Cat Lover

Toward the end of our vacation, we would always lose my Mom as we explored one of the nation's 'Old Towns.'

'Where's your mother?' my Dad would ask. 

'I think she went into that store,' I replied and pointed ominously, as if the shopping Gods lured her in, never to be seen again. It was particularly dangerous if the retail detour reached across multiple souvenir genres. That is not just t-shirts, but locally made jellies, pinch pots, hand woven baskets, AND artisan jewelry. The store of no return.

Each of us would take turns trying to coax her out of the shop, into the car, onto lunch.
'Mom. Come on! No one wants this stuff.'
'Mom, I'm starving!'
'Mom, Dad's starving!'
'Mom, get this, right here, and let's get OUT OF HERE!'

Two or three hours later (in ten year old time), she would emerge victorious. She would pompously get back in the car,  celebratory smile starkly contrasting with our grumpy, hungry pouts.

'Well ...' she would start, 'I got a cat pin for Barb. And I got cat earrings for Jeannette! And I got a cat bracelet for Chris. All made by local artists. They will love them. You know how they all love their cats so much. I'm just so pleased.'

Barb, Jeannette, and Chris worked with my Mom. With these new dangling additions to their collection, they could now fill a whole litter box with the mountain of feline paraphernalia that my Mom had purchased for them over the years. My Mom's joy, and her associates pending happiness, was countered by our rolling eyes and belittlement. Nothing could rain on my Mom's parade though.    

***

Recently, I have been noticing another disparity between moms and non-moms. That is in their storytelling material. A mom goes straight for her kids: the source of her daily comedy, frustration, tears, joy, and pride. A non-Mom goes for anything but a kid, and doesn't find the story the Mom just told nearly as funny. I know, because I've been there.

In my twenties, as a single woman without a baby, dog, cat or fish to call my own, I used to nod my head in acknowledgement of the story co-worker / mom A was telling, trying to feign interest as co-worker / mom B burst out in laughter. (Oh, that was a punch line. Totally missed it.) As co-worker / mom B countered the first story with her personal, inevitably longer iteration of it, I covertly mapped my escape route. The only thing worse, was when co-worker / mom / cat lover C would join the conversation and bring in pet narratives to round out the ennui.

Present day, as a parent, I know why so many Mom stories revolve around kids. I know Moms tear up when they hear the struggle of another mom. I even know how a Mom can relate to a parent whose only baby is a cat. And now on the other side of the conversation, I've watched the 20-something girl look for her escape route or segue as I pull up photos on my iPhone to illustrate just how cute my kids are.

I also now see why my Mom so enthusiastically bedazzled people in cat crap over the years. As the oldest of eight, and a mother of three, my Mom cultivated a particularly empathetic maternal soul. She was never an animal lover; she took a back seat to nature; and she denied every plea for a family dog. But she listened to every cat story and looked at every cat screen saver that her secretaries and associates shared with her. She didn't just feign interest, she related. She saw a mom in each cat lady, and sought those little tokens that told them what great moms they were.

There are so many things about my Mom that continue to impress me, inspire me, and push me to be a better woman. Her empathy and desire to connect with everyone she meets are just examples.

It's terribly belated, but happy Mother's Day to my ever loving Mom, whose role as care and present giver has extended to so many people over the years.

And Happy Mother's Day to all the wonderful Moms I celebrated with on Sunday.

Lo. 

 

Loss and Life

Five minutes, Mary. Then bedtime. Okay?
Okay.

(Ten minutes later ...)

Four more minutes, Mary.

(Fifteen minutes later ....)

Mary, one more minute left.
No, FIVE!
No, we already had five. It's down to one.
NO!
Upstairs. Now. GO!
No. Five more minutes. FIVE MORE MINUTES! You go to sleep. YOU GO TO SLEEP! Daddy will take me up.

(I turn to Peter) No later than 8:30. Okay? OKAY?!

They nod their heads, their silent agreement to disregard my instructions sparkling in their guilty smiles. Without hesitation, they turn back to the puzzle of the World the moment I take the first steps up the stairs. I know they won't be up at 8:30. I'll be lucky to get 9:15 out of them.

