Crushed Ice

We grew up looking forward to a beach vacation nearly every year. And many times, it was an extended family event. Aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, sometimes even a random co-worker of my Mom or Dad would show up. They were trips destined to accumulate stories, memories, and laughs; the highlight of any given summer.

Back when there was a Dodge Caravan, Ford Taurus, and Pontiac Transport in the family, we would drive (and drive and drive) from Pittsburgh to a southeastern shore. The ride down meant stops at historic markers, touring a fort or battlefield, a picnic lunch somewhere in West Virginia, the license plate game, an Aunt Meg sighting, my Dad's collection of Broadway cassette tapes, hundreds of games of Tetris, punches and jabs from my brother and sister, dinner at a local institution, a motel stop, and the morning after, renewed optimism that we would reach the shore in just five short hours. Or in the case of our trip to Bald Head Island, five short hours plus another hour on a wavy, water soaked ferry.

Once we pulled across the marshy waterways into our resort destination, the salty sea air, the sound of the ocean, and the keys to our house were more excitement than we could contain. Slowly we would navigate the themed street names to our residence, park the Pontiac, and open the door to our palace for the week. Every year the house seemed to top the year prior.

We would run around exploring the novelties; the double dining room tables, the screened in porch, the alligator beached in our backyard, the DVDs and collection of games in the family room, the sun kissed kitchen equipped with an over sized refrigerator with built-in ice dispenser, the master suite complete with Jacuzzi, and finally, the room we would claim as our own.

Many years, I roomed with my sister or in some cases my sister and cousin Meghan. But they were night owls. They would keep the light on to read before bed. Then talk, and get hushed, then whisper, and get hushed again, then laugh and laugh, keeping me up when all I wanted to do was get eight hours of sleep, starting promptly at 9:00 PM.

So on one of our trips to Kiawah Island, when my Mom suggested I room with Aunt Dee Dee, I jumped at the opportunity. It was ideal. She was neat and tidy, retired when I did, woke up with the sun like me, and was (still is) the best. The first night though, I discovered the short fall. Evening after evening, she would fill up a cup with crushed ice from the magical dispenser, then sit in bed for 10-15 minutes, chewing it. At least the lights were out and the activity was short lived; it was a minor set back in my charmed rooming situation.

***

Last week, I sat in bed night after night, chewing ice and thinking about my family. Late in my pregnancies, the habit I learned from Aunt Dee Dee while on vacation, kicks in. Around month 7 or 8, I get a craving for ice water, than more ice than water, than just ice. I don't know what it is - the cooling effect or perhaps some sort of stress release - regardless, I now appreciate the beauty of crushed ice and feel even more akin to my storied roomie as I chomp through meetings, dinner, and a renewed bedtime ritual.

Last week was my family's annual beach vacation. There was a road trip down, ocean breezes and white sand, bike paths, an impressive house, and a dining room table that seated twenty, missing four.

At 34 weeks pregnant, I wasn't in the state to go, which meant neither was the rest of my unit. Traveling with the kids would have been particularly challenging, the hot sandy beach wouldn't have been as welcoming, and the possibility that I would go into labor in Pensacola, Florida scared me. I felt particularly bad though that my kids couldn't go. But our vacation would have to wait till later in the year.

It wasn't just my family though. Over the past two weeks, it seems like everyone has been on an amazing vacation. My Instagram feed detailed sunsets over St. Simon's Island, the boats in Bohicket Marina, the Nantucket lighthouse, s'mores with a view of Lake Tahoe, the National Mall, snow topped mountains in Glacier National Park, Mickey and Minnie, ball parks and concert halls, and your skiff ... it all looked like summer perfection. On the other hand, my big belly stuffed into a swimming suit, not so much.

As I walked with my kids in the morning, more and more planes seemed to fill the sky, heading south, north, anywhere but here. Co-workers took off test markets while I sat at my desk anxiously. Then I received their out of office (destined for the Caribbean, France and Greece) replies jealously. I held down the fort at home and at work, because at this point, I'm grounded until baby #3 comes.

It's all very 'wun wun' until you put things into perspective. It's summer and it's been a beautiful one in Chicagoland. My company had a big party downtown, we've been enjoying our local pool, bike rides around the neighborhood and along the Lakeshore, the Peggy O has provided several relaxing mornings and afternoons, the kids continue to do swim lessons, making great progress in the water, Mary went to a Moana themed dance camp this past week, we've been cooking out, catching fireflies, and perhaps this weekend, we will finally start to get our house ready for the arrival of an infant.

