My Two Weeks

In the Fall of 2002, my junior year of college, I took the pursuit of Art History to Rome. As a Varsity Athlete, my collegiate sojourn abroad was a little more problematic than others; that is, there was a high probability that while away, I would lose my starting spot to some up and comer, leaving me benched upon my return. Whatever. I decided to gamble. I could smell the focaccia, gelato, and Italian leather from South Bend. Go ahead, duke it out on the field; I was going shopping. Internationally. And I was never coming back. 

I had packed my lacrosse stick, a pocket sized training regimen, and the intention of staying in shape, which I took to the smelly, spandex ridden Italian gym promptly after unpacking. But a couple weeks into my love affair with Europe, I traded in sprints for long leisurely runs that stretched from Brunelleschi's arms to Constantine's feet. I translated weight lifting into carrying fresh vegetables home from the market. I put away my shot guns and took out Barolos and Chiantis. I found a host of unathletic friends who taught me to laugh in new ways. And I loved every second of it. 

When November turned to December, I started to dread by return home. Never was suddenly now, and I wanted to avoid it at all costs.

After the holidays, I walked onto the turf for the first time in six months. A two hour practice, weight lifting session, and timed sprints later, I crawled off the field in tears and called home. I told my Dad that I was quitting. Then and there. I wasn't the same person anymore; I had matured; out of this and into something else. My Dad digested my garbled sentences, told me to give it two weeks, then passed the desperate message onto my brother. In so many words, my younger sibling told me I was idiot; he told me to get down off my four inch stiletto pedestal and back on the field. 

I told myself I was doing it for them. So I would go back tomorrow. And the next day. The first couple weeks were tough. Our first game that season, when I warmed the bench after working so hard for my starting position the year before was even tougher. My body ached and my spirit was bruised. But bit by bit, I regained lost ground, won back my spot on the field, and found a rhythm and balance to my experience at Notre Dame that fit. I was still able to keep the identity that I had uncovered in Rome while riotously laughing in the locker room. In the end, I think I was a better student and a better lacrosse player, because I did both to the fullest. And to this day, I thank my Dad and brother for telling me to stick it out.  

***

Just about two years ago, I dropped Mary off at day care for the first time, and drove to work as wells of tears fell from my eyes and soaked the steering wheel. They were sad tears - like really sad tears. It was an uncontrollable pain that I had never felt. The little baby that needs you, her mom, so much is suddenly separated from you for eight or nine hours a day, and you have no real oversight over her care from minute to minute. I could sense her fear, hear her cries, feel her hunger from miles away, and I hated not being able to comfort her. Three days in a row my boss sent me home at noon. The puddles of tears around my desk were starting to flood the office. And she knew I needed a lifeboat.

Each night, that first week back to work, I cried as I nursed Mary to sleep. I looked up at Peter with the most pathetic pout and asked how we could make it if I stayed home instead of working. We ran some numbers. We could make some concessions if that's really what I wanted to do. But just like my Dad and brother, he told me to give it two weeks. 

Day by day, as Mary settled into her new routine, and as I settled into mine, life got easier and I was finally able to come up for air and dry my eyes. Mary seemed happy in her day care classroom. My mind was ecstatic to be exercising again. And our house knew nothing but love and joy when everyone was reunited under one roof at the end of the day.

Last week, I thought back on previous returns. And last Tuesday morning, I was prepared for tears. But they didn't fall. I went back to work almost ceremoniously. I waved goodbye to the kids as they were enveloped in love by our Mary Poppins, and drove to the office with a competitive charge pulsing through my body. I was ready to get back on the playing field, to help turn the business around, to take my starting position, and to kick Taco Bell's ass. 

The past two weeks at work, despite the tenuous business environment, have been wonderful. (My colleagues are likely rolling their eyes.) And with each passing day, I confirmed something about myself. I'm a better mom as a working mom. And I'm a better employee because I'm a mother. I realized, more than ever, that I need the kind of balance in my life that comes from two intense regimens. There's no denying that there are days and weeks when it's really tough. Generally, I'm always exhausted. And there are certainly sacrifices that we, as a family, have to make. But honestly, everyone seems happier choosing their own adventure during the day, then coming home to tell their unique tales around the dinner table. 