***

Last night, everyone was in bed at 8:00 PM though, and I wasn't far behind. After a long, meeting and after work event heavy week, I crashed. And crashed hard. It wasn't just this particular week though. And it wasn't just work: big presentations, a new team (with new food), and a frenzied pace. It was the past two or three and the more personal, emotional side of them.

While I would characterize the first half of April as magical. The latter half was a little more disenchanting. Over the course of two and a half weeks, the world closest to me lost a father, a mother and a baby. And it was heartbreaking.

My friend Bridget lost her loving, humble father to brain cancer.

Pittsburgh mourned the tragic death of a sparkling, dedicated mother, killed by a car while jogging with her baby.

And a mile away, my community lost a bubbly toddler whose giggles are eerily absent from her house this morning.

Mid-April, I cried with Bridget and some of my closest college friends in Manhattan, as I prayed for an involved commercial real estate titan, Notre Dame lacrosse fan, humble servant, and doting husband, father, and grandfather. A week later, I mourned the death of Mariah, a lawyer, marathoner, dedicated friend, and proud mother of two beautiful boys with my best friends from high school and prayed from miles away. And I sat in my boss' office about to burst into tears as she told me about the passing of a one year old just blocks from the both of us, once again lifting a silent prayer.

My heart broke more times than I can count. Not as much for the three people who are certainly looking down on their loved ones from heaven this evening, but for those left behind. Those who will have wounds that could take a lifetime to heal.

***

The other night I asked Peter why he had such a hard time abiding by the five minute rule. Just bring her upstairs, I told him. I'll do the rest.

He said, 'I don't know. I like playing with her.'

I felt so guilty. All I wanted was for her to go to bed, so I could go to bed. Peter just wanted time to play. (Yes, he's an amazing dad.)

As a mom, trying to balance tender love with discipline, I often feel conflicted. Between hugging and kissing my kids too much and teaching them right from wrong. Between laughing at them and tell them, NO! Between catering to their every whim and finding time for my own. Between going to work every day and calling it quits.

But if there is anything I learned from the loss of life recently, and the people still living, it is that there is always time for another hug, kiss and consoling word. It's okay if five minutes turns into fifty. Because it might be the last fifty. Life is so beautiful, yet so fragile. And while we are here, we might as well cherish every second of it with the people that we can't live without.

Lo.

Magical

I was three years old when I went to Disney World for the first time. Four or five years later, we returned; older, wiser, and more entranced by Disney's spell. These formative first visits to the Magic Kingdom boast some of the most iconic photos and videos in our family's history: my chubby baby brother, pressed cheek to cheek to my Mom in front of the Fantasyland Carousel, all of us kids holding Mickey Mouse balloons in the middle of Main Street, Dumbo riders grinning from ear to ear mid-flight, Prince John pressing his pout into my Dad's camcorder at the Contemporary Resort's character breakfast. The clips help stir early childhood memories; but honestly, the details are foggy, especially as the more mature memories from high school and college visits surface.

There is one early memory still so clear in my mind though, a scene with no photo to back it up. On the day of our departure from the Contemporary Resort in 1989 or 90, my brother broke out in chicken pox. I remember room service arriving that morning, and a petrified waiter who had never experienced the virus, dropping our food as he b-lined for the door. I remember my parents calling an audible when they learned we weren't allowed to fly home; renting a car, and driving all the way from Florida back to Pittsburgh. Magically, getting us home in one piece and happily ever after. 

About ten years later, my brother and I ran through Frontierland as the crowds started lining the parks anticipating the Electric Parade; leaping through the air to get to Splash Mountain, my brother shouted 'I am Peter Pan!' in the face of the public unsure about the crazies (us) charging through the streets. I was belly laughing running behind him. It was magic. Totally odd. But pure joy nonetheless.

***

Last week, the kids and I flew to Orlando; I was there for a Convention, the kids were there to see Mickey Mouse, and Nana and Opa met us there to babysit.  

