The Matron

Last Tuesday, I flew to Pittsburgh so I could fulfill my duties as matron of honor in my sister's wedding. She told me that she would refer to me as her maid of honor in the program though; that she never liked the alternate title.

However, as a mother of three, I kind of liked the distinction. Despite how dowdy it can make you feel, I believe matrons bring a certain level of expertise to the table unlike their maidenly counterparts.

That is, when asked to move chairs around the altar at variance points in the wedding ceremony, you incredulously accept your role, but then perform it with grace. Because hey, you've been practicing for this for weeks by carrying a 37 pound little boy up the stairs ten times a day to go potty.

You are also really good at helping the photographer get more oomph out of the bride and groom. When she asks them to nuzzle noses you make comments like, 'ugga mugga' because Daniel Tiger and his Mom do that really well. Or when the photographer says that's a wrap, you burst out in 'we did it, we did it, we did it, yeah!' because Dora and Boots have the best celebration dance of all.

You are really good at bustling on the fly because finding little hooks and clasps and fastening them as quickly as possible is one of your fortes as a mom.

You show a little more emotion in church because you know what it took to make two paths come together and become one, you know that love, even after six years, is truly patient and kind, and that bear hugs are always better than a hug from a gazelle. You take as many pictures as possible, because you know how fast it all goes. And when you give a speech, you speak with a little more maturity and a lot more sobriety.

Matrons also earn a little slack, which I needed here and there. Say, when you ask to buy a dress at the very last minute because your body seems to change its shape by the hour. Or when the bride generously offers to pay for your professional makeup application (thank you so much) because the circles under your eyes need a miracle. And when you are MIA, it is assumed you are nursing your baby when actually you might be sneaking another glass of wine so you can lead the Love Train with as much courage as possible.

So I called myself matron, and did my best to honor my beautiful sister and her handsome hubby throughout their wedding weekend. (A big thank you to Peter and Eva for helping me do that.) Being witness, support, fluffer and bustler, amateur photographer, speaker, blessing giver, flower girl and ring bearer wrangler, dancer, best friend and little sister was an amazing experience, captured best in the photos that follow.

One final view point though; one that a photo just can't capture. As the matron of honor, you get to stand right up front and watch the bride walk down the aisle as the groom lovingly looks on. Watching Joe see the love of his life walk to him, inching closer as her dress swished, her eyes beamed and her smile shined brighter than the little tiara in her hair, was pure magic. For a guy who spends so much time in back of a camera, I didn't see him take out his favorite tool once all day. He was completely and utterly present, letting his eyes take all the photos he needed of his beautiful bride on their special day.

Lo.

The Bridal Luncheon

      

Rehearsal

   
 

            

Wedding Day

     

   

The Brunch

***
The Matron of Honor Speech 

I am Erin's little sister. And I am also a mother of three. I have Mary, Bobby and Margaret.

Recently, my four year old and first born, Mary, was having a tough day. I put her to bed with tears in her eyes that night. She gave me a hug and said (in her ever dramatic fashion), I don’t want to be the big sister anymore. It’s too hard. I just can’t do it.

I told her that ‘God chose you to be the big sister … just like God chose Aunt Erin to be the big sister in my family.’

Her response was comical … she said, 'I don’t want to be the chosen one.’

First of all, I laughed. Then I took the time to tell her a little bit more about how Aunt Erin was the best big sister ever. And how we can learn from her.

She was a big helper, like big sisters have to be. She listened and did what Nana and Opa asked her to do. She helped them take care of Uncle Adam and me, making sure we were safe and sound. Legend has it, that when we lived on Bartlett Street, I was riding my bike down our very steep driveway, gaining speed by the second. My sister rushed over and pushed me over, bike and all. Sure, I was bruised and scraped, but she proudly touted that she had saved my life.

She was such a big help and great teacher to Adam and me, that later on in life, she saw that hard work pay off. See after dinner, my Mom and Dad would linger at the table to finish their conversation. And all of three of us would be put to work; washing and drying dishes. Adam and I would start while Erin politely excused herself to go to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later she would return and feign surprise that the chores were already finished. Well, nothing left for her to do I guess.

