That Swagger

Three or four times a year, I have to attend an 'offsite' team meeting. These atypical work days are designed to get the group thinking and bonding in a way they wouldn't normally in a cubicle trimmed office setting. The walls come down, the room is ventilated prefaced by the shielding words of 'no offense', we uncover some pebbles, and five days later skip them out to sea again.

Generally, these provocative meetings start with an ice breaker; a moment to find some odd ball connection between the person whose name you don't remember and yourself. After the ice is broken, and everyone feels more at ease to say whatever is top of mind, heated, sided arguments cast a disintegrating mood across the circle of trust. The claws come out as the neutral mediator feigns disbelief of the determined dialogue. As the clock inches closer to 2:00 PM, the hour that dismisses us for the day, the last person to spew their verbal garbage is silenced in service of peace and freedom. There is a Kumbaya moment, we hug it out, and we quickly rebuild whatever bridges have just been burned. Miraculously, we are in a better place for the time being.

With all that said, I want to focus on the ice breaker though. The designated twenty minutes where you go around the room and say something about yourself that brings a little more humanity to your cog-like character. I actually love this part of the meeting. I look forward to it. And this weekend, I found myself thinking about the responses I've cast over the past two or three years.

What are you most proud of?
My kids.

What inspires you?
My family.

If you could live anywhere, where would it be?
Pittsburgh. (With my family.)
Seriously?

Name something that people might not know about you.
...

This was the most recent example. And it took some thinking. My mind went to my present state of life. Everyone knows I'm a mom. Everyone knows my family comes first. They now know I'll take a position in Pittsburgh if it presents itself. What else was there?

Oh. That. Yes. That!
I was a high school All-American in lacrosse.
I was recruited by the University of Notre Dame to play the sport.
Sophomore year, I won a starting role on one of the top ten teams in the nation.
I monogrammed at Notre Dame three years in a row.
I was one of the top ten scorers in the program's history. A fleeting stat of course.
I was all Big East.
I wore a long braided pony tail every game, an ND monogrammed sweat band that matched my arm band, a gold kilt, the number 7, goggles, and a mouth guard that hid the proud smile of a player who could never really understand how this opportunity had come her way.

When I told my coworkers about my athletic prowess; the majority had no idea. And because my two minutes spent resurrecting my glory days quickly moved to the next person whose role in the annual bird census was far more interesting, it didn't seem like many people cared. I placed it as a footnote in my past; where it seemed better suited.

***

Yesterday, we all drove up to Milwaukee to see my (college All-American) teammate, coach her team to (near) victory in a chilly, river side match against the UConn Huskies. I hadn't watched a lacrosse game in about 8 years. I felt as rusty assessing the sport as I am with my stick. But as I heard the roster called out over the loud speaker, as I saw the players take the field; as the ball flew up in the air on the first draw, and as the competition got under way, I felt it again: that pride, that passion, that part of myself that I had shelved with my trophies.

I watched Meredith pace the sidelines; clap vigorously for her teammates; stomp her foot and turn her back to the play when it didn't go as planned; channel her frustration into a teaching moment; and swagger on and off the field, like she always had.

I was so proud watching her; one of us had gone on to mold the next generation of athletes. She had spent the past decade coaching; and excelling at at. Most recently, she had won the opportunity to start and build a program from scratch at Marquette University. And from what I saw on the field, she was on her way toward grooming a character driven, Midwestern powerhouse.

Watching, I missed the sport. And I missed the person I was when I was playing it. I am still very proud of the role I played on my collegiate lacrosse team. And sidelined, telling Mary about how Mommy used to throw and catch, run and shoot like that, put that pride top of mind.

I think it's great for every Mom, and Dad, to pin point that other thing, or things, that made them shine before their kids took center stage. Because likely, there's something still there. A part of that past that needs to live and breath again. To cook or paint. Play or swim. Sing or dance. Explore or exert. Swagger on and off the field, and into the workplace.

And the funny thing is, most times, what makes us proud, makes our families even prouder.

Lo.

Easter Bunnies

On Saturday evening, we were all out in the yard. It was 62 degrees and sunny; assuredly, dinner would be grilled. Peter was at the helm, turning the plump brats over and steering their optimistic scent toward the neighbors, who had inadvertently left spring weather and aromas for the lure of Tropical destinations. Their loss. I was sitting on the stoop of our patio, teaching Mary how to write her name in bright pink chalk. And Bobby was milling around the yard, pointing to every tree and identifying each one as such. 'Tree .... Tree ... Tree ... Touchhhh. Tree.' The boy loves trees.

As I took a sip of my wine, Bobby sensed the need for camaraderie. 'Cheers,' he said from his grassy perch. I chuckled and said cheers back to him, raising my glass without getting up from my concrete seat. That wasn't good enough though. He wanted to hear the sound of plastic on glass ringing through the yard. He stood up, walked over, raised his cup and clinked my glass. 'Cheers' he said definitively. 'Cheers,' I repeated back to him, laughing a little harder this time around. 

