Memory Lane

Last week, my team was called into a 'mandatory' meeting. Lunch would be provided. Mandatory and a meal, it was bound to be bad.

Righto. More 'change' was coming. After the amount of shuffling and reshuffling I've experienced recently, it wasn't surprising to hear the foreboding buzzword (orchestrated by overpaid mileage guzzling consultants) once again. Except this time things were looking a little more drastic. The move downtown was imminent. More lay offs were coming. Restructuring, debanding, drama, tears, hallway whispers, all coming to a cube near you. And soon.

There was no time like the present for a week long vacation. And to a place that seemed as far removed from corporate America as possible. My childhood: Memory Lane, Pittsburgh PA.

***

When we arrived in Pittsburgh last Friday night, Mary wanted to bypass dinner at Ditka's and go straight to Nana and Opa's house. She wanted to see Molly (my American Girl doll), set up Molly's tea set, read to Molly, and put Molly to bed; then play with the Fisher Price guys, do puzzles, try on my old tap shoes, dance, and explore old closets with memorabilia eager to shed its dust and relive its youth.

After dinner, after some play time that crept further and further past her normal bed time, I convinced her to close her eyes with the lingering promise that we had a full week to experience everything Nana and Opa's house and Pittsburgh had to offer.

And that's just what we did. At Nana and Opa's house we sifted through my shelves and drawers which hosted ideas for new art projects: peanut people, worry dolls, and boo-boo bunnies. We found the old Viewmaster and clicked through the three dimensional story lines of Snow White and Pinnocchio. We applied a nicely aged Lipsmacker circa 1991. We picked old favorites from my bookshelf for storytime: Tikki Tikki Tembo, Popcorn, and Pups for Sale. We stacked our wrists with Beadery bracelets collected over the years from Aunt Ann. We used old letters and maps as props for perilous treasure hunts around my parents' house. And of course we played with Molly and all her miniature collectibles, and this time Aunt Erin let us play with Samantha as well.

Then I rediscovered some of my favorite parts of growing up in Pittsburgh: Kennywood, the Squirrel Hill Library, the Blue Slide Park, Shadyside, Sacred Heart, the Pittsburgh Golf Club, the Point, PPG Place, Frick Park, Mellon Park, and the family birthday parties that used to dot every week. Even for someone who was born and raised in Pittsburgh; a week isn't enough time to take it all in. But we did as much as we could, showing Peter, Mary and Bobby, just how to do it right.

How to pick your Kennywood outfit. (And not pop out of it by the end of the day.)

How you ride, swing, WHIP! ...

   

And put your hands way up high ... 

How to schedule a break for fries.

And then one for corn dogs, ice cream and Italian Ice.

How you create a monstrous echo inside the belly of the big water logged tunnel near the Point.

And then how you get your face painted on the other side.

  

How you walk through the Three Rivers Arts Festival, listen to Opera on the green, sip $6 lemonades, and relax surrounded by art.

 

How you run along the fort walls and fountain lip without falling in.

      

How you snuggle with Patty and laugh with Bill. And how you save a couple new art project tips for a rainy day.

  

How you organize the Fisher Price village and share. SHARE!

How you get dressed for dinner at the Golf Club.

 

And try to behave.

How you cheer for the home teams until the bring home the Cup!

 

How you celebrate not just one birthday ...

         

But a couple of them.

        

With as many baked goods as possible.

           

But as much as I strolled with my family through Memory Lane, there was a lot of Pittsburgh that was shiny and new; memories that will be unique to the next generation of yinzers and their visitors.

  

New restaurants and chic new housing developments. New shops and new bakeries. New members and new faces. Remodels, renovations, and relocations. New addresses and new zip codes. New recital halls, beautiful new dancers, and their glowing admirers.

Ten days in Pittsburgh flew by and this afternoon we will fly home. Despite how much I will miss this special place once again, I know some people are anxious to be in their own beds, play with their own toys, see their local loved ones, and help me chase the bunnies out of the yard in protection of my plantings.

But we will take with us the memories and photos; connection points of my past with their present.

Lo.

A Salute

Memorial Day Weekend always has a certain effect on me. The pool opens, biking replaces driving, dinner includes corn on the cob, and dessert is old fashioned ice cream at Tate's. The air is filled with the blended aromas of sun screen and Off with peonies and roses. My kids' eyes pop a little more against their sun kissed skin and the vibrant colors of summer. And by Sunday evening each year, I'm already thinking of scenarios where I'd never had to work again.

I envision being a wife of leisure - splashing with my kids in the pool every day; nap times when I plow through my summer reading list; adventurous menus for dinner, morning strolls, after noon tennis matches, evening bike rides, cocktails, and time to make friends who will enjoy them with me.

But then Tuesday morning comes, and with it the strenuous pace of life. Fast runs, fast hugs good bye, fast food, fast days.