She was a fearless leader for us kids, like big sisters have to be. She was outspoken, always having a point of view that needed to be shared. She liked to get the last word in, as my mom would say. There were times when my Mom would discipline us for some reason, and my sister did not want to accept the punishment without sharing her side of the story. I would pull her aside and say, Erin, come on, do you really want to get in even more trouble? She would push me away and start to argue the defense, only to have the Judge reprimand her more and double her sentence. In our rooms later that night, she would smile, laugh a little, and tell me it had to be said. Mom can be so exasperating at times.

She was really smart, like big sisters have to be. And just like Belle, she was an avid reader. In the time it took me to read one book, she could read every volume of the Baby Sitters Club. And for a girl who got a Needs Improvement in reading growing up, I loved that she would take the time to read to me. We shared a room growing up, and many nights, she would invite me into her bed, telling me to bring as many books as I could. We would pile up stories and one by one she would read to me until I fell asleep.

She was beautiful inside and out, like big sisters have to be. Just like Snow White, she had skin as white as snow. And like you, she tends to burn easily in the sun. Through the years, she’s gotten more and more beautiful, and better and better as posing for pictures. Rumor has it, she even invented the classic hand on hip pose.

Just like Sleeping Beauty, she was given the gift of song. A voice so beautiful, that my Dad would encourage her to sing with him many nights of the week as he accompanied her on the piano. She sang through grade school, high school and even college. And today, gives back so graciously to the St. Bede’s community as a cantor and member of their choir. I was envious of that natural, raw talent, particularly when I asked to sing with my dad and received the coaching that I was flat and changing key, yet again.

Most importantly though, just like Cinderella, she has always remained kind, caring, and a believer in happily ever after. Even when she faced ugliness in life, hardships, and a heart that was grieving, she had faith that true love would find her. And it did, A Prince, artist, Pitt super fan, lover of life and all of its ticketed events, named Joe came along on a kayak with the kind of spirited and selfless love that my sister needed. Because just like you, Mary, big sisters can have tough days, and sometimes they need a Mommy or Prince Charming to lift them up again.

Joe - I have never seen my sister so happy. She is glowing, not just today, but every day since the two of you met. Thank you for that.

I wish you a happily ever after today and all the days of your life.

On Leave

Margaret has the most perfect little hands. She is grasping things now and when she reaches out to hold one of my fingers I catch myself just staring at her soft white nails, the wrinkles on her fingers, dimples on her knuckles, and little rolls around her wrists. There is not a mark on them, not a worry that has whittled down her nails. The contrast between her hands and mine after two nail biting Jodi Picoult books is striking. 

I've been on maternity leave for eight weeks, nearly two months. And by now, everyone is sleeping at night, napping concurrently, and relatively predictable. Mary is back in school, Bobby basks in the extra attention, Margaret is full of rolls and contentment, and I'm well ... a seasoned mom at this point. Life with three has gotten pretty manageable. So manageable in fact, that there are days when I come home after dropping Mary at school and think, now what are we going to do all day?

Oh yeah ... just about the same thing we did yesterday.

I go to the park for the twelfth time this week. I read a Chapter of my latest book as Margaret sucks down her morning snack. I line up Bobby's cars by color and make his prized stuffed owls talk. I change a baby poop and coax a big boy to make his on the potty. Ten attempts later, it's out and I'm cleaning up the areas where he missed. I argue the pros of putting shoes on and the cons of walking through the drug store with bare feet. I bike over to school to pick up Mary, lingering with the Moms in the pick up line; please don't get into your car yet, please don't let the adult interaction end. We have chicken tenders and baby carrots for lunch. Again. I try to take a nap, but I'm not tired anymore. So I read. And think. And worry. I have a little book club conversation with myself. And I worry again. I attempt to make something a little more complicated for dinner, but it looks mediocre by my once high standards. I write two or three emails that correspond rather than produce. I dish out snacks, turn on the hose, stay clear of getting soaked, then get reprimanded by the neighbor as Bobby drenches his house. I pour myself a glass of wine. And we wait for Daddy to get home.

There are times when I want to stray from the routine, but I'm not that good yet. The full time moms who have honed their craft tell me about other things to do. They also manage to chair leagues and boards, play tennis with their friends in the morning and organize new comer events in the evening; they volunteer and coach, carry on eloquent conversations while bouncing toddlers on their hips, are dressed and done up and smiling; they know you and everyone knows them. My stab at full time motherhood pales in comparison to their expertise. 

