Opa Broke a Glass

Yesterday morning, as Opa chased Mary around the house and Nana gave Bobby a final pony ride, Peter and I packed up the car and prepared ourselves mentally for the long journey home. The car was certainly heavier than it was coming out; loaded down with full stomachs, a couple new games to play in the car, a Wigle whiskey barrel, Christmas presents from the Aunts who we wouldn't see before the end of the year, and new memories of old traditions. 

While an eight-hour car ride is challenging for any driver or passenger, especially in a jam-packed vehicle, it can be particularly trying for kids. My babies were no exception. One wanted to crawl, stand up and pull out electrical cords from walls; the other wanted to run, jump, and stage adventures through make believe lands. But constrained within their miniature harnesses, they turned to alternative, energy burning activities with the help of their mediator (me) lodged in between their two car seats.  

Bobby mostly wrestled with his stuffed animals while listening to me read, sucking his thumb, and eating cheerios. He also slept a lot. Mary diverted her energy toward her words; I swear she talked for seven hours straight. We did Stickers and made the stickers talk. We did fairy magnets and made the fairies talk. We colored and made the illuminated versions of Anna and Elsa talk. We made Horton talk to Corduroy who talked to Owl who talked to Daddy. And when every last character from the car was exhausted, Mary just started talking to anyone willing to listen.  

The conversations mostly meandered along the memories that we had collected over our Thanksgiving break in Pittsburgh. And despite wanting to take a nap myself, I helped her musings continue. 

I was Anna yesterday. Where's Elsa? 

I don't know, honey. 

At Lyla's house. My friend, Lyla was Elsa.  

That's right. You guys both dressed up yesterday.

But I didn't wear a crown. 

That's okay.  

Remember Opa broke a glass? And Daddy broke a glass? 

That's right. It's okay though. They cleaned it up.  

Remember Oliver.

I do. 

Who's Oliver's Mommy? 

Nicole; she gave you your Corduroy book. 

Oh yeah! And who's Oliver's Daddy? 

Alec. 

And who's that other little boy I played with? 

Ford. 

And who's that little girl?

Elsie.

Yeah, Elsie ... Remember how Opa broke a glass? And then Daddy broke a glass? 

I do, honey. It's okay though.  

Can we play Bumbo? 

Bingo? 

Yeah! 

Remember when we went up, up, up the mountain on the train?

I do. Wasn't that fun?  

And remember turkey cookies. I ate one, two, three, FOUR turkey cookies!  

They are the best, huh? Aunt Joyce makes those every year.  

Did Baby Wes eat a turkey cookie? 

I bet he did. 

Did Will?

I think so. 

Remember Daddy AND Opa broke a glass? 

Yep. 

Can you make Corduroy talk to Daddy again? 

 

       

 

Remember we saw Nana at the Salon?

Yeah, she was getting her hair done too. 

And you got your hairs cut too. 

I did. 

Remember Daddy broke a glass? And Opa too! 

I know, honey. 

Can we do fairies again?

  

Remember when I knocked the window over at the Club?

It was just the pane, honey. We fixed it. 

Did Daddy eat TWO lobsters? 

He did! And a piece of prime rib! 

And he broke a glass. And so did Opa. 

You are never going to forget that are you? 

Can I read you Paddington? 

Remember the trains? And Tinkerbell and Captain Hook? 

Wasn't that cool! 

Yeah. And Santa. 

What did you ask Santa for? 

A dolly. And a dollhouse. AND a reindeer. 

And what does Bobby want? 

A snowsuit and a hat. 

That's right. Are you going to write Santa a letter? 

Yeah. 

And mail it to the North Pole? 

Yeah.  

Is he going to come to our house on Christmas Day? 

Yeah. 

And should we leave him some cookies and milk? 

Remember when Opa broke a glass? 

And Daddy did too. 

  

For me, the memories I collected in Pittsburgh were hard to put into words. I started to as we drove away from my parents street, bound for the Interstates, but I could sense confusion on the face of my quizzical daughter as a tear fell off my cheek. 

'Mommy's sad.' 

'Yeah, honey.' 