   

 

The final weeks of pregnancy with a summer baby are hot and uncomfortable, and it's a bummer missing out on certain things, but I'm almost there. And on the flip side, summer birthday parties should be really fun.

Lo. 

Dancing with Daddy

There are certain every day events and items in our household that garner vocal endorsements of one parenting style or just parent over the other.

Things like:
Fastening your seat belt.
Then at your destination, unfastening your seat belt and getting you out of the car.
The bike and by default parent preferred as transport.
Swimming.
Filling up a cup of milk and getting snack on the heels of that.
Making the bacon for BLTs.
Putting you in the bathtub at night, and then taking you out again.
Reading stories.
Comforting you after a bad dream.
Then getting you out of bed the next morning.

Most times, Bobby casts his vote for Daddy while Mary favors her Mommy, but recently Daddy has been on a winning streak across the board. I'm blaming it on my physique, general lack of energy, and inability to cook bacon just like Daddy does, but there have been days, when no one even wants me to fasten their seat belt.

The point is, there is something that Peter adds to the kids' lives that Mommy just can't replicate. He's the one that gets all the way in the baby pool with Bobby. He's the one that gets in bed with Mary to comfort her if she wakes up with a bad dream. He's the one that makes the bacon chewy, not burnt like Mommy. And most recently, he's the one that played Prince Charming to our little girl week after week at Daddy Daughter Dance Rehearsal.

As I would put Bobby down for his nap on Sundays, Peter would take Mary to her dance studio to practice the steps of the big finale at the recital. There were weeks when the report would come back lackluster: there were too many people, it was at the other location with another teacher, we were lacking home field advantage, Mary did it once and then got too tired. But then there were weeks when everything just clicked: they got the steps, they were in sync, and those other Dads just couldn't keep the beat.

No matter what though, the two of them would come home with bright red lips from the Tropical Snow Cones they purchased as a treat for making it through the rehearsal. I loved that Peter was doing this special activity with Mary and I anxiously looked forward to the big show.

***

As a former dancer, I couldn't wait for Mary to experience music and movement for the first time, then ultimately the stage, costumes, lights, audience and applause. After a year of work in Miss Lauren's studio, she got to put on her first tutu and ham it up on stage, just like her Mommy used to do.

Yesterday, she stole the middle of the show in her light blue poof of a dress, dancing to Lollipop in the Candyland themed recital. She knew all her steps, she lit up the line with her animated facial expressions, and she started and ended with the biggest, proudest smile plastered on her face. I couldn't have been more proud of her. (She's third from the left in the video)

  

And her out of town fans agreed. 

   

But it was the end of the show that stole my heart. Mary sat center stage, dressed in white, as Peter snapped his way out to her. They swayed side to side, he lifted her up, shimmied and spun around, and made our little girl glow next to him. I couldn't help but envision the dance that would come twenty some years from now, and got a little teary eyed.

Of all the reasons that I cast my vote for Peter to be my husband about six years ago, bacon maker included, the fact that he would be a great dad was at the top of the list. But with each year, and with each baby, he continues to exceed my expectations.  

Lo,

Roomies

A couple nights ago, I was laying in bed hoping that Bobby would stop crying. Mary was making her own whiny bed time protest. 'Please go to sleep,' I willed them. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my phone continue to light up with new texts from my college friends. While I needed a good laugh, I knew yet another glimpse of a small electronic device would make my newly minted migraine even worse. I looked up at the ceiling instead. Not tired enough to fall asleep, but too tired to do anything more than that.

I looked at the stain up there. Water dripped through the crawl space about a year ago leaving a brownish, textured mark that bothers me most after I've ritualistically cleaned the house for the week, inevitably missing this one spot. There's a similar watermark on the ceiling of our sun room. And then there are those two notches in the wall, imprints from the previous owners' over sized artwork and carelessness. We need to replace all the windows too. They are likely as old as our pre-war house and in a couple instances haven't aged well.

The stain on the ceiling tends to lead to thoughts of the other things: leaky faucets, creaky floors, doors that jam, chipped paint, and when comparing to others or expectations or ideals, the feeling that there isn't ever enough room. That with another on the way, what we have won't suffice.