So I find myself looking forward to the weekends more the usual. Partly because there has been fun stuff going on; but also because I need the days that aren't time bound by pick ups, drop offs, and naps to try a new adventure; ideally one that ends with Mommy and Daddy getting to have drinks with people our own age. 

         

It's not that I don't love this time with my kids. I cherish it. It's just that I've been feeling a little sluggish and unproductive recently. And yesterday didn't help.

I took the kids to visit my coworkers at the office. It was the obligatory show off the baby trip. They all gushed for a minute or two and then zipped off. They were literally running to focus groups, product showings, high profile presentations and tense meetings. Holding my infant carrier, in no hurry other than getting Bobby to a potty if need be, I felt like an outsider. And I missed it all. The frenzy, the crisis resolution, and the sense of purpose you get as you catapult a project forward. I know I'll be back soon, but I got discouraged.

That is, until I started thinking a little more about my current job as a full time mom.

Am I being productive? Absolutely. I just produced the most amazing little person eight weeks ago. And I continue to produce milk for her, adding to her collection of rolls every day.

Am I creating? Sure. I create content that will help shape my children. I play and color, teach and discipline, laugh vigorously and love tirelessly. I create character and characters. After all, in light of recent events, isn't instilling love over hate, action over rhetoric, and inclusiveness over intolerance in the next generation the best thing to create?

Am I learning something new every day? You bet.

Am I driven to succeed? It's mostly intrinsic, but without a doubt.

Do I love what I'm doing. So much.

So for the next five or six weeks, till I can no longer hemorrhage cash, I will be totally satisfied just staring. Or rather marveling at the little miracles in my life; their big blue eyes, their button noses, their soft squishy skin. I'll listen as attentively as possible to the things they say and respond patiently. I'll soak up the way they run and dance and jump all over the house. And I'll hold on to the way they hug me and tell me I'm the best Mommy ever, even though they have no point of comparison. If only ... there was a way to get compensated for the hardest, messiest, and best full time job ever.

Lo.

Dinnertime ... 6 Years Later

The Early Riser is more than nine years old. Which is hard for me to believe for a couple of reasons. First, that nine years has gone by since Kim from business school inspired me to start blogging; and second, that the person writing nine years ago was in fact me.

I've gone through an evolution - from b school to corporate American, from my apartment to our house, from dating, to engaged, to married, to being a parent. With it, I'd like to say I've matured both in character and writing style. I traded in flowery language for the straight forward, hyperbole for realism, boasting for complaining, inexpert advice for unanswered questions. I've become a little less 'Lo' and a lot more me. 

If you track my approach to the subject of dinnertime over the years, the evolution is particularly noticeable. I started writing about dinner as an elegant affair every evening. (And it was - gloriously so.) Nine years later, I'll call our evening meal more ... down to earth.  

About a month before we were married (two years into Lo's view on life) I wrote about our approach to dinner for the first time. And although the writing is a little fluffy, the sentiments are real. Peter and I used to plan, plot, and look forward to a beautifully prepared dinner every night. We cherished that time together and lingered over it. As a present day reader, I am downright envious of it.

In the fall of 2012, a year later and about five months before we became parents for the first time, I expressed fears that our 'special time' would face some sacrifices. Nothing dire. Nothing that would take away the integrity of what Peter and I had built. But I was a realist - I'd be prepared (or so I thought.) That evening I had made potato crusted halibut and a french apple tart. Seriously? 

Then I got jolted. Mary came along. I was juggling work, day care pick ups, marathon training, and the fact that I still wanted to get a great dinner on the table every night. I started to find patterns in the menu planning. There were repeats now. Our timing moved from a couple hours to perhaps thirty or forty five minutes. We didn't sit down to debate, laugh, and plan our life ahead. Rather, one of us was seated while the other got a bite after every lap around the house, walking the baby from fussy to sleepy. Five laps later, dinner was usually cold.  

Fast forward to 2017. Another test of dinnertime. Three babies and while I'm not back at work yet, the day to day is crazy enough. I grocery shop as quickly as possible once a week. I have a rehearsed repertoire and a memorized list that goes with it. Fruits, veges, snacks, cereal, and THREE gallons of milk. Pork and chicken (the easy lean cuts which Peter discriminates against for their lack of flavor), bacon (BLTs - fan favorite), more bacon (what about two nights of BLTs?), brats or even hot dogs work, steaks for Sunday night (because they're his favorite), and then how many nights this week can I eek by on scrambled eggs and wine? And what night do I get to go out? Note to self, text Camille.

