Care Packages

From the bluffs overlooking Lake Erie, I witnessed the forging of many summer storms. The natural drama of clouds colliding into an angry tempest would play out on particularly hot, humid days in July. As the first rain drops fell and the distant thunder rumbled, campers would scurry from electives stationed around the grounds of Calvary Camp into their respective, but identical small white, wooden cabins.

The counselors - the muscles of camp - would quickly, but diligently unfasten latches that released an extra layer of protection from the approaching gales and showers. As the wind would pick up, the flashes of lightening would become more vibrant, the thunder would reach a more frightening decibel, and the last cabin mate (number ten of ten) would burst through the door panting, soaking wet, relieved they had finally reached a measure of safety.

Tucked inside the dark cramped cabin, rain pummeling the roof, gusts of wind threatening the wooden boards that stood between us and nature's fury, I was always thankful for the stuff that had reached me in the past week from the world outside of camp, hundreds of miles away.

A postcard from my parents written from a lazy porch in Chautauqua; a letter boasting of operas, ballets and symphonic masterpieces that followed dry happy hours. A greeting card inscribed with my Grandmother's perfect penmanship, capturing the putting green, Mississippi River Catfish, lightening bugs, Hello Dollies, and heat indexes of Quincy, Illinois. A note from my Grandpa, decorated with exclamation marks that showcased his enthusiasm for this summer's crop of tomatoes. A mix tape titled 'Quite the Gentleman Caller' - a gift from a friend back home; a melange of catchy songs that became the soundtrack to the summer. And finally, my care package.

My name, as well as my brother's and sister's had been called over the loud speaker earlier in the week. The announcement summoned a dozen other lucky campers and us to the camp office to pick up their respective miniature treasure chests of branded packaged goods. Walking back to my cabin, arms wrapped around my brown parcel, I felt a little more loved, a little less hungry, and a little closer to home.

Back in my cabin I unwrapped a tube of Pringles, Oreos, Goldfish, Life Cereal, Trident, two rolls of Certs, a Mad Libs, my In Style magazine, a couple extra pairs of Hanes, the long sleeve GAP t-shirt that I had forgotten to pack, and a note from my Mom and Dad sealing the gift with love. 

Atop my bunk, my fear of thunderstorms turning to tornadoes was assuaged with a stack of Oreos and a sheet of Mad Libs fielded by the more verbally provocative in the group. Despite their distance, my parents always knew how to make me feel better. 

***

Huddled in the plastic wrapped safety of the Peggy O on Saturday afternoon, Stacy's Pita Chips making their rounds, Revolution brews cracked, famous tales getting taller, we watched sails unravel, skyscrapers disappear, and white caps form as a massive storm system descended upon the Windy City. With one of my fellow Calvary Campers on board, I flashed back to the stormy scenes of Camp that I remember so well.

This past weekend, I felt like Calvary was back in session. My campers, two special new ones included, gathered in the Midwest for Arts and Crafts, Skits, Swimming, Boating, Banquets, Campfires, and laughs that echoed across Lake Michigan and back. 

While there were some changes ... the outfits were trendier ... 

The food more craveable, the bug juice more potent, and the ice cream at canteen sweeter. 

The electives more colorful ... 

And the news a little quicker to reach home. 

A lot was the same; campers got R-O-W-D-I-E,

More seasoned campers watched out for the newbies.

Girls passing boys' tables in the dining hall paused to flirt. 

Rest hour was mandated. 

New friends were made while old ones were nurtured.

And the hugs on the last night of Camp had to last another year.

A special thank you to my wonderful Aunt and cousins for making their way all the way to Chicago to show how much they cared. I hope you had as much fun at Camp 2015 as I did.

Lo.

Free

Two hundred and thirty nine years ago, a group of patriots signed the Declaration of Independence, setting themselves free from the British monarchy and their unruly taxes ...

(I was going to go into a little more detail at this point, but after debating facts and figures and an unknown order of events with my husband, I realized my knowledge of American history is painfully flawed, so I'll stop and fast forward to present day.)

... In the Play Pen, a notorious spot for anchoring and partying in the shadows of Chicago's historic skyscrapers, thousands of people celebrated Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, John Hancock, and quite a few other lesser known signatories yesterday. Among the masses, I doubt I was the only one who didn't know the finer details behind the founding of our great nation. Nonetheless, everyone seemed to have good reason for toasting to America's 239th birthday. Decked from head to toe, bow to stern, in red, white, and blue, revelers partied from morning to an hour far past my bedtime.  

There was certainly an aura of life, liberty and an ultimate pursuit of happiness bobbing and floating in Lake Michigan's calm waters. And despite a predominantly foggy understanding of the reason behind the regatta, there were universal freedoms that everyone seemed to be partying for.

The freedom to eat one more doughnut.

The freedom to live a little dangerously.

Freedoms of press and speech.

The freedom to raise the flag.

And wear it if you so choose.

The freedom to party with as many people as possible.