***

Last week, I was in Seattle for work. I was there to tell a group of franchisees to bring Sriracha in the form of a great new sandwich to their restaurants. The meetings were successful and my agenda received a unanimous vote. I boarded my flight on Tuesday afternoon proud that I was coming home with another win; and one that I was pretty certain would drive significant business results.

Tired from networking the night before, playing homeless dodge 'em during my run through Seattle in the morning, and the ups and downs of Power Point adrenaline in the afternoon, I was ready to nod off in seat 9D. But the conversation between 9E and 9F kept me awake.

There was a mechanical issue on the plane; a part came off the door and it had to be fixed. A half an hour later the mechanics super glued it back on. It had to set, so we were told that we had to wait a little longer. All around me, people were in a huff. They were going to miss their connections to Cincinnati, Des Moines, and Pittsburgh; they wanted to get off the plane; they didn't want to be stuck in Chicago over night; they were hot, they wanted Wifi, they wanted their Tito's now. Please.

9E and 9F never voiced a complaint. They kept on chatting, rolling their eyes as they heard the woman in front of them complain repeatedly about the delay and her inability to get a vodka on the rocks immediately. They were holding puffy manila envelops with the Department of Defense seal in the upper left hand corner.

Between their smirks aimed at the disgruntled passengers, they exchanged some personal information. One had a wife and a kid. The other wasn't tied down; but he was too young to be anyway. One was of Middle Eastern descent, the other a European mut. One hadn't thought about what holiday he would choose for his leave. The other said it would Christmas; he could miss Thanksgiving, but not Christmas. One said that's about when we would be deployed. The other nodded his head.

The super glue finally set; we took off; the woman in front of us shuttered her mouth as she downed her cocktail; my seatmates stuffed their envelops into the seat pocket in front of them and dozed off.

As we started our descent through the clouds, into the hot haze of Chicago, my neighbors woke up and looked out at the Midwestern landscape.

'First time in the Midwest,' 9E said enthusiastically. 'This is going to be one fun summer!'
9F gestured that his ears were stuffed and that he couldn't hear. I guessed it might have been his first flight. So at this point I butted in. 'Really? Well, welcome. The Midwest is flat ... very flat.'
'I see that; that's crazy!'
'Are you in the military?'
'Navy. I'm reporting to Great Lakes tonight.'
'Wow ... You seem so young.'
'Just turned 19. I've been waiting my whole life to do this.'
'Did you just graduate from high school?'
'No last year. Spent the past year getting the paper work in order, getting ready.'
'Wow ... My cousin is in the Army; deployed to Iraq again. She's really high up now. She's amazing. You all are.'
'Thanks. I'm so excited.'
He truly seemed it too.
'My Mom had a real hard time this morning. I told her my whole life I was going to do this, but she took it really hard this morning.'
'I can imagine.'
All I could think about was Bobby.

***

Yesterday morning, I dressed Mary and Bobby in their red, white and blue. We ate donuts together. We rode our bikes over to the parade and lined up on the street to cheer on the Veterans of World War Two, Korea, Vietnam and Persian Gulf. We whistled for the local troops; all noticeably much browner than the lily white onlookers flanking the streets. I bounced Bobby up and down to Sousa's melodies filling the perfectly manicured lawn. Truly the life of leisure. And I thought about my Great Lakes bound seatmates.

I thought about the one kid's mom; the other man's wife and child. I thought about my brave cousin Meghan. And as we walked to get our bikes, dodging the crowd before it disassembled, I waved to the aging Veterans now done with their part of the parade, sitting under a tent. I saluted them with Bobby in my arms, and shouted thank you. A couple words that aren't enough for the incredible sacrifice they made.

My day went on in grand summer fashion. Reading in my Adirondack chair, rescuing Bobby every ten minutes as he face planted in the pool, bike rides, dinner on the screened in porch, ice cream on the lawn. I thought about our life, and despite my typical schedule, how peaceful it really is. And I thought about all our brave soldiers, past and present, particularly the fallen ones, who enable Americana and the leisure it permits to exist. How thankful I am for their role protecting our way of life and the people in it.  

The last thing I said to 9E and 9F on Tuesday night was God bless you. Then I leaned into the 19-year old, and said, 'you know, your Mom is very proud of you.'
'I hope so,' he responded.
'She is,' I told him. 'And never doubt it.'

Lo.

Buzzed and Busted

The first time I experienced the state of inebriation was senior year in high school. It was with Champagne. (Smart girl.) And it was after my senior prom.

It was the year 2000; the new Millennium. I had lost a couple pounds, I had the dress (an ombre slip number from Saks), THE shoes (four inch Stuart Weitzman rhinestone studded strappy sandals), a simple swept up do, a date (and remember, I went to an all-girls school so never a given), and some new moves inspired by TRL's latest line up.  