Cooking is quick. Dinner is quicker. The conversation is a highlight and so necessary, but it's interrupted every two minutes with, 'Mommy, I need more milk.'

Last week though, I experienced something that I hadn't in a while. Dinnertime - the way we used to share it, or at least as close as I've been in a while. 

While my sitter was still here in the morning, I made some dough. While the kids were napping, I mixed up the filling. Peter texted that he was going to be late; I could tell it was a long day for him. That evening, with Mary and Bobby watching TV in the basement and Margaret wrapped like a marsupial against my body, I started rolling out dough, cutting it and stuffing pork dumplings one by one. I fried them in a little peanut oil, adding a flour and water mixture to the bottom of the pan which creates this pancake like bottom to each pot sticker. I made a soy and wasabi dipping sauce and then stir fried green beans. I got out a Pinot Gris we had tasted and loved when we toured the wineries of northern Michigan last fall. And I set the table. In the dining room.

Peter got home, opened the lid to the pot, and said, 'this looks amazing!' His excitement and gratitude, and with it mine, were exactly what dinnertime was all about. It was something that I did for him, but that we both ended up loving more and more. And at this juncture of our life, it makes me a little sad that I can't provide the magic that I used to on a nightly basis. 

***

On Sunday, Peter and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. After a challenging day at home, we thanked Eva a million times over for coming to our rescue so we could go out to dinner. 

I had written a card to Peter that morning and handed it to him after we ordered our cocktails. On the front were Cinderella and Prince Charming; inside was something about life being a fairy tale. I added these words to it: 

Despite ... 

Lots of tears over a sore tongue (Bobby suffered from hand foot and mouth disease all weekend)
Accidents and wet undies 
Stinky poops and spit up  
Sassy pants
Time outs  
Little sleep and littler naps  
Not enough time to sip a glass of wine and enjoy every bite
Not enough time to just be together  
... It's still a fairy tale and I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Life, even at a stage I didn't anticipate nine years ago, is a dream come too. Dinnertime will certainly return. And likely I'll try to make it even better. But I have a feeling at that stage, we'll long for the little kids and chaos around our table. 

Peter, thank you for six amazing years together. You will always be my prince charming.  

And to our newest little princess, happy one month birthday! 

Lo. 

... And The Weeks That Follow

While I would characterize the first week as a mom of three as a little too easy, I'd like to contrast weeks two and three as a brush with reality. After many months getting plenty of sleep, I was ready to battle sleep deprivation for six or seven days. But when you hit night 15 or 16 of sleeplessness, you get tired and what's worse cranky. The truth: being a newly minted mom of three young children is tough. And to illustrate, here is a little recap of how this week went, written with about as much clarity as my third cup of coffee for the day will allow.

***

At 4:00 AM the baby wanted to eat again then spent the next two hours grunting from gas or a two hour attempt to make a bowl movement. Needless to say, she didn't let me go back to sleep. At 6:00 AM, Mary and Bobby called me out of my bed to take them downstairs for breakfast.

Ok. I can do this. Naptime is only ... ugh ... seven hours from now.

I made breakfast. No one ate it. I downed a cup of coffee and made the kids ride their bikes up and down the street, despite the fact that their outside voices were likely waking up the neighborhood.

That activity didn't last long enough. They were back inside running around the house, chasing each other by 7:00 AM.

The baby looked up at me as if to say, 'please save me from all this noise.' But I couldn't save her.

The desired state of synchronized napping didn't pan out the way I wanted it to. I slept for about fifteen minutes - enough to have a nightmare that my kids would go blind from watching the solar eclipse.

I read two pages in my book and had to put it down again. I swear I have already fed the baby ten times today.

On Monday night, I got ready for Mary's parent information night at school. I noticed my hair was shedding more than usual - one of those lovely postpartum symptoms that always seems to attack me a little earlier than the rest of the maternal population.

I finished getting ready, putting on a little make-up for the first time in about ten days. I opted for a 'summer sweater' thinking that the classroom and auditorium would be air conditioned. Peter said, 'you look nice, but isn't it a little hot for a sweater?'

