Pour Michigan

On Saturday morning, Peter woke up before the sun ... and before me. He was dressed and out the door at 5:30 so he could fish the running salmon and steelhead with a guide named Evan.

The room was completely silent. There were no kids yelling, 'MAMA!' There were no chores to do. It was still dark, so I kept sleeping. For the first time in I don’t know how long.

I finally woke up at 7:30, my stomach still full from Larry Mawby's champagne and the locally sourced food and cocktails at Cook's House the night before. I drank a cup of coffee while referencing MichiganRunnerGirl.com. I figured out where my tennis shoes could take me today, got dressed and started running.

I ran across Traverse City and toward Old Mission Peninsula. About two miles in, I started getting a better sense of the community that makes up this pristine part of America. It wasn't in talking to people, but in reading the signage they had left around town.

The first sign I passed was on the lot of McDonald's. They were hiring. And loudly promoting that they started at $11 an hour.

A mile down the road a novelty shop attempted to lure customers in with a sign that read, ‘Petoskey Rocks and Petrified Poo Peruse Here.’ I laughed, but kept running.

As I started up Old Mission Peninsula, I intercepted a 5K. A woman on the corner signaled for me to run to the right where a sign read ‘10,000 rape kits sit untested each year,' I ran to left though. Those were Michigan Runner Girl's directions after all.

Up and down East Shore Drive houses either sided with Hillary or (still) sided with Trump. Despite their difference, everyone seemed to like a guy named Lon Johnson running for U.S. Congress though.

About six miles in, a bench painted with the words, 'pooped runners and bikers rest here' tempted me, but I ran on. The temperature was dropping, the wind picking up, so without long sleeves I had to keep moving.

There were signs for you to get apples over there, pumpkins right here, and wine just about everywhere. The bare cherry trees quietly told me to come back in the summer for their precious fruit.

As I headed back to the hotel, a readerboard outside of a Lutheran Church in town read ‘this is a sign that God loves you.’ I took it to heart.

When I finally returned to the Hotel Indigo, the sign 'hot' on the shower provided a warm welcome home.

My fisherman came back an hour later and we set off to taste the country side. We biked from winery to winery, up hills and down hills, through orchards and vineyards and in and out of one spectacular vista after another. It was an epic day.

Throughout the rest of the weekend, I saw additional signage that painted a more detailed portrait of coastal Michigan.
Don't frack here.
Unsalted and shark free.
Go Blue.
Go Spartans.
Tasting Room this way.
Come as guests, leave as friends.
Bride and (Drunk) Bridesmaid.
White fish spread and hamachi collar.
White and red.
Old and new.

Like the rest of the United States right now, it's a land politically and economically divided. There is a proud heritage of agriculture, hard work, shoreline, icy waters, and colorful historic towns with beautiful sunsets. And it contrasts but also complements a new generation of chefs, brewers, vintners, artists, fishermen, and settlers who are making the coast a hip destination. Every destination boasts a northern hospitality that is as strong as its counterpart down south. Outside is the place to be, even when the wind whips off the lake. And with a little luck and a really good eye, you can find your own Petoskey stone on the shore, without going to the store that sells petrified poo as well.

It took me a while to find mine. But when I did, I knew it wasn't a fake. And getting to spend a weekend with him, just us, in celebration of our five year anniversary, making new discoveries in such a majestic part of our country, was exactly what we needed. 

Lo. 

Cheer Cheer

I grew up in a Notre Dame family. What exactly does that mean?

It meant that for second grade show in tell, I brought in a leprechaun lapel pin that when pushed played the fight song electronically through it's porous back side.

It meant that my brother brought home kindergarten art projects starring football players with the numbers 1, 25, and 36 emblazoned on their jerseys.

It meant that we visited South Bend every fall, we waited in line to get into the bookstore, and we sipped hot chocolate while sitting on the cold benches of Notre Dame's original stadium.

It meant that the first person who saw the Dome was the winner.

It meant Aunt Connie's fried chicken at Uncle's Jim's tailgate.

It meant lighting a candle for Grandma and Grandpa at the Grotto. 

It meant the smell of fall, the sound of the band, and the gritty feeling of a football team that would fight on to victory.

We learned how to do push ups early on in life. We feared what my Mom did; going 'over the wall.' We were mesmerized by my Dad's big blue class ring. We all wanted to be as fast as the Rocket. And the 1812 Overture meant one thing: Lou.