My girlfriends and our dates (a combination of male Calvary Campers and Central lacrosse players) gathered at my parents house for a pre-party photo shoot. We awkwardly made conversation with our respective matches while sizing up the opportunity to switch with someone later on. The event was at the recently renovated Holiday Inn in Oakland. I remember eating a couple pieces of honeydew for dinner and dancing as much as I could. 

Afterward, we went to Rebecca's house in Edgewood. My best friend boasted a big old house, a trampoline, lenient parents, and an exclusive guest list. There was champagne, beer, and cute boys. To date, it was one of the best parties I've ever been to. 

I don't remember how much I drank that night - maybe two or three glasses of champagne, followed by a beer. I also played some beer pong, but made my partners drink most of the losing cups. Regardless, it was enough to add a little haze, build my confidence, giggle (and giggle and giggle), flirt with the two boys at the top of Central's pecking order and kiss one of them. It was a night straight out of Can't Hardly Wait; and I was a pivotal character in it. 

The next morning, my Mom picked me up, likely alarmed at the disheveled household and boys passed out on couches and area rugs around the living room. As I gathered my things, and pounded a couple glasses of water, she pummeled Rebecca's Mom with questions about the past twelve hours. 

On the ride home, I told my Mom all about my fairy tale prom. The champagne fizz was still pulsing through my veins; I felt like I was glowing, or at least my blood shot eyes were. My Mom seemed enthused. That's great, and what about this? And what about that? I relayed all the stories, except the parts that involved wine glasses and beer cans.  

'So,' my Mom continued, 'did you get to drink a little champagne last night?' 

'What? ... Huh? ... No ... definitely not.'

'Did you drink a little beer?'

'What? .... No! ... Why would you ask that?!' 

'Well, Rebecca's mom said she gave everyone some champagne and beer last night to celebrate.'
(BUSTED!!!!)  

'Oh ... that champagne ...' 

I scanned her face for anger. The kind that grounds or sentences manual labor. There was a stern face but it didn't look as threatening as I've seen in the past ...

'Mommy doesn't want you to lie.'
'Uh huh ... um ... um ... (I was her girl, her good girl, who followed the rules) ... yes, yes, I did.'
'Did what?'
'Had some champagne.'
There was a pause. She was obviously processing the new development in her big girl's life.
'Mommy loves you ... but I don't love when you lie.' 

It was her classic line. Every time I got in trouble growing up, every time my Mom lost her temper, grabbed my ear, and banished me to my room, she would come upstairs minutes later, as loving as ever. She would sit beside me on my bed and say, 'Mommy loves you, but ... ' And I knew in that moment, that her love surpassed my every flaw. Even as a senior in high school the line worked wonders. As I sat in the car next to her, ashamed of drinking underage and worse lying to my mom who inevitably always deciphered the truth, I knew that my Mom would always be there for me.  

***

I don't remember all of Mary's first words, but I remember that many were based on the things she saw and heard every day.
Momma. Dadda.
Bottle.   

Train. Train. Train. 

Truck. 

Car. Car. Car. BLUE Car. 

Bus. 

Back pack.  
Gracias. (Thank you, Dora) 

While there are similarities in Bobby's early vocabulary (Momma, Dadda) there are some more ominous additions.

Ball. Ball. Ball.
No. Mine. 

Ouch! (MARY!!!!)
Baby. Baby. Baby. 

No. Mine.  

Ouch! (MARY!!!!)
Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. 

No. Mine. (EWWW!!!)

Hot. Hot. Hot. 

Ouch!

No. No. No. No!

Mine. Mine. Mine. MINE!
Show? (Yes, fine!)

Notably, he learned 'mine' at a much earlier age than Mary. Also, I've apparently been saying 'no' to him a whole lot. He's at the age and of the gender, that he gets into everything, and everything that he's absolutely not supposed to.  

Mary is at the age though, where saying 'no' isn't enough. Where sometimes, her mistakes make me lose my temper. Because she knows the difference between hot and cold; mine and ours; yuck and the opposite of yuck. And when she chooses wrong from right, it frustrates me to no end. 

So there are time outs, preceded by an arm grab perhaps. Mary cries and screams beyond my comprehension of despair. Distanced between her door, we each need a second to cool down. I have to take a deep breath myself, come downstairs, and think of ways to reconcile the situation. Moments later, I march back upstairs, sit down next to her and tell her just what my Mom told me over and over again growing up. 

'Mommy loves you, Mary, but ... you can't hit / push / kick / steal toys from your brother.' (Her most frequent offenses right now.) And just like I did with my Mom, she melts into my arms, as if those simple words make everything right again. Her tears are dried, she regains her composure, and she's ready to play once again. She just needed to know that discipline didn't mean a lack of love.  

There is no manual on parenting; every kid and every family are different. But much of what I practice came from my parents, which came from a state of pure love. And it makes me think just how many wrongs could be righted, how many courses could be diverted in this world with the simple statement that somebody loves you, and always will.

Lo. 

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.