'It's what fits.'

I brushed it off ... until I sat down in a miniature chair in the classroom, trying to listen to Mary's Pre-K teacher go through her policies while dabbing at the sweat dripping down my forehead. So much for that make-up. As if the comment was only addressed at me the teacher said they didn't have air conditioning - just this (very little and very ineffective) fan. I couldn't take it anymore, I ripped off my sweater and sat there in an ill fitting camisole. Still sweating. When I stood up, I noticed my zipper was down. What an awesome first appearance. Who goes to a parent night two weeks after giving birth anyway? I was going stir crazy though - I needed to see people, do something, get out.

On Wednesday night I literally set the table with i-Pads next to the kids' plates. I knew they would be tired after coming home from dance class. Or was I just tired? I rationalized that the devices would teach them more than I could in the next thirty minutes.

The kids fought over the new train game Daddy installed on the iPad. They fought over a little chicken that was part of my Fisher Price barn growing up. Somehow it ended up at our house and for about ten minutes became the hottest commodity in our basement. They fought over who was getting in the car first, who was holding the baby first, who was getting in the bath first, everything but who was going to bed first. They fought over one piece of chalk when 63 others were laying all around them, a rolly polly which ultimately ended up squashed in Bobby's hand, the last of the lemonade and the color of their snack bowl, the sequence of stories at bedtime and who was going to get the last hug goodnight.

They fought just to fight, verbal bickering was followed by a pinch, a push, a pull of the hair, then escalated into Mary hitting a tee-ball right at Bobby's face.

I raised my voice, then I yelled, then I woke up the baby, then everyone cried, then I got a splitting headache, then I dished out hugs and pleaded for everyone just to listen to Mommy, get along, and stop hurting each other. Please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeeeease.

... And the kicker of all of this, I have help just about every day of the week. So who am I to even complain when so many mothers and fathers are doing this by themselves?

***

When you are the opposite of overjoyed: over-stressed, over-anxious, over-sad, or in my case over-tired, the negatives can occasionally overwhelm the positives; a day of good can be darkened by an episode in the evening when you come this close to losing it.

If you let it. And I refuse to.

I haven't gone to sleep once in the past three weeks regretting the controlled chaos we welcomed into our house. Instead I've gone to sleep thankful for it, embracing the moments when everything just clicked, instead of those when things got messy.

I remembered when Mary and Bobby came downstairs hand in hand in the morning to greet me and the baby. I reflected on the sweet way they talk to each other, coach each other and make each other laugh everyday. I thanked my sister-in-law again for the Moby wrap and the extra mobility it allows. I cherished when the house was quiet, when I felt rested, and when I spent an extra thirty minutes with my book.

I remembered when dinner was simmering on the stove and I had some extra time to make one more trip to the park for the day. When the summer nights were just too pretty for words. When the kids snuggled around me at night to hear stories until it was time for the lights to go out. When the hugs, butterfly kisses, and nose rubs warmed me inside and out. And perhaps my favorite moment this past week; when Margaret had her first bath, Mary and Bobby looking in asking if they could help. Mary touched the baby's hand and said, 'I will love you forever.'

Getting through the sleep deprivation and fatigue is about just that; putting love first everyday.

Lo.

A Week and a Day

On Sunday I cried leaving the hospital. With each kid it's been the same thing. It starts when I say goodbye to the nurses at their station and continues as I walk back through the hallways that led me into birth and delivery initially. I hugged the heavy set nurse that accompanied us to the exit to ensure the baby got out safe and sound, and I expressed how thankful I was for three amazing experiences at her hospital.  

On Monday I cried watching my parents drive away; it would be another month before we'd see them again. My mom loves calling that kind of thing out and then lamenting that things go too fast. Which they do. Which only makes me more emotional.

On Tuesday we ate the last of the leftovers from our Davanti take-out and a Sunday 'family dinner' that made up for the ones I so frequently miss by not living in Pittsburgh.

On Wednesday I ate the last piece of cake; an almond hazelnut flourless chocolate cake that I had made my Dad for his birthday. It was so good.

On Thursday I threw away the gladiolas which had browned around the edges. A whole bunch of them, grown in Michigan, were $4 at the grocery store. I had bought them to decorate the house in anticipation of Margaret's arrival. The rest of the house had browned with dust as well. I cleaned and cleaned all morning until everything shined once again.