So I'm giving working moms the same advise I was given by working dads in the past. Give it two weeks. Or a little more, if you are still on the fence. Don't quit until you're absolutely sure that you can't stop the tears. Don't quit until you find a childcare solution that really works for you and your family. And don't quit until you've found a job that gives you the balance you need as a Mom. We need more Mothers in the workforce, working their ways to the top. You earned that spot after all. Don't let the pompous Freshman take it from you.

And let me just tell you; the weekends (oh the weekends); having work weeks, makes quitting time on Friday so. much. sweeter. 

                 

Lo. 

The Best Job Ever

In sixth grade, I was on a mission to replicate Au Bon Pain's tuna salad. They had perfected the recipe in my mind; light on the mayonnaise, shaved carrot, seasoned with a hint of lemon; and I was convinced, armed with a can of Chicken of the Sea, I could bring it home. By the third trimester of that school year, I believe my version rivaled theirs, and buying a better baguette from Breadworks was my trump card.

That Spring, as I was mixing up yet another batch, I asked my Mom if she wanted me to make her a sandwich as well. She nodded as she told the school secretary, Mrs. Feeley, that I wouldn't be coming in today. Instead, I would be shadowing her, participating in Take Your Daughter to Work Day. I was so excited; not only to miss school, but to ride next to the Road Warrior all day, solving the mystery of what makes her power suits so powerful.

After dropping the kids off at school, my Mom and I used the car phone (novel technology in 1994) to check in with the office. Through a sniffily nose, her secretary Chris said everything was quiet so far. We hung up, then made our way to Mount Pleasant, a small coal mining town about an hour outside of Pittsburgh. We had one mission today: take a deposition. It was a term, like asbestos, toxic torts and dictation, that I had heard a thousand times around the dinner table, but like everything my Mom, esquire, did, I had a (very) limited understanding of what the legalese meant.

During my day on the job with my Mom, I learned that a deposition happens outside of a court room, that lawyers ask a lot of questions, that small towns have comically gigantic books where they record all that has gone on in their sleepy history, and that people from Mt. Pleasant speak a mean Yinzer. The thing I remember most though, was sitting side by side in my Mom's maroon Buick Park Avenue eating tuna salad sandwiches after the deposition was over. There in the car, my Mom broke out of her litigator tone, laughed with me about the size of the massive ledger, called Grandma to give her the play by play, and complimented me on a sandwich well made. Sure, she was one of the top lawyers in Western Pennsylvania, but in that moment I could tell her favorite job was being my Mom.

Despite not digesting the finer points of litigation, I learned a lot on Take Your Daughter to Work Day. Namely, that I wanted to be just like my Mom when I grew up. I wanted to have a career, and a car phone, and silk blouses tucked into tailored pant suits. More importantly, I wanted a family that I was working to support. I knew, judging from the occasional angst my Mom directed toward the PTA Moms, it would be a challenging pursuit, but I couldn't imagine doing it any other way.

After all, there was something more magical about my Mom pulling up in Sewickley to watch me play Field Hockey, or seeing her smiling face in a pew at Chapel or opening the lunch she had packed for me, labeled with her stylized handwriting. I knew how busy she was and how stressful her job could be, but my brother, sister and I always came first. And in her way, she took us to work every day - framed and arranged on her desk, as dividends of her pay checks that made private educations, vacations, dance classes, piano lessons, ski school and Au Bon Pain lunches possible, and in her thoughts and prayers as she road the interstates from Pittsburgh to Wheeling, West Virginia.

My mom taught me that motherhood is the best job of all. That family always comes first. And that paychecks are much better spent on the people that you love. As I head back to work on Tuesday, I will keep my Mom's example close, and my family closer.

To my Mom, on her special day, thank you for loving me so much and working so hard for me.

To my husband, on my special day, thank you for making me a mommy two times over. I am so (SO) blessed.