The freedom to take selfies and share them with the world.  

The freedom to bend the rules. Even in the presence of the Chicago Police.

The freedom to eat, drink and be merry.

The freedom to marry whoever you want. Especially if you've found that person who completes you.

In all seriousness, I felt very thankful to be an American yesterday. To live in a country free of war; where my kids can play and embrace their youth as long as possible; where hard work still pays off; and where there's always a pursuit that advances the status quo. Yes, our country still has it's flaws and yes, there are still inequalities rampant within our civic structures, but we have made a lot of progress over the past centuries. And I'm optimistic that my children will see a day and age when everyone is truly treated as an equal. 

A hearty thank you to our founding fathers, to our war veterans, to the brave soldiers who have fought battle after battle for the advancement of civil rights on our home soil, and to the millions of people who make our country work (harder) every day. Thank you for letting my children sleep soundly tonight. 

So they can dream big tomorrow. 

  
Lo.

My Lap

A couple weeks ago, the extended family gathered in a row of $20 balcony seats at Hinsdale Central's auditorium to watch my niece, Ellie, chasse and pirouette through her first ballet recital. Initially, I thought the steep fare was a suburban rip off, but the combination of baby ballerinas, seasoned company performers, and catchy tunes was well worth the money.

Bobby and Mary shared a VIP seat during the show. Mary had it for the first half; Bobby for the latter. Perched on my lap, they both felt the rhythms that carried the dancers from one bar to the next; they heard the lyrics of 'California Girls' and 'Put on a Happy Face' echoing in their ears; and they hopefully inherited a little more of my enthusiasm for the performing arts.

Around the fifteenth number though, Mary made an escape so she could practice her own routine in the aisle, while Bobby was snatched up and moved from one hot seat to another. As his face went from a gaping smile to perplexity, Mimi laughed and said, 'he knows this isn't his Mommy's lap.'

While he was content shortly after, it did make me think about the kind of comfort I offer my kids, how they perceive me, and just what my lap must feel like?

Even now I can remember exactly how my Mom's lap felt. Falling asleep on it in the car; sitting on it to read stories, crying on it when the world seemed too big for a little girl to handle. It was soft, embracing, warm, and filled with a cushy kind of love that made everything okay.

While the former lacrosse player in me doesn't love that my lap has gotten a little squishy over the years, I know my kids have appreciated the extra padding. They've loved the pony rides, booster seat, and proximity to their food. And as they start to realize that at times life and its bee stings, boo-boos, rainy days, teeth, and bad dreams can be a little scary, I love that scooping them up and offering them an insulated seat can cure any ill.

This week alone, there were thunderstorms, a reoccurring nightmare about a 'scary man', pangs from first teeth, a bee sting(!), and several other cuts, scrapes, and bumped heads.  

But as fast as fear approached, there were chocolate chips, ice cream, carousel rides, rice cereal and extra doses of hugs and kisses from Mom, Dad, and Eva as rewards for bravery.

In a way, I wish they could always stay on my lap, safe from the world. I know as quickly as Bobby turned five months, they will crawl, run, and graduate off my lap and into independence. And I will long for their little bottoms. But I love that each week brings new developments, adventures, and lessons. And I couldn't be more proud of the accomplishments they've already made.

Lo.

Daddy's Girl

Several months ago, during a trip home to visit my family in Pittsburgh, I witnessed my younger brother helping his daughter get dressed up for dinner. He had helped her wiggle into her red dress, pull up her white tights, and strap on her shimmery red shoes. As she was standing on a step stool, looking in the mirror, my brother quizzically brushed her hair, evaluating how to pin it up, away from her face. Inside, I imagine he wished Mom was there to work her magic, but outwardly, he confidently tied a rubber band into her silky blond hair and swept her bangs up with a little red bow. Their eyes met in the mirror and he told her that she looked beautiful. 

A couple weeks later, thinking back on that portrait of love and attention, I texted my brother and told him what a great dad he was. He humbly said that he tried; and that he an amazing role model to follow. Noted. We have share an incredible father.  

Thinking back on all the times my Dad did my hair as a little girl; brushing it one hundred strokes before I went to bed, tying it back in two french braids for dance recitals, and holding my crimping iron steady so I could turn my poker straight hair into a decadent 80s do; I realized that even at his young age, my brother must have been paying attention. 

***

As a woman, there is something inside you, a void waiting to be filled, that beckons many of us to become mothers. And in many ways, the bond you form with your children can be rather universal. It's starts at interconnected place deep inside, it is nursed through the early stages of life, and it is cradled in the soft lap and tender hugs you provide.

On the other hand, the role of a father or father figure is a little more interpretative. There are commonalities: love, patience, security, beers, tees, tools, suits and neckties that help color the character. But after that, each Dad seems utterly unique: distinctive styles of play and education, and varying ways of solving for the moments in life when Mom is absent. 

