The Blades of a Leaf

As we flew back from Pittsburgh Sunday morning, I felt like I had the magic touch. Babies were crying in front of me and behind me, and I had lulled mine to sleep. Bobby was in a deep slumber on my left leg; Margaret nestled peacefully down the center of my chest, and Mary snuggled under my right arm so she could doze off as well. I looked at Peter and caught him looking back at me. We didn't say anything to each other. (He had his ear phones in, so he wouldn't have heard me anyway.) But we were clearly thinking the same thing. How sweet. How blessed. How thankful.

If I was counting, that would be four things, right off the bat: Mary, Bobby, Margaret, and my one of a kind husband.

But at Mass on Thanksgiving Day, Father Grecco suggested that we each had more than our families to be thankful for. He instructed that a fallen leaf could be your guide. Find one, he said, count its blades and then give thanks for that many things in your life.

With that, you can remove your gratitude from the realm of the grandiose; our health, our loved ones, our faith. And into what might seem mundane; say the coffee in my cup, the book that I'm reading, or the ten hour sleep I got last night.

I loved his homily and wanted to take action; to collect leaves and place one on every plate around the beautifully set Thanksgiving table. I wanted everyone to share their blades of thanks.

My Dad had the yard cleaned up by professional leaf blowers though, and I got caught up in the Macy's Day parade, so never achieved my goal. Besides it would have taken all night; twenty people, hundreds of blades, not enough time in the day. So I settled for an impromptu inquisition; one thing, round the table. ready go. Stories, emotion, laughs unfolded, making my list of appreciation even longer.

A couple days later I was walking home from Mellon Park with Mary and I found a particularly pretty golden brown leaf. I picked it up and had Mary count its blades; 18 in total. We spent the rest of the walk home, trading items we were thankful for.

You first, Mary.
Hmmm ... let's see ... Nana, Mimi and both Opas.

Then me ... Baby Margaret and Baby Emmie.

Ellie and Joe
Lyla and Will.


Those really, really big cookies you brought us from the party you went to (gesturing with her hands.)

That really, really good Manhattan Uncle Adam made the other day.

Those buttons you get to press around the train.

Patience ... when you guys press too many of my buttons.

Swings.

Playgrounds within walking distance. And strollers. 
All of my friends. 
The people who host parties that get friends together.


The people that keep us safe from bad guys.

All the good guys.


Stories.
Getting a chance to tell them.

All my toys.
The house that's quickly being engulfed by them.     

When you hold me.
When other people offer to help.

Dessert time.
Dinner time. And cocktail hour.      
Movies.
How quiet you are during a movie.

When my hair is up in a beautiful braid.
When you're done crying about me braiding your hair.

Hugs.
Margaret's kisses.

Christmas lights.
The way you light up when I walk through the door at the end of the day.

So that's more like 30. And we could have kept going.

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays, and with each passing year, I love it a little more. The trip home to Pittsburgh; dinner at the Golf Club; the extended family gathered around Lou's famous turkey dinner, passed down to my Dad to execute years ago; seeing the Phipps winter flower show; doing a little Black Friday shopping on Walnut Street and Forbes Avenue; trying some of the city's newest restaurants (Or, the Whale and Eddie V's were excellent!), walks through Mellon Park, spending a night out with my high school friends, and just watching my kids play with all the old toys at my childhood home.

Like everything though, it goes too fast. But with a whole lot of leaves to rake in our yard, and with Father Grecco's message fresh in my mind, I will carry the spirit of thanksgiving into the Christmas season and throughout the new year. 

Lo. 

Two Letters

Margaret -

You came three days before your due date. You ate, you slept, you filled diaper pail after diaper pail. You gained a pound, then a couple more, then moved from one size to the next. You ate some more, you slept a little longer, you pooped all over Daddy and spit up all over Mommy. You smiled. You cooed. You melted my heart every day.