'You miss your Mommy and Daddy?' she continued.  

(Man, she is smart / I've told her that before I guess.) 'I do honey.'  

But it was more than that. I miss Pittsburgh. All of it. It's home to my family, friends and favorite childhood memories. It's got as much to offer within its pocket sized dimensions as some of the biggest cities in the world. And for the most part, it's all affordable. It's a magical gem of a city that seems to be one of the nation's best kept secrets.  

(A Distillery that could very well be on the Bourbon Trail (Wigle Whiskey), Sushi that directly competes with Nobu (UMI), historic parks once walked and golfed and picnicked by Industry's founding fathers (Schenley, Frick and Mellon Parks), a Conservatory that puts Chicago's to shame (Phipps), a hairdresser who can do a family of four's hair and deliver the city's best gossip in under an hour (ask for Anne at Studio Booth), remnants of Steel's past (the Incline and a river still floating with coal barges) and buildings dedicated to the future of tech advancements (Carnegie Mellon.) Shows, concerts, museums, galleries, unique shops, and international cuisine inspired by ancestors that once immigrated to a city of promise more than a century ago. And friendly service where ever you go that just might include a 'how yinz doing today?') 

I love giving my children tastes of its character and charm with every visit. And I always hate saying goodbye. Through the pictures, I know Mary's memories will be sparked to their fullest. But for now, if her favorite memory from Thanksgiving is Opa and Daddy breaking glasses in the kitchen, I'm okay with it.

    

Ever thankful for my family, friends, and the great city of Pittsburgh. And thankful that a total of 16 hours in the car with my kids wasn't a screaming mess. 

Lo.

Bill

My new favorite thing to do with Mary on a Friday night is watch a movie. Bobby generally lasts through ten minutes of it before he makes a final flurried mess of the basement and starts to ascend the stairs, waiting for me to scoop him up and put him to bed. I check to make sure the movie isn't at a scary part (read a Mommy or Daddy dying), take a refreshment break, and then come back down to snuggle with my two-year old and finish watching one of my and now her childhood favorites.

Last weekend, it was Bambi. We're kind of working in an ascending order from least scary to most, and with films like Cinderella, Robin Hood and the Jungle Book crossed off the list, I figured the next best option was the story of a little deer. Whose Mom gets shot by a hunter. Oops.

At the introduction of Bambi's friend Flower, an adorable little skunk with huge blue eyes, I took note of just how charming the stinky little critter was. And started thinking about a certain pattern in all Disney movies. That is, the general cutifying of critters. He made it into an art form. The Rescuers; Bernard and Bianca and all their miniature mousecapades. The cuddly forest animals that lead Snow White to the Dwarfs' cottage and help her with her chores. The mice in Cinderella, Roquefort from Artistocats, the Great Mouse Detective and its cast of crime-fighting pests, Minnie and Mickey for crying out loud. Why the romanticizing of rodents? Generally speaking, not the experience I have had with them. With that said, they make great characters. 

***

On Sunday night, as I was walking downstairs to get my glass of water and bowl of animal crackers (bedtime snack addiction that I'll presently blame on nursing), I saw a mouse. On the counter. Crawling. Creeping. Tail wagging. Or swaying or whatever a mouse's tail does. Up onto the stove and then into one of the vents of the oven. I screamed and shrieked and did the complete opposite of whatever a Disney princess would have done in that situation. 

I ran upstairs. Alarmed, Mary asked, 'what's wrong Mommy? What did you see, Mommy? Was it a ladybug, Mommy?' (Mary's worst fear - We haven't gotten to a Bugs Life yet.) 

Shaking, 'Sure ... yeah ... it was a ladybug, honey. Peter, it was a 'M-O-U-S-E' without the 'M-I-C-K-E-Y' in front of it. Daddy, can't read to you anymore. He needs to help Mommy. NOW!'

I took over the never-ending bedtime regimen while Peter went to work in his tool closet, concocting a plan to get rid of it. 