While I could write a whole blog on the role of 'Cheers' in Bobby's limited vocabulary, this is about something else. That is, Bobby's recent declaration of independence. With the acquisition of the skill to walk, Bobby no longer feels tied down so to speak. As a crawler, he might not have made the hurried move from center field to the bench to toast me; but as a walker, he was bound and determined to make the sippy salutation sound. He is a true boy. And he loves using his little legs to dart around the house and yard in search of all the things he's not supposed to touch, put in his mouth, bang, clang and break. 

He's not the only one expressing an air of entitled freedom though. Mary has also been making some bold statements of independence recently. As a three year old, she sees herself as a big girl. She no longer wants to entertain the addition of a diaper to her wardrobe, at any time of the day (or night.) She wants to pick out what she will wear, and put every article of clothing on herself. She wants to cut her food, do puzzles, read books, unlock my iPad, run, bike, swing and slide all by herself. And given her snappy tone when I offer to help, my hand is nearly forced to keep its distance. 

No, I can do it. 

Okay, okay. 

Ahhhh ... I can't do it. 

Let me help you then. 

No! I can do it. Go away.  

Fine. 

AHHHHHH! AHHHHHH!

Come here, I will help you. 

NO! Leave me alone .... Ahhhh ... There, I did it. 

(Sigh) Good girl. 

Patience is definitely at a premium these days. Getting dressed and undressed for that matter, eating, using the potty, bath time, story time, bed time, potty time, story time, potty time, story time, GO TO SLEEP time (!) all seem to take twice as long recently. Every one wants to assert his or her freedoms and as a Mom that wants their kids to learn and mature, I've been loosening my reins a little more.

***

As I listened to the Homily at Easter Mass on Sunday, I took note to remember the real meaning of the holiday. While the bunnies, eggs, and pastel Easter frocks are cute, it's about Christ doing something completely profound for all of His children. And as I shoved another goldfish in Bobby's mouth and got another crayon out of my purse for Mary, I thought about just that.

We are all God's children. And He created us to think, act and speak freely. To try, and fail, and try again. And just as I get frustrated with my kids as they exercise their independence, it must be terribly frustrating for God to see us struggle with simple truths in his mind; simple choices between right and wrong. Or worse to abuse the freedoms we've been given or squash the freedom of another person. Yet, with all of our flaws; with all of humanity's malice, violence and wrong doing, He loved us so much that He died on the Cross and rose to save us all, preserving the beautiful creations He made in his image. Truly humbling. Truly joyous. Truly Magnificent.

Easter is the most wonderful time of the year. There's just no song on the radio proclaiming it as such. But the pretty pastel parties are perfect ways to celebrate. And celebrate we did.  

  

  

    

Cheers!

Lo. 

My Little Princess

Three years ago right ... about ... now ... I held a 5 pound, 7 ounce Mary in my arms for the first time. After laboring through the night (without any drugs), I was dazed and exhausted, but completely in awe of the little being nuzzling against my bloated body for added warmth.

She was here. I was a mommy. Peter was a daddy. Wow.

Besides the hints within the excerpts I had read of a couple bestsellers on parenting, I was clueless. I had heard it was as simple as diapers and milk; and as complicated as philosophical decisions about child rearing. Scared and overwhelmed I left the hospital with a hands on tutorial on nursing, some extra diapers (check, check) and at least a couple theories on how I would shape my little girl over the years. I was going to raise her to be ...
Breastfed. Not formula fed.
A crib sleeper. Not a co sleeper.
Smart. Not beautiful.
An engineer. Not a princess.
In the library. Not in front of the TV.
Eating fruits and vegetables. Not baked goods.
Healthy. Not skinny. Not fat.
Faithful.
Colorblind.
Kind.
Never mean.
Loved.
And beyond my current understanding of the word.

***

Three years later, I have caved on a majority of my convictions. In her 11th month, she was introduced to formula. I co-slept on several occasions. And while Mary is certainly intelligent, she loves when people comment on her looks.
'I love your dress,' they'll tell her.
'What a beautiful little girl,' they'll gush.
She lights up and responds almost on cue, 'oh why, thank you! This is my ball gown.'
Or as I cringe, 'Oh ... I know!'

Which means, she is enamored with princesses: their clothes, their songs, their dances, and their handsome princely matches. She hosts daily performances in our sun room inspired by her favorite Disney characters. And if a duet, Peter is brought in to play her prince. Instead of a Lego building party, which I might have envisioned three years ago, Mary's birthday celebration on Saturday was a Coronation Ball. There were crowns and pink plastic everywhere.

While she loves the library and can 'read' (almost word for word) many of the books that line her book shelf, she also loves her shows. I no longer fight (a limited amount of) TV time each time. After all, she has learned a heck of a lot from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Umizoomi, Dora Dora and Daniel Tiger.

To this day, she could care less about baked goods, unless they are iced, and then she will just lick the frosting off. But she also won't touch vegetables. When the pediatrician asked her what she eats at her yearly check up, she told her chicken nuggets, spaghetti and meatballs, honeydew and apples. Do you eat vegetables, she asked? On sandwiches, she responded. So no, she doesn't Dr. The 'sandwiches' she eats come out her play kitchen. With the void of vegetables in her life called out, the opportunity to have a Hershey Kiss is only extended after a serving of vegetables now.