It meant collegiate football at its authentic best. A program so enticing that it lured not just one of us, but all of us to Indiana to attain our higher education.

Ironically, when I ended up going to Notre Dame for college and then back again for an MBA, my experience with the institution was less and less defined by the football team. Sure, I loved the tailgates, particularly as I graduated from hot chocolate to Bloody Marys, but with each disappointing season, my energy shifting from the endeavors on the football field to my own personal ones in the classroom and on the lacrosse field.

Other parts of campus started to hold more meaning than the storied stadium: the Basilica. the fireplace at Coleman Morse where I would study for exams, the Library in the School of Architecture which took me right back to Italy, the ceramics room, North Dining Hall, runs around the Lake in the morning, bike rides home at dusk, Finnegans and Heartland, 1011 and 702, the people, the friendships, the characteristic warmth of it all.



***

For the past three weekends, we've driven down to South Bend to take in the magic of Notre Dame football weekends and share it with our kids. We witnessed one win and two rather bleak losses. In her new cheerleader outfit, Mary cheered, in his ND pullover Bobby tailgated (and then crashed). We rallied with the band, high stepped with the Irish Guard, and believed that each point was a turnaround moment. But we couldn't help the team eek out the wins they needed.

I worried a little. What if the football team doesn't return to glory? What if they don't have the fight in them anymore? Will my kids still feel the passion that I felt for the University at such an early age, when the football program was so good?

The losses didn't seem to phase my kids though. And maybe that's because they don't phase me anymore. In fact yesterday, Mary asked if we were going back to Notre Dame this weekend. She wanted to see Nana and Opa. She wanted to see the band and the cheerleaders. She wanted to run around the lakes, sing Cheer Cheer, and get a cookie from Aunt Connie.

So maybe it's not all about winning. And maybe it's not all about football. After all my experience as a student was more about the other stuff. But I wonder if the luster would be quite as golden without all the national championships and Heisman Trophies. And I wonder if the passion of the student body would be as great if they didn't have a team that they knew would win it all again. Someday. 

Lo.  

Making Beds

Ever since the addition of my double jogging stroller into our family, I can't get enough miles in with my kids. The times flies when I'm running with them; while in their tandem seats they read to each other, we practice colors, words, numbers, they snack and share together, I've even had Mary quizzing Bobby on flash cards as I push them into the glare of the rising sun in the morning. I've hardly missed a day running with them in the past four weeks, and I've cherished every outing.

Last Sunday was no exception. It was the morning after the Notre Dame / Nevada game. My crew and I were up before dawn again, claiming the first sites of campus staged with the aftermath of tailgates and reveling one step at a time. Mary fell asleep half way, but Bobby made it the whole ride, chewing fruit snacks, pointing out water, ducks, big trees, and truck, truck, TRUCK as we pushed through our routine.

When we got back home, the other inhabitants of the Dondo were awake. My Dad was pouring his coffee, my Mom was sipping hers, and Peter was rushing over to give the kids a morning hug.

We laughed about Bobby being an escapee from his room at 2:45 AM. We planned for the bike ride to Mass in about a half an hour. And my Mom jabbed my Dad for only making his half of the bed that morning.

'It's your job,' my Dad said, 'I was helping you get it done.'
I chuckled and related. 'Peter does that at our house sometimes. He'll make his side and leave me to finish the upkeep.'

Despite the generation gap, I found it interesting and funny how the partnership and roles in marriage can so easily translate.

***

When we returned home on Sunday, I unloaded the car and started preparing the house for the week ahead: cleaned, scrubbed, did laundry, grocery shopped, made dinner, washed kids, early bed times for all. (Bobby was asleep by 6:30 PM; that's how much fun he had at Notre Dame.)

Monday morning, Tuesday morning, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday ... all a flurry of activity. Wake up, buckle up, run, A is for Alligator, run, B is for bear, run, C is for cat, run, get out, get dressed, love you, bye.

Monday afternoon, Tuesday afternoon, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday ... all at a pace and pressure that could compete with my cardio. Call, meeting, pitch, argument, pitch, alignment, slides, deck, presentation, politics, revise, go home, one more call, one more thing, after the kids are asleep.

Monday night, Tuesday night, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday ... one handed chopping, sauteing, baking, burning, new teacher, new parents, dance class, eat, drink, baths, five more minutes, ten more minutes, one more sip, ten more stories, no eleven, crying, soothing, quiet.