For the past couple months, I've been scouring Redfin looking for an upgrade. Another bedroom, another bathroom, a bigger kitchen, more land, less neighbors, all at the right price. I've forced my love onto a couple contenders, but in reality they had shortcomings. More importantly, it's not a logical time for us to move. There are too many question marks in our future - too many paths that have potential.

That night, as I was looking up at one of the many flaws in our house, trying to deal with yet another headache fueled by a combination of work stress, high energy kids, and third trimester fatigue, I heard Mary say, 'come on Bobby it's time for bed. Let's be quiet now.'
Bobby snapped back, 'no. I don't want you, Ma-ree'
She soothed him again, encouraging him one more time to go to sleep. A plane announcing its proximity to O'Hare flew over head.
'What's that Mary?' he asked.
'It's a plane, Bobby'
'Oh, is that a plane, Mary?'
'Uh huh.'
'We going to sleep now Mary?'
'Uh huh.'
You asleep now, Mary?
'Uh huh'
'Okay, Mary.'

They were quiet. And five minutes later asleep. A minute after that, I was asleep too.

Peter and I had already been in twice trying to get them to calm down. One last story, one last song, one last cuddle. Turns out, all they needed was each other.

Over the past week, I've noticed more and more benefits from the kids' cohabitation even at their young ages. They are sharing more and fighting less. Talking instead of teasing. Actually helping each other. And the lengthy bedtime ritual is consolidated to one room and generally one parent. Amazing.

With the pace of life recently, I have hardly been stopping to recognize the milestones, and over the past ten days, there have been quite a few. Mary graduated from preschool. Bobby graduated from his crib into a big boy bed. The two of them graduated from brother and sister into the realm of roommates. And I graduated from the fear that what we have isn't enough for our growing family. In fact, it's plenty.

Good things can come from small houses ... as well as flaws that need fixing, shared rooms, and an acknowledgment that greener grass doesn't mean a happier home.

Lo.

The Mom that Spoke at Mass

At 2:30 PM yesterday, I left my house and went into the office for the first time all day. I had just gotten a shower; a humble attempt to scrub away the vomit and disinfectant covering my body. With a clean, wet head I breathed in the fresh air of corporate productivity from within the walls of my second floor cubical. I felt so much better: healthier, more relaxed, almost giddy. For the next two hours it was just me, my work and the well side of the world, and it was glorious.

There were evenings growing up when my Mom would abruptly tell us she was going back to the office. The day was over, she had already driven the Boulevard of the Allies twice, and she wanted to go downtown again? As an 8 year old, I thought she was nuts. As a 35 year old mom, I have realized the office as occasional sanctuary.

***

The plague manifested itself at our house on Mother's Day eve. Peter and I had just sat down to enjoy a beautiful spring dinner on a beautiful spring evening, but two bites in, we were interrupted by all too routine fighting and fussing. I scarfed down the rest of my scallops and got the kids bathed and in bed. Bobby kept waking up, fussing. I figured something was wrong.

A couple hours later, Bobby was crying in his crib, covered in puke, confused, smelly, and to a Mom filled with pity for her poor sick peanut, more cuddly than ever. Peter and I bathed him, got him dressed again, changed his sheets, started the laundry, and put him back to sleep. Ten minutes later, we were on repeat. And so it went until the wee hours of the morning.

I spent Mother's Day cleaning up another round of vomit, disinfecting our house, napping, reading, praying the plague would pass me by, and otherwise exercising the less than glamorous role us Moms were being celebrating for.

The rest of the week was met by illness further penetrating our household, including our poor nanny. It was characterized by dozens of Clorox wipes, many more tears over "why water, why not milk(?!), leaky diapers, yucky sheets, loads and loads of laundry, little sleep, and an extra dose of pre-natal vitamins, hoping they would fend off the pukes.

On Mother's Day, we missed brunch, and the boat, and a beautiful family photo, but I did get to Mass. And in the tradition of my Parish, one of the Moms in the congregation gave the homily. In the past, the speakers have been good, not great. Sorry, I'm judgmental. This year though, the woman was dynamite.

She is an ER Doc downtown. The mother of two teenage kids. She has Notre Dame in her DNA and does volunteer work with disadvantaged women in Honduras. Her role model is Dorothy Day. She spoke with conviction and passion, and I was engrossed. She compared society's view of the ideal mom (beautiful, perfectly shaped, raising 2.5 kids on organic homemade baby food in a sparkling house and a Cheerio free minivan) with the moms she views as role models (widows she has met throughout life.) She spoke of the sacrifice and selflessness of these moms, working two jobs and night shifts to put kids through school. She admired how their prayers were always for everyone but themselves. And she praised their hope and perseverance in the face of all they had been through.