From Tuesday through Thursday, the magic of Disney was primary contained on the property of the Grand Floridian; which trust me, could easily have sufficed. The pools, carriages, miniature furniture, Mickey Mouse sprinkles, live music, and kid friendly service (everywhere) made the extra time I spent commuting to and from the Convention Center worth it.

Friday was the day I had been anticipating for almost two years (since the end of the last Orlando Convention). Friday was our visit to Magic Kingdom; Mary and Bobby's first time. I was so excited that I barely slept for the week leading up to it. I COULD NOT wait to expose Mary, in particular, to most magical place on Earth. 

Because we stayed at the resort next door, the park was only a stop away on the Monorail in the morning.

We arrived just in time to see Mickey and the Mayor of Main Street, USA open the gates for the day. The wonder and delight on Mary's face brought a tear to my Mom's eye. 

For the first two hours, we saw a lot of Fantasyland; rode the tea cups, flew on Dumbo, went on Goofy's barn stopping plane ride (twice!), went around the Carousel, dove under the sea with the Little Mermaid and hugged princesses. Lots of princesses. With every line there was frustration and a lesson learned in taking turns. On each ride, there was a look of utter joy; never let this end. And with each attraction's request to please exit to the right, there were requests to ride it again. And again and again. 

        

   

In the afternoon, navigation through the park grew more intense as the crowds became denser and denser. As well as older, sweatier, and more aggressive. We pushed (the strollers) on though. We explored the Nile, Congo, and Amazon on the Jungle Cruise. I petrified Mary to the point of tears on the Pirates of the Carribean. I pushed the gas pedal as Mary bumped me back and forth along Tomorrowland's race track. And I passed Bobby back and forth between my Mom and Dad as his wild man came out waiting in line after line. 

Around 2:30, I had had enough. Of the people, the lines, the germs, and did I mention ALL the people. Then it started pouring. Then down pouring. So I anticlimactically called it quits, threw Mary into the ferry without a driver, waited for said driver in his poncho to arrive, and sailed across one of Mickey's bays to our hotel. I scrubbed the kids, put them down for naps, and promptly passed out as well. Enough was enough. 

A couple hours later, after debating where dinner would be, I decided that I hadn't given Disney my all; I still had a Peter Pan moment or two in me; a couple more rides, a princess, a memory or two, not to mention a Fast Pass. 

So back on the Monorail. Back through the gates ... 

But wait, Mary was crying. Uncontrollably. I saw a puddle underneath her and knew exactly what was wrong. I scooped her up and said I would get her changed. It was then that I found out things were worse than they seemed. Poop dripped down onto my jeans all the way across Main Street and into the nearest restroom. Nothing that a magical sink-side scrub down, new princess panties, and a hug from Princess Aurora couldn't fix. Onward.  

Minutes later I took Mary flying with Peter Pan and Wendy then sailed across the continents teaching Mary the words to 'It's a Small World.' It was past dinner time, so I ran into Pinnocchio's Haus for some pizza and salad with Mary. But just as we sat down, Mary had to use the bathroom again, and unpleasantly. Bobby was missing a shoe; an artifact still flying around with Peter Pan; the stroller was lost, everyone ran different ways, no one ate, okay, enough is enough. My Dad called. Abort. Meet at the Monorail.  

Someone on the plane asked me yesterday, do you think she will remember any of it? 

I said I think so. I hope so.

I asked Mary what her favorite part was. 

'Snow White. And the little kids that sang It's a Small World. Remember?' 

Yes. I do.

While I know the photos will have to suffice for the memories she may not keep; how sweetly Cinderella hugged her, spinning across from me on the tea cups, and her first glimpse of Main Street. I hope she sensed the magic that has captured me all of these years. Or maybe she'll just remember running around the bathroom all bare. 

The only thing missing from this visit; Daddy. Who I know will add to the magic next time. 

Lo.  

A big THANK YOU to my Mom and Dad for being the best babysitters and troopers of all. If it was exhausting for me ... I know it was even more so for you. Mary, Bobby and I love you! 

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.