Mary went back to school. Bobby learned how to use the potty. You took a bottle and packed on the rolls.

The pool closed and we put away the Peggy O. I picked Mary up from school and played in 'the yard' with her friends. I went running with Bobby and we raced from one playground to the next. I grocery shopped and made dinner. I walked you around the neighborhood and snuggled you in the sun room.

I held you on the stoop as Mary and Bobby rode their bikes up and down the street. I held you close as I read book after book. I held you and rocked you in the Adirondack chairs in the backyard. I held you and nursed you in the middle of the night. And each time I put you down, I got a little sad that I was letting you go. 

Emmie was born. Aunt Erin got married. Notre Dame beat USC. We pressed cider, carved pumpkins, dressed up like super heroes, trick or treated and then warmed up by the fire. 

The leaves fell, the temperatures dropped, and the summer clothes were replaced with sweaters and coats.  

I've completed my to do list over the past three months, and that can only mean one thing; it's time to go back to work. 

Today, I'll attempt to look like a professional, walk out the door, and pretend that I'm not thinking about you every second of the day.

While I believe I'm ready to return to the rigor of corporate America, it doesn't mean that I'm ready to leave you. My lap will feel empty, my pump will be cold, my heartbeat will miss yours echoing off of it. I will cherish and long for the three short months I got to spend at home with you, Mary and Bobby. They went far too fast.

Know that you'll be in my thoughts all day. Know that I'll be home as soon as possible, chilled milk in tow. And know that when I return, my arms will belong to you.

Love,
Mommy

***

Corporate America -

I return to work today thirty five pounds lighter, thousands of dollars poorer, hours less rested, a little bit wiser, and ready to go.

I've now taken three maternity leaves from my company, each seven weeks paid. I've extended them non-paid for about seven more, backed by FMLA and my own cash. And after three leaves, I can safely say seven weeks isn't enough.

With that, I would like to applaud my company who just 'modernized their benefits' for future moms. They will now offer 12 weeks paid starting in January 2018. (I'm just lamenting that I didn't get to take advantage of it.) 

So in my opinion, why twelve (or more for that matter) instead of six?  

It doesn't take six weeks to lose baby weight. So unless a company is funding an entirely new wardrobe, six week postpartum moms are likely to show up to work in ill fitting and uncomfortable clothes, which doesn't set them up for success.  

At six weeks, a mom is likely still feeding her baby every two hours, which means back in the office, pump breaks happen every other hour ... less she leaks in the middle of a meeting, which certainly does not set a woman up for success. 

At six weeks, the insurance issues and medical bills are still a mess (thanks to the high performing benefits team and their new health management company), so many back to work hours will be dedicated to long calls with the service center, which doesn't set anyone up for success. 

At six weeks, the baby is probably only sleeping three, maybe four hour stretches at night, so the mother will look and act like a zombie all day. Which, you guessed it, doesn't set a mom up for success. 

At six weeks, you are still trying to figure out infant care let alone hire someone you don't even know to take care of your baby. Someone who could have less of a clue than you. So you spend all day worrying, which inevitably doesn't set a mother up for success. 

But here's the thing, working moms can be some of the best employees in companies; they know how to multitask, work quickly and efficiently, delegate, think creatively, persuade and influence, and above all do their jobs with passion and compassion. But in order to get the most out of them, they need to be set up for success.

An extended maternity leave can help do that. And more companies should start offering them. 

Now once we're back in the door, there are other things that can help. But that's an entirely different letter which will be centered around a mom's commute to work (and I'll save that for later.)

To my company - thank you for this time, three times over. And thank you for listening and getting a little smarter with your benefits.

Lo. 

Another Year, Another Press

Yesterday, as I welcomed some new cider pressers to our house, I told them a little bit about why we host this event every year. With about five minutes until the door rang again, I found a way to compress the stories, memories, and emotion surrounding the press into a little elevator pitch. Some got snippets, some a little more elaboration, but by the end of the afternoon, I felt like everyone knew a little bit more about my Grandpa. 