(And I'm trying to sell more chicken tenders for a living ...)

She ended her homily by saying something that will always stick with me. She said, "there is no time to be hopeless in life. There is far too much work to do."

Amen!

Such a perfect sentiment.

This was a week that I thought my Mom would text me, 'this too shall pass'; one of my Grandma's oft repeated mantras. However, in keeping Preacher Mom's (never caught her name) advice in check, the added work and loss of sleep over the past six days didn't seem to phase me. I just kept moving ... cooking and cleaning, solving and selling, flying the turbulent skies and landing on two feet again, wondering, is the work I do enough?

For now, I'll say it is. Because I'm home from the office. Everyone's healthy. And it's Friday.

Lo.

Mother of Three

Every time I return to Pittsburgh, my parents house seems a little emptier. My dad has spent many hours of his newfound retirement, purging the attic, closets, shelves and drawers of stuff that is decades past its useful life. The blank spaces make you take notice of the other stuff, hand selected to remain.

At Thanksgiving, I was putting Bobby to sleep in my brother's old room, a landmark that now doubles as a teenager's shrine to Notre Dame football and a baby room. The two-fold purpose has created an abundance of furniture making you shimmy through crevices to get from doorway to crib to changing table, inevitably sending me back to Chicago with bruised knees and elbows as souvenirs.

In the depths of the furniture maze is a little rocking chair, made for a four year old perhaps. On it always sits a little embroidered baby pillow that has been in the family for as long as I can remember. It's blue and white with lace around the perimeter. I picked it up to move it to bed so I had a chance of squeezing into the chair, and for the first time, I read what was embroidered on it.

It says, "A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on."

As I sang and rocked Bobby to sleep I was distracted. It was kind of an ominous sentence; dark for an infant's memento. I wondered where my parents got it and what was going on in the world at the time it was created. Did my Mom share some of the emotions I had been experiencing as she brought us into this world?

Thanksgiving was a confusing time for me. We had a new president elect, the liberal media had sufficiently convinced me that the world could very well end, and there was a chance that God's opinion could already be taking shape in me. The pillow said it all. And as I rocked Bobby to sleep, I felt tears run down my cheeks onto his little golden head.

***

A couple weeks later, I confirmed that I was in fact pregnant with number three. I remember telling Peter as we warmed up by the fire after taking the kids sledding in December. "Are you ready to do it again?" I asked him.

His emotional response said it all. He absolutely was.

I just wasn't sure that I was. But week after week, pound by pound, the pillow kept interrupting me ...

Listening to and reading the news: I turned off NPR for awhile and removed myself from the social hysteria.

Figuring out what to wear to work: I ate for two and woefully kissed my new favorite jeans goodbye.

Settling: I scoured Redfin, looking for an upgrade and extra bedroom.

Climbing the ladder: I tried to relinquish my calculated plans: a promotion that continues to be just shy of attainable, momentum, the stage. I waited and waited to tell people at work. I kept thinking about yet another maternity leave holding me back. Finally, the news and my belly came out.

Doing it all: I worked and then worked harder and told them I wasn't going to slow down. I came home to make dinner. Rough housed in the basement. Baths. Bedtime. I opened up my laptop and got back to work. I kept running, turning over the ground, planting the garden, scrubbing the floors. Peter looked at me last night and said in a very real way, "you can't work too hard."

After I had Mary, I seriously debating quitting the workforce and never going back. Four years later, I can't believe the hesitancy I have experienced about the blip in time that my maternity leave will be.

I think there is a reason my third one is sticking out a whole lot more than the first two. She wants to remind me of God's opinion daily, and with it the most important roles I have: those of wife and mother. And I know she and God are right. Life will go on. And I'm pretty sure my career will go on.

As I make my way down the homestretch of pregnancy, feeling my baby girl dance a little more jubilantly in me everyday, the idea of dedicating a couple months to just being a mom is growing on me. And I think calling me.

Lo.