On Friday evening I opened a celebratory bottle of champagne. Margaret was one week old; the bags under my eyes showed it. By 7:00 PM it was gone. Luckily the cellar is stocked with more.

Today I went for a run, packed up my maternity clothes, vowed to put on something other than sweat pants, showered, put on a little make up, and zipped up a pair of jeans with enough slack in the waist. I was no longer a pregnant mom or a newly evicted hospital patient mom. I was just a mom again.

Tomorrow I'll take the balloons down. Mimi had brought them to the hospital. The kids were running around my hospital room carrying them. We tied them around the railing leading into our house when we got home. The helium has run its course though. They seem less and less lively each morning.

One week in the life of a newborn is nothing but firsts. A first day and night in your new home. A first dinner party complete with a ceremonial trumpet salute. A first swing and then nap in the Mamaroo, followed by a first spin around the play mat, big brother and sister looking on, begging you to do more than your tiny body will allow. First hand me downs and laundry piles dedicated just to you. First sponge baths in the sink and explosive poops all over Mommy right after you've finished. First bedtimes in the bassinet and first slumbers that last longer than four hours (thank heavens).

But with all the joyous firsts, I can't help but reflect on the fleeting nature of them. How fast it has already gone and how fast it will continue to go. I look at my four year, my two year old, and now baby, and wonder how we got this far so quickly.

Tomorrow, along with throwing away pretty pink balloons that I continue to mistake for solicitors at the door as I walk Margaret to sleep around our living room, we'll go to church and I'll likely find myself getting teary eyed. Sure, there are quite a few hormones involved, but ultimately my emotions stem from something else. It's an extreme sense of gratitude I feel every second of every day for the moments in my life and the family that contributes to them. It's been a wonderful week; a week gone too fast; and there's a large part of me hoping it won't be the last of its kind.

Lo.

Meet Margaret

So Margaret.

You've met many of the key players at this point. 

Your Mommy and Daddy. 

Your big brother and sister. 

Four grandparents and two great grandmothers. 

 

Even one of your aunts and uncles and a pair of cousins. 

You probably picked up that we're loud. That things might get a little crowded and chaotic at times. That dinner is a very important decision in our household and cocktail hour starts anytime after 5:00. That we love each other and we are so in love with you. And that we are storytellers in our own right; comedians, musicians, dancers, and artists with a passion for the dramatic (or is that just your Mom?)

Regardless, after the more dramatic birth stories of your sister and brother, I was thinking your tale would rival theirs. But in essence, it was unnaturally uncomplicated. Short, sweet, pain and drama free. You've hardly even cried over the past day and a half. I'll give it some time, but in my initial diagnosis you have me wondering where are the dramatics? 

However, as a storyteller and in the tradition of what I wrote for Mary and Bobby when they were born, I will elaborate on your birth story with one of their and my favorite bedtimes stories. 

Margaret. 

Loosely adapted from Madeleine 

In a white house in Mayberry 

with boxes of red flowers.

Woke a family of four

At a very early hour.  

Mom and Dad left home at half past six

On a chilly August day that Mommy had picked.

At half past six, with pants that didn't fit. 

Mommy went to the hospital, nervous a bit.

To meet her youngest, named Margaret. 

She was big, Mommy could tell. 

Strong too, her kicks firmly felt. 

Mommy was dilated to four

But she needed a little more

To get Margaret out the door. 

So Mommy robed up and got into bed

Got fluids, medicine, and giant legs that turned dead

Dr. Lin kept me calm, Nurse Chris made me laugh.

I was thankful for everyone on the hospital's friendly staff.

A couple hours later, Nana and Opa came on down  

Apparently Nana wanted to be here just as you crowned. 

It was an easy, pain free labor. Completely drama free. 

Then I pushed and pushed till dark hair we could see.

Daddy held one heavy leg, Nurse Chris held the other. 

I pushed three more times, and you were cuddling on your mother.  

I felt a little queezy, so I drank apple juice.
Five minutes later, I sent that juice loose.

At 3:37 PM on August 4, you were born into this world. 

7 pounds, 10 ounces and dark hair with a little swirl. 

No scratches or scars
The easiest birth by far.
Just balloons, presents and flowers

Sushi and champagne at dinner hour.

