A Couple Clicks

My niece has a pair of sparkly red shoes. She wore them several times when I was home this past week. She loves them and believes they go with everything. Which leads me to think she is wise beyond her three and a half years. After all, glittering ruby slippers have a history of providing security at times when a girl needs it most. Perhaps she already knows that with three clicks and the mantra, 'there's no place like home,' she can transport herself to the best place on Earth: for a preferred snack, a more comfortable nap, a change of costume, or a hug and squeeze from Mom and Dad. If I had a pair, I'd surely wear them all the time as well.

Within the shoe boxes that lazily rest in the attic of my closet, I have a pair of red patent leather Mary Janes and a pair of red suede pumps with pink trim. No sparklers. But it hasn't prevented me from finding the way back home throughout the years I've been away. I was actually wearing cowboy boots last Wednesday morning when I flew the friendly skies back to Pittsburgh to visit my family for Easter.

The trip was smoother than a Twister, but with two kids and one Mom less graceful than Glinda's floating bubble. Regardless, we made it, and Nana's hug on the other side of security was warmer than Aunt Em's and Uncle Henry's wash cloth.

While my beloved hometown continues to evolve, in many ways moving straight from the early 90s to a very hip, modern metropolis, much of what I love about the city stays the same. Emerging from the Fort Pitt Tunnel to an epic view of the city's glowing skyline makes you feel infinite. The roads that meander in concert with the rolling geography force you to lose all sense of direction. Prantl's pastries are still perfectly glazed with icing and Soba's cocktails are still deliciously buzzworthy. Although the sidewalks around the East End seem to get bumpier and bumpier, the morning views of Downtown and Oakland around their bends are as beautiful as ever. Descendants of Carnegie, Frick and Mellon still hang out at the Pittsburgh Golf Club, and stressed out lawyers extend courtroom disputes on the Rivers Club basketball court. The same smiling sales people are waiting to take care of you at Littles, while the same skeptical sales women at Dina Ellen give you the once over. The people still talk with a twang they call Pittsburghese, they dress like everyday is Super Bowl Sunday, and they make daring Pittsburgh lefts before the oncoming traffic steps on the gas. And nestled away above my parents garage, my childhood room remains almost exactly as I left it.

The dulcimer I made in fifth grade still plucks. my clarinet still croons, and my tap shoes can still muster up a good jingle. Molly McIntire and her collection of miniature 1940's memorabilia teach history lessons and the Fisher Price Guys make the mechanics of city life approachable for tiny hands. The books that I never got around to reading still line the shelves and my collection of china animals continue to collect dust in their shadow box. My night stand is crammed with photos and letters and a collection of Disney read along tapes; my desk is framed with accolades from St. Edmund's, Ellis, and Notre Dame; and my closet boasts some of my more garish dance costumes from recitals past. Home, is as sweet as I remember it.

It was the first time in a while that I had celebrated Easter in Pittsburgh. It was also a first for Peter, Mary and Bobby. And my parents didn't skimp on making it a memorable time for all of us. I'd say it was perfect, but there were of course some blunders. Mary won the fussiest child at St. Bede's award, the Easter Bunny was a little creepier than I remember, I felt nostalgic for the great McMurray egg hunt, there were major sugar highs and lows, and par for the course, I found a way to get sick once again. But I loved every minute of being home for the holiday.

On Monday morning, my kids clicked their shoes and found themselves back in their Midwestern home by midday. Judging by their extended naps that afternoon, I think they liked being in their own beds, in their own rooms, in their own, familiar house. It made me hopeful that I'm creating a place for them as special as the one my parents created for me and my brother and sister. And I hope that even if they don't have red shoes when they're older, they will find a way to click their heels together and find their way home as frequently as possible.

Lo. 

Springing

The other day, I was walking around the block with Mary and Bobby and ran into some of the neighbors. They were gushing over the babies and wistfully peering back at their own, who had quickly grown into five, six and seven-year olds.

They both lamented that they were a little baby crazy - they wanted an infant in their arms again. However, despite their urges, they were satisfied with their lot in life for one reason: sleep. There is nothing sweeter than a sound night of it; and there is nothing worse than not getting it. They were not doing sleeplessness again. Brian likened sleep deprivation to torture. And I've got to say, around weeks six and seven of being a mother of two and near zombie, I related. There were days when the only fussy baby in the house was me, and I hated it.

About a week ago though, I finally woke up on the right side of the bed. It was the day after we had the brilliant idea to use our Pack n Play as a crib. We had been debating buying another, because Mary wasn't making the move to her new bed soon enough. Just like that, everyone slept better. Than ironically, once Mary saw Bobby sleeping soundly in a crib, she decided she was too big for hers. So for the past four days, everyone's been sleeping in their own bed, in their own room, through the night. And I have never felt better. Easter Sunday came a little early in this household.