Rise and Shine

As Christ rose from the dead on Easter Sunday, I was helping Bobby help Spot find his ball. As I turned the page, whispering 'grab it butterfingers' into Bobby's ear, I brushed pretzel crumbs off his new blue blazer, found a place in my purse to put Mary's slobbery lollipop stick, and hoped the sweat pouring down my face wouldn't ruin the one day my hair and make-up looked relatively good.

We were at St. Bede's for Mass. My sister was singing in their ethereal choir. I spied several familiar faces in the crowded pews. My kids were behaving, but I was performing a muted three ring circus to garner the effect. The homily was apparently moving, fitting, the congregation laughing at the punch lines. At one point, my brother reached over me to tell his daughter to listen because the priest was talking about children. If only I had taken his advice. Bobby was driving his cars up and down the 'lanes' of my dress at that time though.

Much of Lent, the most reflective part of the year for us Catholics has a similar quality. That is, every time I set out to pray, I seemed to get interrupted. And God was never as persistent as a friend, family member or co-worker coaxing me to go on and finish what I had started to say. He mostly just let it go, hoping I'd return to the thought soon enough.

There have been so many nights when I began an Our Father or Hail Mary, poised for success, only to find myself asleep half way through.

Life continues to be so busy, and with it more challenging to find concentrated time in the day, or week, or month to just sit with my thoughts, offering them to God. And throughout the past forty days, which have largely gone unrepresented on paper, I felt like I needed to tame the rigors of work and family life more than ever, so I could practice my faith more fastidiously.

Instead, it went something like this:

Our Father who art in heaven ...
Sales are up. Top complaint continues to be dry / overcooked. That image needs to say 'we are in the dinner business' and it's worth your $20. Can we thaw it faster, cook it better, hold it less? Answer text, call him back, reply all, into one meeting and onto the next. Introduce my new guy. Thank you, new guy. We're winning new guy.

Hallowed be thy name ...

"Is that a snake?" Bobby asked when he pooped in the potty for the first time.

Thy kingdom come ... 

I heard my Dad talk about his big brother, my Uncle Jim. My eyes started to well and then drip. Mary asked me, 'why are there tears coming out, Mama?' I tried to recount - nope, I don't think I've cried in front of her before. When they played the Notre Dame fight song at the end of the funeral Mass, I couldn't hold it together. Such an icon; such a great man. Gone too soon.

Thy will be done ...

I was in the middle of fighting off my kids' fear of Marquette's mascot, the Eagle. I decided to give them a break, get them some ice cream, and return at the end of the game. My best friend's team had won. Bravo! I gave her an overdue hug - one that I wish I could have given her months ago and felt a pain relaying the news I was carrying.

On Earth as it is in heaven ...
"Eagle in the bubble gonna eat me, Mama?"
"No Bobby, the Eagle is nice."
"I afraid of Eagle, Mama."
"The Eagle went home. You're fine."

Give us this day, our daily bread ...
I said one more goodbye to my VP. I wish I could have had another drink with him at his party, but I had to go home. And I had to figure out a way to move on. He told me to keep in touch. I knew I would, but it still hurt seeing him go.

And forgive us our trespasses ...
"You're welcome," Peter replied.
God, the amount of times I forget to just say thank you to my amazing husband is embarrassing.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

As we forgive those who trespass against us ...
Chemical weapons, Russia, North Korea, the mother of all bombs. Geez Louise.
Meghan.
God bless her.
Bobby came downstairs with his arms full of toy cars, then proceeded to drop them all over the floor. "Geez Louise" he repeated back to me.

As we forgive those who trespass against us ...
Oh my gosh, my dress just split open. In the middle of Easter brunch. In the middle of the Golf Club. In the middle of everyone. I think I might just die of humiliation, right here, in front of the balloon man.

As we forgive those ... crap ... where was I? It's about now that I lose track. I quickly shift out of one prayer and into the next. For all those that are suffering - through war, famine, disease, distress, despair. And I start wondering why me? Why has life left me so blessed? I go from an attempt at pious formality to a simple, but honest, 'thank you.' And a request to let me know how I can use all the stuff God has given me as he would want.

In saying just that, I feel more at peace. Able to move on. And maybe that's the thing about prayer. It can be as messy, confusing, and scatter brained as daily life, but as long it's done genuinely and graciously, it's effective.

So on Easter Sunday, I just said thank you. Over and over again.
For kind, thoughtful parents.

Cousins, brothers and sisters.
    
Spring days and sunshine.