To SGS, thank you for hosting such a lovely, bubbly celebration at the Chicago Yacht Club today.

And to all the other mommies in my life, thank you for passing along your tips of the trade. Your support over the past two years has been invaluable.   

  

 

No doubt about it. I have the best job ever. 

Lo.

A Happy Hour

Several months ago, BB (before Bobby), I attended a seminar put on by the Working Mothers Network at my company. I typically 'tentatively accept' these kind of invites and never actually attend; a last minute meeting pops up, I need that extra hour to finish a presentation, I'm pregnant and can't get up, or I'm in no mood to network. But something told me to attend this particular installation.

Midway through the engineer and mother of two speaker's narrative, the story of balancing two high profile careers while raising a family strayed. She found herself at a crossroads, making a difficult decision after her family's third or fourth corporate relocation. Then and there she said goodbye to her career and hello to a full time role raising her children.

Oh.

I have to admit, I lost a little interest. And in a room of women grappling with their own life choices as well as a persistent sense of guilt and desire for more time with their families, I'm sure I wasn't the only one who felt pangs of jealousy.

I started to drift off into my own stay at home mom fairy tale, but was grounded again by an astute comment. She said that on Fridays everyone was always toasting to TGIF. But that in her world, there was no such thing. "TGIF?!" she said, "what does that mean?" There was no quitting time, no weekend break; if anything Saturday and Sunday brought their own challenges. I chewed on it, although admittedly, with a little skepticism.

Fast forward to now: one more kid, one testy two year old, three months of maternity leave, and one tired mama. I now understand what she was talking about.  

I used to think I knew what made the exclamation TGIF(!) so joyous; the work week was over, there was a cocktail in my hand, life was good. Now I have a deeper understanding of quitting time; mostly because as a parent, the job doesn't end on the commute home. TGIF requires a little something else. One word; three syllables. Babysitter. Oops, that's four syllables. Without one, as a (working or stay at home) parent you are basically always on the job. And on those days when your two year old refuses to take a nap, it can be downright exhausting.

It's not that I don't want to smother my kids with love every second of the day. It's just that sometimes, as a parent you need to press reset; you need to find time in your own space to connect as adults. For the past couple weeks, Peter and I have been doing just that on Friday evenings (thanks to one word, two syllables: Mimi.) It's just an hour or so - but they have been some of the happiest hours I've ever had.

My new found advice - it's doesn't have to be Friday or the end of the day or a national holiday - but find time for you and him to reinvent your own kind of TGIF moment each week. Or if you're lucky enough to have a stylish, party planning cousin who knows just how important happy hours filled with beautiful bites, signature cocktails, fabulous hats, and cute cater waiters are as well, get a sitter and race on over to her house pronto.  

 

     

 

Thanks Cousins Katie and Eric for giving quite a few mommies and daddies some fabulous hours way from home at your epic Derby Party yesterday. 

Lo. 

Yanked

Eleven years ago, I graduated from Notre Dame with a degree in Art History, a Monogram ring, a bunch of great friends, and four erupted wisdom teeth. Because there was plenty of room in my big mouth for them to nestle into their warm home, my adult dentist gave me a choice that summer: I could let them be or he could yank them out. Since my pediatric dentist and bearded orthodontist had spent years nurturing my family of teeth, I told Dr. Gruendel that I was ready to be a mother once again - to four massive molars at the very back of my jawline. Besides, without any job prospects or general direction in life, I thought I could use as much wisdom as possible.

One by one they came through without a problem, giving me a shark-like ability to bite through anything. No matter how stale the baguette or how crunchy the biscotti; now matter how chewy the caramel or sticky the toffee; no matter how tall the sandwich or wide the slice of pizza, my epic line up of teeth could gnaw through it. And I felt some pride in that toothy grin.

About three years ago though, I received the inevitable news. My four ferocious friends had cavities - big ones. The Naper dentist advised me to bid them a fond farewell immediately. But pregnancy, then another pregnancy prolonged their lifespan. It was at my last Naper check up that my X-rays revealed cavities so deep they were about to hit the nerve. So after a couple nightmares and a warning from Dr. Dad, consultations and arrangements were made with an oral surgeon and Michigan grad named Dr. Huvar.