Every night, as I'm nursing Bobby to sleep, I hear Mary and Peter chasing each other, running around, and laughing uproariously in the basement. They are playing the Orange Ball or the Green Ribbon game. One of the two. Silliness leads to a more serious state as Mary asks her Dad to play tools. Peter gets out his tool box and challenges Mary to match a particular bolt to the right sized wrench. Nine times out of ten, she will find it. He asks her to identify the needle nose pliers and sort the sharp from the blunt. After that, I can hear them ascending two flights of stairs. 'Where's Mommy, Bobby? I want Daddy read me stories.' No longer does Mommy do bed time best. Daddy now has his own rhythm for Dr. Seuss' rhymes, key in which to sing Bobbidy Boop, and good night message to signal her eyes to shut. Last night as lightening flashed and thunder cracked, Mary told me that she wanted Daddy to keep her safe. Not Mommy. 

Watching Peter's Dad with his kids and grandchildren, I can see there are many aspects of Peter's parenting that he learned from his father. He has taken those nuggets, layered on his personality, and found a way to bond with Mary and Bobby that is his own. And there's no doubt that they will be smarter, more thoughtful, more discerning, and more adventurous children because they have Peter for a Dad. 

I can sense, that sometimes Dads doubt themselves. That perhaps Mommy knows where or how or what's best. But what I've observed over the years, is that the best Dads jump in, and figure out their own way of doing things. And it's those ways; those breakfasts for dinner, icy toboggan rides, dollhouse assemblies, calculus lessons, duets, stick shift tutorials, college tours, father daughter dances, and beautiful hair dos; that makes kids who they are.

Thank you to my Dad, for helping shape me into the woman I am today.

And thank you to my husband, for helping our kids become who they are meant to be.   

Lo.

We celebrated last night during a little cookout at our house: rotisserie chicken, salad, bread, and Rose; cousins running around in the yard; toasts to three wonderful fathers; and a raccoon crashing the party.

Nannyship

12 and 13 years ago, I spent two summers in a row working as a Nanny. While my undergraduate colleagues were polishing their egos with unpaid corporate experience, I was sitting by the pool, playing with three great kids and getting paid. To this day, I commend my choice of summer professions. My classmates returned in the fall with another bullet to add to their resume, and I returned with a tan, a couple new pairs of shoes, and some life lessons that I could only have learned in Speedo's version of a power suit.

I learned how to stop fights before they began and how to prevent tennis bags from ending up in the pool. I learned how to divvy up my attention and how to dry sad, frustrated and I'm really mad at my brother tears. I learned how to make kids laugh, deep down in their bellies, I learned that being a big kid is way better than growing up, and I learned that having three kids and two careers shouldn't prevent a household from eating, drinking, and being merry. Take that interns.

One of my favorite things about working as the Vernallis Family nanny for two summers, besides the special bond I formed with the kids, was the leftovers: the expertly grilled vegetables and lemony summer salads; the tabbouleh, hummus and parceled chicken kebabs; the brownies, lemon squares, and plump chocolate chip cookies. Mom Vernallis wasn't just a kick-ass lawyer with a sharp sense of style and humor, she was her own personal caterer, with a portfolio of rehearsed recipes that had me salivating and sampling every Monday morning.

A handful of those Mondays, I wasn't only greeted by side dishes sealed in Tupperware, but by a tiered yard, sprinkled on every level with the remnants of a great party. Wine glasses with one sip left, stray bites that rolled off a plate or two, and a couple upended patio chairs told the story of great friends having a great time. Lesson learned. Yes, you can do it all, and still have fun.

***

12 years and two kids later, I'm still putting lessons from my Nannyship to use. I've taught Mary and Bobby how to play nice, they laugh at my slapstick humor, and for the most part, I'm able to get a somewhat boast worthy meal on the table each night. I'd say my Nanny can attest to the quality of leftovers, but she's a vegetarian and my recipes are bound by the ultimate carnivore.

However, now, with two kids and a more stressful work environment, I was doubting my ability to throw, but at the same time craving, a good party. On Saturday, I decided we should bite the bullet and do it. And believe given a few guidelines, it was completely manageable, not to mention utterly enjoyable. To summarize:

• Party started at 4:00 PM. I never thought I'd be that person, but hey it's 5:00 somewhere.  
• The backyard was the backdrop. When kids are invited, it's best to keep everyone outside.
• Which meant, a rain date was a good idea if the weather hadn't cooperated.
• Paper and plastic. Picnic style. Probably should invest in more patio furniture though. 
• A specialty keg was a big hit.  
• Made sure there were leftovers. After entertaining, I didn't want to have to worry about dinner for a few days. 
• Party ended at 9:00 PM. Babies needed to sleep. So did (this) Mom. 
• Figured out which neighbor was hosting the next party.  

    

As a new wave of very serious, very studious interns floods my office, I can't help but smirk, thinking my summer job won (hands down.) To the babysitting and burger flipping; life guarding and lawn mowing summer workforce out there, enjoy your youth. And never doubt how much these experiences can prepare you for the future.

Lo.