For almost three years, I have proudly avoided using the word fat (or skinny) around Mary. Chubby cheeks, yes. Fat, no. That is, until the Very Hungry Caterpillar introduced it a couple weeks ago. 'He wasn't a little caterpillar anymore, he was BIG FAT(!) caterpillar,' Mary would read enthusiastically, and laugh and laugh. Words out I guess.

With all the variance on the parenting judgments I had placed on my newborn daughter three years ago, the latter ones have largely stayed the same. She understands prayer and reflection. She has never commented on the color or appearance of another person. Despite fighting with her brother over any number of favorite toys on a daily basis, she is a good girl. Kind and quickly embarrassed when she is reprimanded. Sweet, loving ...

And loved. Truly beyond my understanding. Not just by me and her daddy. But by all the people in her life.

At three years old, I love you for the funny, opinionated, verbose, dramatic, talented, fiercely smart, and beautiful little princess that you are. And you know what, in this day and age, we might just need more sweet, smart princesses to save the day. So play away.  

Happy birthday sweet Mary.

Mommy Lo. 

   

What Do The City Girls Do?

Rumor has it, we're moving downtown. The we here isn't my little family, but rather my company.

Word at the water cooler is that my cube (or more likely my seat at the world's largest picnic table) will migrate from our plucky place next to a suburban mega mall through the worst daily traffic jam to the buzz word (and homicide) rich civic center. Apparently to attract a younger, more vibrant workforce in today's competitive environment, we need to be in the heart of the city.

The rumor is rooted in reality though, and over the past couple months, I've been trying to rein in my radical feelings about it. I've been through just about every phase of grief with the exception of acceptance. I've gone from denial to depression and back to denial again. But at this juncture I am trying to take that upward turn, assessing what it would actually feel like to be a commuter. And more specifically a woman commuter. Because let's face it; the norm here in Mayberry is for Dad to take the train every day.

So I've started to do some immersion intelligence. On Saturday, at an hour I normally reserve for reading in bed, I drove downtown to meet up with some girl friends for dinner. 

Winding down Lake Shore drive, flanked on one side by a black, abnormally warm Lake Michigan and the twinkling city lights on the other side, a glimmer of the civic romance I used to feel throughout my 20s fell onto my windshield. I remembered cab rides through the electricity of Times Square as I headed south of Houston; limos laced with bubbly floating beneath the neon lights of Las Vegas; a BMW escort around the soft glow of the Capitol Building and DC's luminous Monuments; and a walk that revealed the subversive lights of West Hollywood and the inner circles tucked into it. I used to live for these late night illuminations and the after hours that made them shine even brighter. 

It was 8:00 PM; the lights were just coming on; and I was still debating whether or not I would have been happier in bed. So then and there marked my first brush with reality. Dinner for city girls is (still) late. Really late. And given their frames, light. Really light. I wondered, if I couldn't even eat like a city girl, could I work like one?   

I was immediately reassured though when I walked into the Pump Room and saw what everyone else was drinking. Ah good. I'll have a French 75. Like her.
Oh this is just Champ.
Champ? What?
Champagne.
Ah. So close.

With drink in hand, I removed my swing coat as the others removed their cropped leather jackets. While I had left my house confident in the mid-tier designer labels I had chosen, I felt like I had suddenly exposed that I was the mom of the group. My red peplum, rosy cheeks, and teddy bear charms stood out in the dark crowd. The attire around the room and among my click was black and blacker. With criss cross straps, leather, fringe, leg, and Chanel to accent the ensemble.

The conversation was loud. And accented with F words. The girl Goss (ip) wasn't about corporate relocation, but about the who, when and WHY(?!) of a high profile wedding being called off. And on politics; let's just say I finally came face to face with some Trump supporters. Say no more. 

With all this said, I shared some great laughs, style tips, and toasts on Saturday night. I made it out until 11:30 PM! And with only six hours of sleep, I felt more alive on Sunday than I have in awhile. There is something about that young, dynamic city environment I guess ...   

... But the word's still out. So I'll keep doing my investigation while waiting to hear the fate of my office building.

What I do know now is that the girls in the city are definitely slimmer, sassier, and sleeker than us suburbanites; they are less sonorous and less subtle; smarter? Not convinced. And they're (mostly) single; at least that's the box they would check on their paperwork. But knowing where I was as a single in the city of Steel ten years ago, I know that most of them are patiently waiting till they can check the other box. And once they do; they'll move out to the burbs. And likely give up their city jobs.

The commute is everything to a working mom. Minimizing the distance between your desk and your kids doctor appointments, school plays, lacrosse games, hugs and kisses is one of the most critical factors in where we choose to work. And there's no amount of urban dynamism that could attract me away from the charmed proximity I have to my family every day.   

Which begs the next question ... could I live downtown? 

Lo.