamore Trees, and the sweet smiles of kids catching lighting bugs. As my Dad would point out where Sally, Marshall, Riff and Dean the Butter Bean used to live, my Mom would pass around her little pink brush. Shoes on. Brush hair. Pack stuff up.

Even in the dim light, you could see my Grandparents oak tree as soon as we turned the corner onto Forrest Avenue. Behind it was the little white house labeled 719. We would park in the driveway lined with roses and shuffle up the stairs to the front door. Butterflies, fluttering with anticipation of cookies, circled through my stomach. By the time my Dad rang the door bell, my Grandma and Grandpa were there to open it. I would have lingered over my hug and kiss longer, but I could see that platter, particularly the line of Hello Dollies from the doorway. Heaven in the form of a bite-sized layer cookie melted in my mouth.

We would take turns bragging about ourselves, giving my Grandma and Grandpa dance recital, home run, A+, and leading role proof points. Around my fourth, okay fifth Hello Dolly, my Grandpa would start to nod off or as he put it, rest his eyes. He was snoring five minutes later.

Bedtimes didn't matter on arrival night. Cookies, hugs and checking into Uncle Jim's old bedroom / corner of a hallway were the only prerogative. My sister would get the next bed over in Aunt Ann's room. Come to think of it, Erin was the only one who actually got a room. My parents and Adam always slept on the cots in the basement next to the ping pong table.

I would finally fall asleep on that first night with sweet visions of radio rolls, roast beef, Dieter's chipwiches, and Spring Lake dancing through my head. A week of fun, exclusively manufactured in Illinois, awaited.

***

There is something about where I live: the Sycamore Trees in the parks, the smell of my gas stove as I turn it on, the Fiesta Ware in my cabinets, the lighting bugs and potato bugs in my back yard, and the August air that reminds me of Quincy every summer. Maybe it's just having Illinois in common, but something about living in Chicagoland brings me a little closer to my Grandparents. And I feel like it's my responsibility to bring a little bit of Quincy to my guests, especially when they happen to be family.

Last night, Mary stayed up to see Nana and Opa arrive. She waited on the front stoop with me, eating her first Hello Dolly as a couple lighting bugs flickered around her. It was getting close to her bedtime, but it was a special night, so I let her stay up. It was worth it; worth the hellos, the hugs and the extra Hello Dolly.

Lo.

Hello Dollies

Ingredients: 
1 cup butter, melted
1 cup graham cracker crumbs
1 cup chopped walnuts
1 cup (plus a little more) chocolate chips
1 cup (plus a little more) butterscotch chips
1 cup sweetened coconut flakes
1 can Eagle brand condensed milk

Directions: 
Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

In a 9x9 inch pan, mix together butter and graham cracker crumbs and press down to line the pan with a graham cracker crust. On top, evenly sprinkle nuts. Then layer on morsels - I do chocolate and then butterscotch. On top evenly sprinkle coconut and then top, evenly again, with sweetened milk.

Bake for 25-30 minutes or until the coconut is golden and toasted. Let cool for at least 30 minutes. It's easier to cut them and pull them out of the pan though when they are completely cooled. I cut them small, because they are so indulgent and they need to fit in little hands.

Mary Poppins

I grew up with two working parents: briefcases, power suits, Dictaphones, billable hours, stethoscopes, depos, caths, on-call nights, thirty-minute meals, and a nanny. Well technically quite a few babysitters - full-time, part-time and special guest appearance caregivers. But only two superstar sitters.
 

Patty.
Patty was sitting on our big Bartlett Street Porch painting watercolor murals on our legs. Jumping through the sprinkler to wash our masterpieces off. Digging through the Goody Closet - a little cupboard in the basement, filled with recyclables primed for paper mache - to pick the right supplies. Tic Tacs in the armrest of a white Chevy Beretta. Sleepovers in Cranberry. Fashion shows. Matzo. And the Squirrel Hill Library.  

And Debbie.
Debbie was frosted and permed hair. White Reebok sneakers. Skipping nap time. Getting my back tickled. Speeding down the high hills of West Mifflin in a maroon Buick Monte Carlo. Pop music. Pop culture. Mountainous portions of Linguine with Clam Sauce. Four tacos. Two Big Macs. Getting my makeup done for dance recitals. And knowing how special I was to her. 

While nothing ever replaced the hugs and squeezes that my parents gave me at the end of the day; or seeing them appear in the stands of one of my field hockey games; my nannies held a unique place in my heart.  

***

Mary's understanding of growing up in a two-income household might be slightly different than my own. The legal and medical terms have been replaced with burgers, fries and bank statements. And there's no need to preemptively add a Dr. onto anyone's name. But it was my hope earlier this year, when we switched from day-care to a full-time nanny, that Mary would get to have a relationship similar to the ones I had.

Earlier this week, first thing Monday morning to be exact, Eva came back from vacation just as Mary and I were returning from our run. It was the first time Mary had seen her in 10 days. I didn't make it two feet into our driveway before she squirmed out of her stroller and into the arms of her beloved Nanny. She remained locked in the biggest, longest hug I've ever seen her give anyone for nearly ten minutes. I honestly thought she was going to cry.   

One of the greatest fears of a working mom is that her child will end up loving his or her care giver more than her. As I witnessed the sweet embrace of Mary's reunion with Eva, the thought flickered through my mind. And my heart. But as I drove away on Monday morning, Mary proactively saying 'bye bye' as she blew bubbles from the stoop, I didn't feel sad at all. Instead I felt relieved, thankful, and reassured of my post at my desk, on the road and behind the counter every day.  

I know I'm not always there. I know there are bubbles, bike rides, swimming lessons, songs, dances, books, flowers, picnics, and play dates that I will miss. But I love that you have someone so special to share them with. I love that you have stories and memories that are tailored for you and Eva. And Mary, I'll tell you just what my parents told me: I promise to always be there when you need me. 

For all your shows.
For all your games.
For all your commendations. 

Even for all those events scheduled by and for PTA Moms.
I promise to sing and dance with you.
To read to you.
To laugh with you.
To show you the world.  

I promise to be your personal chef. Most every night of the week.
I promise to be your running partner. Or vice versa.
And I promise to try to keep the West Wind away from Eva.

Lo.