I was asked at a recent brand positioning workshop what keeps you up at night? For some in the room it was the numbers, the business results. For others it was about home life, kids, family. For me, it was nothing. I pass out at the end of each and every day and sleep like a rock. Only to wake up, to the same feeling I had the day before. There's never enough time, but here we go again.

I feel like I need more than 100% of me. My kids need it. My job needs it. My husband needs it. And it makes me wonder, how much better of a Mom would be if I didn't have the job that I have. How much better of a marketer would be if I didn't have kids? And how much better of a wife would be if I didn't have either?

The reality is, I'm not in the position where I will know the short answers to those questions any time soon. But I do know that in order to fit it all in, I have to keep running through life. And leaning on my partners - my co-workers, teammates, kids, and most importantly husband to help me with the 10, 25 and sometimes 50 percents that I will never be able to complete. Sometimes I need for the bed to be half made when I get out of the shower and desperately need to get out the door. And that's okay. In fact, I think it's the way I prefer it. There's a lot of joy, humor and beauty in the teamwork it takes to get through the day.

And then there's always the weekend.

I'm so thankful, every day, for the man who was in the market for an MBA and a spouse at the same time I was. For saying hello to me, for buying me a drink, for finding the quirkiness in me something special, for cheering for me, traveling with me, loving me, and building a family with me. It's been an amazing five years, and there's no one else I would rather share an unmade bed with.

Lo.

School Girl

Last week, Peter and I attended Parents Night at Mary's school. We met her teacher, saw her brightly colored classroom, heard the Principal speak, and socialized with some of the other parents, still a little unsure if they were ready for their baby to grow up.

While there, we listened attentively as Mrs. H. went over the rules of her classroom, drop off and pick up procedures, the profile of an ideal Pre-K backpack (one zipper please), and an "inclusive" snack policy: only a real fruit, a real vegetable or a real cheese allowed.

'A real cheese? What else would there be?' one mom asked?
As a menu marketer, I was tempted to tell the class the difference: look out for that little asterisk that says pasteurized processed. But I kept my mouth shut.

Before getting up from our miniature chairs in the classroom that evening, we were asked to write a letter to our daughter. We each received a small piece of blue paper, lined with clouds. Our direction was to share something with our child on his or her first day of school. It didn't matter if it was in cursive. It was for a memory book that they would assemble at the end of the year.

The other moms and dads started scribbling, but I couldn't gather my words fast enough. I wasn't prepared for this. I would have come with an outline, notes, a perspective! I needed more time!

As Mrs. H told her class of parents to take a look around the room, ask questions, wrap up, I finally started writing. It was rushed though and I felt like I could have done better. So with a little more time this afternoon, here I go ...

Mary,

On your first day of school, you were so excited to leave. You jumped into my car, waved goodbye to Bobby, as he cried for you to come back.

I looked in my rear view mirror and saw my baby, all grown up. You had picked your outfit, brushed your hair, and secured it in place with a headband all by yourself just moments before. Your ladybug backpack was packed with cantaloupe for snack. Goofy's head was sticking out of an opening in the (one) zipper allowed.

On the way to school, you told me that you had long, golden hair. And that it was beautiful. 'I'm lucky to have golden hair. Right Mama?' You are. You are a beautiful little girl.

Then you told me, enthusiasm ringing in your voice, that you were going to meet your teachers, calling them by name. (Names that I told you once and that I couldn't even recall that morning.) Wow, I thought. You are (such) a smart little girl.

I told you that some of the kids might be upset today. I didn't use the c-r-y word per Mrs. H.'s advice, but I said if you saw a kid like that, tell them your name and ask them to be your friend. Maybe even offer them a hug. 'Okay, Mama. I will.' You are a sweet, good little girl.

When we got there, you got right in line with the other kids and marched up the stairs into school. Confident. Relaxed. Somehow knowing in a way that I didn't anticipate. You are a strong little girl.

As a couple kids wailed for their Mommies. And as some Mommies wailed for their babies, we parted ways dry-eyed. It wasn't a lack of emotion, rather a moment of shared reassurance. You were okay. I was okay. You were proud. I was so proud.

School is the start of exciting new things: opportunities and the challenges they present, new experiences and the friendships forged because of them, choices and their consequences. Sometimes those opportunities, experiences and choices might seem different or scary, but in assessing them always remember who your are: beautiful inside and out, smart, sweet, strong, and above all, my good little girl.

Daddy and I love you forever and always.

Mommy / Lo.