That night, I had nightmare after nightmare about that stupid mouse. Let's call him Bill. The mouse, rather Bill, coming to get me from under the covers. Bill crawling over Mary's head and hair while she was sleeping. Bill gnawing Bobby's leg in his crib. Bill nestling into some little den under the oven laughing off whatever poison Peter put out to exterminate him and inviting his friends to come over for a feast of Mary's bowl of cinnamon and sugar, which I'm now blaming for the incident.

Still fearful of the little critter that may or may not be burrowing deeper into the recesses of my house as we packed up and headed to Pittsburgh yesterday, I was more than happy to strap myself in to an eight hour car ride with my kids.

Goodbye Bill and goodbye Snow (although, I cherished the first snow in Chicagoland this year) ... 

Hello vacation, turkey, Thanksgiving ...

And my favorite city in America.

And honestly, after watching the Nightly News for the first time in a long time with my parents last night, I feel pretty thankful that my biggest fear right now is a little mouse named Bill. 

Lo.

The Darndest Things

After a week of hearing conversations that were tiresome at best, I needed something a little lighter on Friday night. The weekday dialogue had centered around slides, and decks, and briefs; incremental, and trade, and profitability; complication and simplification; labor and loss; yeses followed by a big no; storms and delays and holding patterns over Peoria; 11:00 PM arrivals and 8:00 AM meetings the next day. Mad, and madder. Done, and doner. I needed a civilian sounding board and a drink.

I left work on Friday in search of both. Peter was headed out of town, so no go there. I put in a couple last minute pleas to mom friends, but to no avail. Planning ahead has a purpose I suppose.  

So it was me and the kids. Correction: Me, a glass of wine, and the kids. 50% isn't bad. And undoubtedly, the conversation was certainly disconnected from my workday experiences. It strayed from Woody and Buzz, to Baby Lion (Mary's alter ego) and Baby Dragon (Mary's alter alter ego.) There was bartering over chocolate. I entertained airplane rides, raspberries and attacks of the Mommy Giant. There was 'No Bobby' don't climb up the steps, 'No Bobby' don't eat that and 'NO BOBBY' stop pulling that electrical cord! There was fifteen more minutes, then ten, five, and bedtime everyone. (Including Mommy.) 

We headed upstairs and as I was sitting in Bobby's room, nursing him to sleep, I heard Mary pick up the toy remote in her room, hold it to her ear and push buttons as if she was calling someone.  

'Hi Daddy. I miss you,' she began.

There was a pause. 

'No I gotta stay home. It's real late. The sun went night night. Camille's coming over (Correction: tomorrow). Joe's at his house. Nana, Opa are in Pittsburgh.' 

Another pause. 

'I know. You're hunting ducks. Ew.' 

Pause. 

'Mommy's here. She's feeding Bobby with her milks. She was in Arkansas. (Correction: New Mexico.) Ew. She got me new undies. They're FROZEN!' 

Pause.

I was mad today. I am a tough kid. I had a fight. Cause I was mad. She took my party shoes. They're my favorite. Mommy's gonna read me stories. Clifford. And then Me and My Dad! That's my favorite.' 

Pause. 

'I love you. (smack).' 

Lulled to sleep with a full tummy, I put Bobby in his crib and made my way into Mary's bed. 

Were you calling Daddy, honey? 

Yeah. 

Why were you mad today? 

Because.
Who said you were a tough kid?
Eva. 

Why did she say that?
Cause I got into a fight. Cause Lilian took my party shoes. 

Oh. You didn't hit her or anything, right?

No, I was just mad. She gave them back. 

Okay. I love you honey. (I gave her a big hug and started on the stack of books she had laid out.) 

I love you too, Mamma.  

From all the business I digested throughout this work week, I felt I went to bed the past two nights a little smarter not because of anything I had solved in my cubicle, but because of the things my kids shared with me. 

I heard Mary say that she was mad or frustrated a couple times this weekend. Mad that Bobby had her Memory cards in his mouth. Those are mine, Bobby! Frustrated that she couldn't get her shoes onto her feet. It won't work, Momma! I felt her pain; I sensed the emotion this week as well. With each outburst of angst though, I went over and talked her through it, made it better, loved it out. 