I feel like I've learned a lot along the way though. Raising two children so close in age is not easy and I know when a third comes along it's going to get even more challenging. But so I don't forget, here are the things I am recommending for myself and anyone else who is expecting another wee one under their roof in the near future:

• Get help. You will need it. 
• A Pack n Play is basically the same thing as a crib. And it's okay to put your baby in it as soon as possible. I wish we hadn't waited till week eight.
• Start pumping right away so you can top off your baby at the end of the day. We started doing that recently and Bobby has been sleeping longer and longer.
• My brother introduced me to the concept of independent play. It's pretty self explanatory, but there are certain toys and activities that can give you enough time to take care of your other baby at the same time. Start practicing independent play with your kid before the baby arrives.  
• Don't make it about his time and her time, make it about everyone's time. 'Do together' as Mary says. 
• The iPad can be your best friend. Embrace it. Especially when you are trying to make dinner.
• Try to get rid of your older child's security things before or shortly after the baby arrives. We got rid of Mary's bottle recently, and she has never eaten better or acted more mature. 
• Get back to the things you love to do ASAP. Getting outside and running each day was a saving grace when I wasn't sleeping. 
• And schedule a date night even sooner.  
• Take as many pictures as possible. I know my babies will be in college before I know it.
• You and your babies will sleep again. So go ahead, have another. 

With that, we're packed up and heading to Pittsburgh to celebrate Easter. It's O'Hare versus this mother of two. Wish us luck. 

Lo. 

The Optimist

Bobby is two months old today. He celebrated by sleeping six hours straight last night. I celebrated with a sign of relief.

Bobby's two month milestone also means that I've been out of the work force for about 60 days now. And while I'm mostly content keeping the rigor of my job at bay, in the middle of my performance review over the phone today, I realized there were things that I was missing.

Like turning on my computer with a purpose greater than mapping my run or talking and salivating over food trends with Chef Jessica; the Take Five bars stashed in my desk drawer and the crushed ice at the beverage bar; the satisfaction of creating a beautiful power point, delivering a presentation that ends in a pat on the back, and saying TGIF like I mean it; and having a cadre of colleagues to spew thoughtless dialogue at. Whenever something pops into my mind at work, good or bad, I always feel like I have someone to share it with. And generally speaking, the recipient of my projectile new flash is able to respond, relate, or better yet, remove it from my brain.

This week, I feel like my mind was spinning with stuff. And most of the time it wasn't good stuff. Every day seemed to bring a new stress that I wished I could ping at someone over the wall. Instead I found myself letting everything fester within the small frame of my house.

Within the past week ...
I entered the unpaid part of my maternity leave.
I lost my debit card.
I was accosted by a drunk homeless man in Chicago.
I was told I have three more cavities. Not including the massive one in my upper left wisdom tooth which is very close to hitting the nerve.
I scheduled a follow up exam with my doctor.
My 'social' life told me that everyone was moving up and on, looking better than ever, relocating to the house of their dreams, and toasting the fine life with trendy cocktails ... all while I nursed my baby in the wee hours of the morning.
I was discouraged that on the heels of the stomach flu, I got sick. Congested, stuffy, feverish, depressingly sick.
And it snowed all over spring today.

On Saturday evening, if you asked me to fill out the are-you-too-sad-to-get-on-with-life questionnaire the doctor asks you to fill out as you are discharged from the hospital after giving birth, I think I would have circled some of the less optimistic answers.

That is, until Peter snapped me out of it. He told me that bad moods are contagious and in short that I needed to turn my attitude around. It only took a couple hours to see that my mood was really just a function of blurred vision; dwelling on the negative and not opening my eyes to the bigger, better picture.

Say that within an hour, a friend of a friend had found my debit card on the sidewalk and it was back in my hand. Or that Bobby rolled over for the first time and Mary went tinkle in the potty (twice!) That the corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick's Day was delicious. And the hash Peter fried up after church on Sunday was even better. That my performance review went well and that I'll surely have an impact when I return in May. That life in all of it's stages and with all of its stress isn't just manageable, it's beautiful.

I believe that part of your job as a parent is to be an eternal optimist. To make life as carefree as possible for the little ones growing up under your imperfect roof. And it's my job as a spouse to make sure that my partner knows that the congestion will clear up, a neighbor will return the debit card, and the tulips out front will still bloom when the snow melts.    
Lo.