***

He had a lot of land outside of Pittsburgh. And on it, he had quite a few apple trees.

We used to go his house every fall and shake the apples from the trees, load them in the wheelbarrow and cart them up to the house.

My Grandpa had assembled a cider press years and years ago, and together, we would grind up all the apples we had picked, even the ones with worms in them (he would joke). We would transport their mush into the barrel of the press, and as the apples reached the fill line, we would cap it and turn the stubborn wheel, anticipating autumn's sweet treat flowing from the slats. A couple more turns and it would pour out, down the spout and into recycled gallon containers.

The kids, my cousins and I, would line up with cups in our hands and fill them straight from the tap, being ever so careful not to get stung by the bees that had descended upon the nectar.

After we had pressed all the apples, my Grandpa would give us tractor rides, we would run around in his yard, staging relay races and massive games of hide and seek, and we'd warm up with my Grandma's cooking, drinking more cider to swish it down.

We'd leave at night with a bag full of homemade rolls, a sheet tray of stuffed cabbage (a staple permanently stocked in my Grandma's freezer), and a gallon of the good stuff. We were warned to drink while fresh.  

***

My Grandpa passed away more than six years ago. When he died, my aunts and uncles went through the storied house he shared with my grandma and their eight children, and split up many of the cherished belongings among the extended family.

My request to inherit the cider press was honored, and that summer, my parents schlepped it from Pittsburgh to Chicago. Peter reassembled it with my Grandpa looking on, and today it sits on our screened in porch, waiting for its namesake event every year.

To me, it embodies so much of my Grandpa. His uncanny ability to build and tinker. His love of his land and the fruits that it grew. His unbridled enthusiasm for life's experiences. His sense of humor. And above all, his love of family and the events that always brought his together.

So for the past six years, we've thrown a cider press party in his honor.

We pick apples, dodging bees or in my case getting stung, the week before. This year we got some help from Nana and Opa

    

We invite family and friends over; neighborhood folks, classmates, co-workers, city dwellers, suburbanites, and sometimes even the out of towner just happening to pass through.
         
 

 

We pray for good weather. Even if it's a little chilly. 

We put out a spread, stock the cooler, try to remember the paper plates and utensils (but tend to fail), and open up our back door and yard.

If you want a job, you can have one. If you want to just taste some cider, that's okay too. Come thirsty, leave happy. Over the past six years, we've added some upgrades, streamlined the processes, included some more people, and extended my Grandpa's legend a little further. 

My kids will never get to meet my Grandpa. They'll never hear his laugh or booming voice; they'll never feel the strength of a foreman and brick layer in an arm wrestling match, they'll never open a letter addressed to them in his distinct writing style, they'll never get to find one of his homegrown potatoes in an Easter egg, taste his atomic bean soup, or feel the stubble on his face. But they will know him. Through my stories and memories, and especially in the cider we make every year, they will always love my Double G.  

    

Lo.

The Good, The Bad, and the Irish

While children learn good from bad, right from wrong, at a very early age, it takes a little more maturity to introduce the concept of good guys and bad guys. I, for one, tried to put it off at first. Then it seemed like more and more subjects demanded a greater explanation and my little ones refused to settle for the answer, '... just because.'

Like when I had to explain why cousin Meghan had to go back to Iraq again.
"Well, cousin Meghan is in the Army. Which means she helps keep us safe by fighting the bad guys."

Or when they ask why they need to hold Mama's hand when we're walking through a crowd.
"Because there are a ton of people here and I don't want a bad guy to grab you."

All the Disney villains and the drama they create spark the conversation. So do police sirens and the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Commercials promoting the competition's new chicken tenders make me label one or two companies as the bad guys. And when it comes to Notre Dame football, I want so much to call them good, but sometimes, they're just plain bad.