Yesterday was the doomsday for my wisdom teeth. Early in the morning, on an empty stomach, Peter and I pulled up to a Naper suite for surgery. I was sedated shortly thereafter and within thirty minutes, each of my deep seated chompers was pulled out. I could actually still feel each of their departures from my mouth; my drugged goodbye was painless but bittersweet. We had been through a lot together - so many delicious morsels - so many butts of crusty French bread.

I asked if I could see their remains after I woke up. Through my foggy vision, there they were: darkened by ware and tare and cavities beyond repair. They looked so sad. I asked if I could take them home - but I was told they were a bio hazard. (Seriously?) So somewhere in Naperville my teeth were buried and laid to rest yesterday.

My nostalgia sounds silly, I know. But whenever you lose a piece of yourself it hurts a little. So to the savviest, smartest part of my mouth: thank you for more than ten years of amazing bites. You will be sorely missed.

Lo.

Body Language

I have a very curious, very vocal two-year old. From the moment she wakes up in the morning until her bedtime protests are silenced by a couple lullabies and sheer exhaustion, she wants to talk (or sing) to anyone willing to listen. While she has mastered identification of most everything in our house and the surrounding community, in her books, and in the wonderful world of Walt Disney's Cinderella, Bobby and her role as a big sister have inspired some additional language lessons over the past three months.

Like how she feels ... hot, cold, frustrated, sad and happy.
I want chocolate.
No.
I want chocolate.
No.
Mary frustrated. I need chocolate.
No, honey.
Mary sad. (Followed by a dramatic exodus to the sun room where she puts her head on the ottoman and pretends to sob.)
(And because it's really hard to keep saying no to her ...) Well, since you have been such a good big sister, you can have one Kiss.
Mary happy!

We've also been working on timing ... today and tomorrow, sleeping in between.
What's Mary, Mommy doing today?
I blow bubbles today.
And I go wimming (swimming) today.
I go Park today. Blue park.
Mary, Eva library today.
I eat kepitch (ketchup), drink milk today.
Mary, Mommy run, eat doughnuts today.
I want Daddy, basement, train tracks, Legos today.
I ride train, see Nanny Opa today.
Mary no nap today.
Mary wake up today.
Mary NO NAP!
Mary WAKE UP!
And on ...
And on ...
And on ...
Until she passes out.
In her mind, tomorrow brings the end of the weekend, Monday, work, and the end of my maternity leave. So everything has to happen today.

And we've learned a lot about mommies and their babies.
Mommy feed em. Milk in there. Two milks. I help. Empty. All done.
I want to hold him. I need wash cloth. (Positions burp cloth on her lap.)
Bobby spit up.
Mommy take em.
Mommy weep (sweep) it.

And she's starting to investigate boy stuff.
Bobby go first. Mommy change em. Poop in there.
Okay, Bobby's all clean. Mary's turn.
Poop in there.
No, he's all done honey. Come on, you're next.
No. Poop in there.
What?
Poop in there.
Oh.

And this is where I'm stumped. While I feel very comfortable guiding Mary through the dictionary and thesaurus, there is one category of verbiage that challenges me. Body language. I've got bum and poop and my bovine nature covered, but when it comes to identifying those other things that make boys and girls different, I want the conversation to end.

See, I grew up in the opposite of a naked house. It was more of a no shirt, no shoes, no service kind of place. And with it, I never became at home with the finer points of humanity's anatomy. Sure maternity, particularly labor and delivery and a general state of over exposure in the hospital have made nakedness less awkward for me, but I still find the communication of it uncomfortable.

I've been thinking through the other terms - the made up ones you hear other parents using - trying to figure out a pleasant way to spin certain truths. But the reality is, even as a marketer, there's no easy way to publicly converse about private parts. So I've decided that I will just be forthright about it. They are what they are. Done and done.

Anyway, what I really want my kids to know ultimately, is that even though we're all made a little different, it's okay for both boys and girls to wear the pants in life.

Lo.