In thinking and praying on the events in Paris on Friday, it made me think about the root of anger. The strength of that emotion even in a child as old as Mary. How just being there for someone, listening to them, guiding them, preventing something from festering, can make all the difference. It made me think about love. The smothering hugs and kisses I give to my kids every day. The reflection of it in Mary's return embrace, Bobby's smile, and Peter's texts from the Duck Shack. 

On this beautiful fall Sunday afternoon, I'm still shaken, heartbroken, and scared of the pure madness that exists around the world today. Anger that could only exist in a vacuum of love. I feel helpless in a way; disposed to whatever greater forces can help keep me and my family safe. But despite that, I know that the most important thing I can do, is keep on sharing my love. 

My hearts and prayers go out to Paris; the victims of Friday's agonizing terror and bloodshed; and all the families and friends that find themselves in utter grief today. I hope that in the beautiful city of light and love, a city that I have fallen in love with repeatedly, people can continue to let their hearts shine.  

  

Lo. 

HalloWHY?

In sixth grade, my last English assignment of the year was to write an autobiography. We had just read one (totally don't remember which because I didn't actually read it), but inspired nonetheless I was asked to put personal memories and milestones to paper. 

Back then, my writing was as dramatic as my presence on stage. While my classmates began their autobiographies with sentences like, 'I live on number 17 Cherry Tree Lane,' 'I'm the eldest of five.' or simply, 'life is good.;I went deep with my entrance. I can still remember every word of that first paragraph. 

'Words can mean a lot. Especially to me. Sometimes they're big words that have never been heard by anyone before. And sometimes they're small words. Like why. A word that carries so much meaning and so many questions. Why am I here?' 

Centered around the question of why, I remember I couldn't stop writing. I turned in the longest autobiography in the class. I titled it, 'Memories of One's Life.' (I was the One.) My teacher loved it. She asked me to read it at a gathering of old folks in Barnes and Nobles several weeks later. They seemed disinterested. I got an A in the class. Again, never the read the book(s.) 

***

Mary learned a new word recently. Why. And while I love the question and her tireless curiosity, I've grown tired of answering it. At work, there's a rule of four or five whys. I forget how many. But after a certain threshold, you're supposed to get to the greater truth. Ah ... That's what we're actually solving for. The questioner loves the glory of pinpointing the nugget you didn't know. The respondent hopes they stop at three.  

While sweeping up the glitter, or rather Pixie Dust, that has provided an unnatural effervescence around our house the past couple of days, I thought about all the questions starting with why Mary asked this weekend. 

Why are the leaves falling? 

Why can't I throw the leaves? 

Why can't I throw the leaves at Bobby? 

Why can't I bring the leaves home? 

Why do I have to wear my coat? 

Because it's really cold! 

Why are we going to get pumpkins? 

Why can't I get three, four, FIVE pumpkins? (holding up all of her little fingers.) 

Why can't I push the cart? 

Why can't I bring the pumpkins to Church? 

Why do I have to wear my coat? 

Because we don't live in California. 

Why are those kids coming to our house? 

Why are they dressed up like that? 

Why do you have to get a picture?

Why do I have to be nice to Bobby?  

Why do I have to wear my coat to go outside? 

Because everyone else is! 

Why is that house so spooky? 

Why is that skeleton mad? 

Why is that little boy dressed like a Mummy?  

Why can't I eat all my candy? 

Why can't I eat another chocolate? 

Why do I have to wear my coat? 

Because I said so. THE END.

As much as I love the question and the truth seeking little girl I'm raising, answering it perpetually is difficult. And I've got to say, I found myself stumped quite a few times this weekend. 

Why does it have to get dark now? 

Because it's that time of year.   

Why is that Daddy going away? 

Because he has to. 

Why is that Mommy sad? 

Because honey. 

Are those kids going to be okay? 

Yeah ... they are. 

When 'I said so' runs its course, the only answer left, other than I don't know, is because. And as a Mom who's supposed to have the answer, because has to suffice. Just because, and that's all I know. Life is complicated and confusing and short. Too short. So maybe three whys is enough. And the rest is better left to a because ... He says so.  

Lo.