Earlier this fall, with a five week old baby in tow, we drove down to Notre Dame to watch the 'good guys' play the 'bad guys.' The Fighting Irish were hosting the University of Georgia and seemingly they had brought the whole state with them. Everywhere we went that weekend we saw red: at the pep rally on Friday night, at the liquor store, around the bag pipe circle, in front of the dome and all over the tailgating lots. The worst of all; we were surrounded by the other side in the stadium.

Because we had two tickets and no babysitter, I took a very hopeful Mary to the game. Right before kick off, I strollered her past the drunks, lumbering to their next watering hole, and pushed her through the storied entrance to the stadium. We walked under the aging championship banners, up the stairs and through the little tunnel to our section. The illuminated field was roaring with the bands' revered marches, the cheerleaders ran across the field with I-R-I-S-H blowing in the night's chilly air, the announcer yelled, 'here come the Irish', and the golden helmets of Notre Dame's football team emerged from the tunnel. My heart swelled and Mary was beaming from ear to ear. So good.

We took our seat, stadium popcorn in tow, ready to cheer the good guys to victory. But then we looked to our right, to our left and then all around the stadium. We were seemingly outnumbered; red masses were littering every section.

I could tell that Mary, surrounded by all this red, was a little nervous. She asked, "Why are there bad guys next to us?"
"Because the Irish fans sold their tickets I guess."
Fifteen minutes and half a box of popcorn later ...
"I need water ... and why are there so many bad guys in here?"
"Well, they're not really bad, honey. They're just cheering for the other team."
"Oh."
And the next morning, after Notre Dame recorded its first loss of the season.
"Did Notre Dame win, Mama?"
"No we lost. The red team won."
"How come the bad guys won?"
"Because we weren't good enough."

Over the past month, I've thought a lot about that game. And how Mary must have felt, surrounded by the 'bad guys,' especially the ones that were so vocal when a call didn't go their way. I imagine she was questioning the number of people rooting in red and whether we were even cheering for the right team. (Mary, Uncle Adam questions that all the time.)

Outside of this terrible football metaphor, I think these feelings surface a lot in this day and age. I find myself overcome, and yes, scared by all the bad stuff and guys out there. And I hate having to keep coming up with explanations for it, because all too often, there isn't one.

***

Last weekend, we went back to Notre Dame for another college football classic: The Fighting Irish versus the USC Trojans. Born and raised in a Notre Dame family, married into another one, this is the perennial good versus bad guy match up. It was a pristine college football weekend. The campus was covered in mums, the smell of charcoal and brats wafted through the air, mini cheerleaders practiced their moves in hopes of joining the elite squad someday, footballs flew across the lots, holy water sprinkled the Church's newest Catholic and future Domer, and families and friends spanning the generations soaked up a winning atmosphere dressed in the Bookstore's latest looks.

 

          

    
 

But unlike the Georgia game, I saw nothing but blue and gold all weekend. Low and behold, the Irish creamed Southern Cal for the first time in as long as I can remember. Maybe they really are that good, Maybe they'll build momentum from here on out. Maybe the team just needed more people believing in the good, and less people trying to make more money off of them.

***

Inevitably, the further down any good guy versus bad guy conversation I get with my kids, the harder it is for me to answer their questions. The black and white of it aren't so obvious; the lines blurs; the rationale is harder to rationalize. And I can see them wondering how a bad guy can really be all bad?

Mary asked me on the way to Notre Dame last weekend if there were any bad guys in heaven. I said no, but then I hesitated ...
'Actually, there might be people in heaven that did some bad things, but when they get to the Gates, they're forgiven. So now they're good guys.'
She thought about this for a while. And then told me, 'I wish they could be good on Earth too.'
'I do too, honey.'
Convincingly she stated, 'Well, I'm going to pray for them.'

It was the perfect way to end any conversation about the bad guys. Prayer it is.
Pray for the bad guys.
Pray for more good guys.
Pray that the Irish keep getting better.

Lo.