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.