Mary wanted to hold you, Bobby played with trucks.

Bedtime came too soon, and Mommy said, 'aw shucks.' 

Run off with Daddy, go home and get some sleep

I'll see you soon in the morning, so please don't weep.
They were a sad little crew. 

Mary and Bobby cried, 'boo hoo'

But we want our Mommy too. 

***

Now it's morning little Margaret. 

And we welcome you home today. 

Mary and Bobby love you. 

Everyone will settle in okay.

I'm turning out the light.

And walking out the hospital door. 

I'd say that's the end

But there's going to be a whole lot more.  

I love you and feel so blessed. 

Mommy.

Big Belly. Big Bum.

A couple weeks ago, I got very sick. For about 36 hours, I couldn't keep a thing down and was basically bound to my bed, minus the all too frequent trips to the bathroom.  

The 36 hours spanned two nights or two bed time regimens; a calculated, drawn out affair in our household despite having been consolidated to one bedroom in the recent months.  

From my bed though, I could hear Peter delivering story time, songs, and bedtime snuggles to the kids, reassuring them that I would be back in commission soon. At one point, I heard Mary ask for a braid - part of a new ritual I've instituted to prevent morning bed head and the ensuing screams Mary produces from getting her hair brushed. Unlike the way I wimp out on helping the kids with their Legos, Peter didn't pass up the challenge. He quickly read a chapter out of the Braids and More book, settled on a ribbon laced design, and started weaving Mary's hair around a red bow that likely tied up a Christmas present last year.  

Before going to bed, she came into my room to show me her Dad's craftsmanship. It was honestly the highlight of my day. The part was stark and straight in the center of her head, there was more ribbon than hair showing, and there was nothing French about it, but it was adorable, beautiful, and absolute perfection. Another one of those moments as a Dad that Peter didn't hesitate to take a step out of his comfort zone to bestow an extra dose of love on his kids. Mary was beaming.  

***

For the third time in five years, I'm really pregnant. Waiting ... and waiting for the sign that baby is ready to make her debut. It's that phase that's just about as uncomfortable, physically and emotionally, as this whole maternity thing gets. 

First, the physical. Bending down to put my shoes on in the morning is nearly impossible. I have lost my balance and fallen over more times that I'd like to admit. Keeping up with my team as they fly up two flights of stairs to a meeting literally takes my breath away. And trying to lean in at work is frequently inhibited by a belly that won't let me pull my chair all the way up to the table. Sleep is ridden with anxiety, I pop Tums all day to curb the indigestion, my clothes are tight and itchy, and I have literally said, 'ouch' in the middle of conference calls when the baby kicks me a little too hard. 

Another physical challenge ... having a baby in the middle of the summer means you get to experience the utter joy of putting on a swimsuit to take your kids to the pool every weekend. The act of suiting up alone is complicated, but the opportunity to strut my largess in front of the svelte moms of Mayberry can be plain embarrassing, exacerbated by the fact that they all feel the need to comment on how 'cute' I look as they smugly look down at their flat abdomens. The thing is, buoyancy with a 40 pound heavier frame is awesome. Totally worth sucking up my pride. 

 

Then there's the emotional. The stress that labor is going to come on any day, any night now, that things might not be okay, that three, ages four and under, is going to be too big of a challenge for us to handle, and that just as I thought I was winning, I might lose again. 

On Friday, I walked away from my desk for the last time until my leave is up around the midpoint of November. With Mary, and even with Bobby, it was a welcome exit. But this time around, it was bittersweet. All my work over the past year was turned over; I had to trust that my colleagues would execute the plan, and that upon my return I could pick up where I left off. I opened my calendar this morning; big meetings tomorrow and Friday. Everyone was surely prepping while I mapped out a day of park hopping, library surfing, and house cleaning. I didn't like the distance I already felt. 

... But midway through the day, I loved how close as I was to my kids.    

That's the thing about parenting. Just when you think you've got it down, things change, and you are thrown out of your comfort zone once again. It gets messy, there are days that tough, and it continues to challenge you physically and emotionally. When Bobby saw me get out of the shower the other night, he said, "Mommy that's a really big bum." At first, I cringed in horror, but then I looked at how filled with love his little smile was. Big bum and all, the little boy adores me, and that's the most comforting feeling of all. 

Lo.