Forgiving dresses. And a sister who came to my rescue.

Champagne and macaroons.
Wasp swatters.
Easter eggs, bunnies and baskets.

      

Chubby cheeks.

Pirates and Penguins.
Ellis girls.

Haircuts by the one and only Anne.

My husband.
My kids.
And our Lord. For rising, shining, and showing us His graces every day. 

Happy Easter. 

Lo. 

Four

Mary woke up a four year old on Tuesday. She had been counting down the months, then weeks, then days till her birthday since around Uncle Adam's birthday in September.

She usually calls me in the morning to get her out of bed, but as she turned four at exactly 7:20 AM, she walked down the stairs to get her hug, breakfast, and confirmation that today was in fact the day.

Proud of her newfound, more senior status, she ate all of the pancakes I had made for breakfast. Before getting dressed, Daddy let her open a couple presents; a giant tattooed Maui and a more diminutive Moana doll. Then I surprised her with a new party dress for school; something to make her feel extra special in front of her class.

As I walked into Pre-School with her, I checked to make sure nothing had appeared on my calendar in the last ten minutes, assuring myself that it was okay to indulge in her day as well. About six inches of snow had fallen the night before. While local traffic was moving at a steady pace, the routine jams that snake their way from the suburbs to the city were at a stand still. As the commuters in higher offices sat in their cars, things on my calendar magically disappeared.

So I got to see Mary crowned birthday queen, and then sat down in the rocking chair on the edge of the carpet, Mary at my side, her classmates all around us. I read Mary's choice of story for the day: Moana; the Little Golden adaptation of the movie that she and Bobby adore. I read it with dramatic effect and the kids stared in awe at the fantastic images of coconut pirates, a monster crab and a lava monster.

At the end, an announcement rang out over the school's loudspeaker. It was Mary's birthday today! She blushed with pride and nuzzled into my arm as her classmates joined in singing 'happy birthday to you.'

Next, she got to unveil what she put in her 'Me Box,' the school's branded version of show and tell within the constraints of a container that might have carried stationary at one point in time. She was supposed to pick three of her favorite things, but naturally she reached for more when stuffing it. In it were:

• Ballet slippers 
• A miniature toy horse
• A photo of her family at the top of the Pittsburgh incline and another one of her hugging Snow White at Disney World 
• The pink rosary that Aunt Erin gave her for her Baptism 
• And a little paper book that Peter had made her when she was about 18 months old. 

She proudly took each item out of her box and explained their significance in her life, then passed them around the circle for her classmates to inspect a little closer.

I left shortly afterward to head to work. Mary still had a birthday smile plastered on her face, which she would keep until I returned home that evening.

Peter and I took just her out to dinner on Tuesday night. She wore her new dress and the birthday crown she was given at school. She requested sushi, so sushi she got. She ate almost all of her California Roll while I longingly looked at Peter's Hamachi and settled on my choice. She asked for another present, which she was granted when we returned home. Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo! She was Cinderella until bedtime.

Something just clicked for Mary this year; and that is that birthdays are a big deal. She saturated herself in every second of attention, greeting of 'happy birthday', and gift received.

A couple days later, as more thoughtful gifts came in the mail, Peter and I discussed how she had been acting out, that her birthday had almost gotten the better of her. I lectured her about appreciation, sharing, and eliminating her whiny tone of voice. She understood. She told Eva on Friday that when she grew up she was going to give all her toys to the poor kids. We were getting somewhere. But when Nana and Opa arrived on Friday night she went straight for the gift, and then asked Aunt Dee Dee where her present was. The points of the lecture were reinforced.

Saturday brought her party, our house transformed into a romper room, I saw Emma, and Andrew, and MJ, and a leprechaun, and Mary, cake, and ice cream, and a plastic present explosion in our sunroom.

Being four, having a birthday, inviting your whole class to a party, and opening a room full of presents is pretty amazing. And as a parent, it's hard to put it all into perspective for your little girl. Until it's time to clean up, move on, and get back to the routine, which includes sharing everything you just received.

Minus a couple moments of selfishness over the past week, I'm very proud of my four year old. Mary is a good girl, a loving girl, and a smart girl. And just as her Me Box selections described, she continues to keep her favorite things top of mind: faith and family, creativity and curiosity, a belief in a little magic and a mandate of inclusiveness.

And as for all of the presents ... we'll have to save some of them for a rainy day.

Lo.