That Kind of Love

Yesterday, my newly married co-worker told me he was making tacos for his wife for dinner. He asked if he could leave a little early because he still needed to get groceries. 'No problem,' I said. It reminded me of what I would have done seven, eight years ago. I knew that energy. I knew that kind of love.

This past weekend, I watched my friend Tricia walk uncharacteristically slowly down the aisle, arm in arm with her adoring father to marry her soul mate in a perfect display of Pittsburgh pageantry.

Dressed mostly in black and grey, the congregants filled just about every pew in Heinz Chapel, snapping pictures of I dos and the first kiss, wiping away a tear or two, offering a prayer, and holding back the desire to erupt in thunderous applause as Colin, senior at Catholic Catholic High School, belted out the Our Father, Barbara Streisand style.

The crowd dusted off the drizzle as they migrated to the Duquesne Club for cocktails, dinner and dancing.

The twinkle lights, St. Germaine laced Margaritas, Bluegrass band followed by Big Band, Tattinger Champagne, three course dinner, mountainous cake with figurines of Tricia and Kenny skiing on down, and of course tables full of the Club's signature Macaroons, were all delicious. The speeches were personal and meaningful; interwoven stories of good people with too much humility to ever admit they were some of the best of our boastful generation. It was an evening of happily ever after; a fairy tale of true love proportions. Big, proud smiles. Glowing, generous laughter. I knew that bliss. I knew that kind of love

The next day, I crept into my friend Rebecca's postpartum room at West Penn Hospital to see a new mom holding her beautiful new baby. She was tired and nervous, but also so excited. Her husband Tom doted on her and the little blond babe. He was concerned and cautious, but also so proud. This was foreign territory, but backed by a brave new love. I knew those emotions. I knew that kind of love.

Six and a half years into my marriage, I've come to know another kind of love. The one where time, bliss, and energy are never on your side.

This kind of love is strong and persistent. It's patient (so patient) and kind. It lasts through all the sicknesses that have been circulating through our house. It's a hug when you need it most. And a kiss on yet another boo boo.

It's letting the other person get one more hour of sleep in the morning. It's bringing in the paper for him and starting the car for her. It’s taking the time to renew your spouse’s drivers license because you know she will drop the ball, drive around with an expired license and get ticketed. It's an attempt to make a decent dinner every night and offering a 'thank you' even though it doesn't compare to the feasts of yesteryear. It's asking Siri to play a song you hate, because she likes it. It’s doing the dishes while the other one gives the kids baths.

It's the reflection of your spouse in each one of your darling kids' faces. And it's taking a second to remember that. It’s finding the last little bit of energy for the day to say, I love you, before closing your eyes and going to sleep.

The love of busy, working parents is oftentimes without showmanship or glamour. But it's known and it's generous and it's precious.

I'm so thankful for all the little (and big) ways that my husband shares his love with me each and every day.

Yes, I'll forever and always be your Valentine.

Lo. 

My Big Boy

On Saturday, we hosted a little birthday party for Bobby. The activity / theme / thing you are supposed to do to hang a kid's party together was sled riding. Completely weather dependent, completely risky, no determined back up plan, totally my style.

Miraculously, all went as planned, perfectly disguising the fact that I had allocated so little time to executing the whole thing. We still had some snow, it was 40 degrees and sunny, everyone remembered to bring a sled, and most importantly the birthday boy was happy as can be, rolling around and savoring the last of the slushy white stuff.

For an hour or so, I ran up and down the small manufactured Midwestern sled hill, pulling kids whose smiles spread from rosy cheek to rosy cheek. When they'd had their fill, I welcomed them back to our house for pizza, cake, and the entertainment of watching an infectiously enthusiastic boy open several more vehicles to add to his ever expanding collection.

An excavator!! That's cool, huh?
Oooooh, look at this dozer, Daddy. That's cool, right?
Oh wow, a CAR WASH! Put it togeder, Daddy. Let's do it, Daddy. Now, Daddy! Pleeeeease, Daddy!

   

   

Yesterday, as Bobby officially turned three years old, he ran downstairs ready and raring to go as he always does. Only this morning, there was something even better to do. A new ramp stretched almost the whole length of the sun room and then climbed halfway up the window. His response: 'WHAT THE HECK?! .... WOW .... WHOA ... WOW ... Is this for me?!'  
Yeah, honey. Daddy picked that out for you.
WOW. Let's do it, Mary!   

At three years old, Bobby is such a happy little boy. He flocks to anything with a motor: cars, trucks, planes, trains, boats, and particularly construction vehicles. He is in constant motion, until he crashes (hard) at nap time or bed time. He adores his baby sister, and is simultaneously best friend and fierce foe to his big sister. He is almost too cute: with big blue eyes and a mischievous smile that makes you wonder (and pray) about what he's going to try next. And ever the chatterbox, he says something hysterical just about every day.

When he smells something a little off, he asks, 'hey, what's that smell look like?'
When he assesses the damage he's done to the potty, he often comments on his findings, 'oh there's a broder and sister poop.'
In the middle of the night, you can hear him talk through a nightmare, 'no Mary, don't do that, Mary!'
He constantly assures me, 'I gonna touch her face gently, Mama.' 
He confides in me, 'that's dangerous, right Mama?'
He pleads to me, 'I wanna go to Mariano's and get a new car. Yes. Yes. Yes.' 
No. no. no. Buddy.

And then there's everything else about him:
How he calls for his Mommy and Daddy during a thunderstorm, wanting nothing more than a good cuddle.
How he clings to his baby owl, daddy owl and beloved blue blanket.
How he likes to show off his muscles, and boy does he have them.
How he gives the best hugs ever.
How after he's tucked into his bed and all the lights are out, he walks back into the bathroom, turns on the light, and tells me that he needs to brush his teeth again.
How he's always thinking and trying an alternate, more challenging way.
How he's such a simple little guy. Generally, as long as he has enough milk in his cup and a couple cars and trucks in his hands, he's completely content.
How he loves life. Loves his family. Loves all that every day brings. Especially when that day is his birthday.

It's not everyday that I get to reflect on how special my big boy is, but today, it's all I wanted to do. Because just as the snow melted all too quickly on Saturday afternoon, I know Bobby will grow and melt away from me as well. So for now, I'm holding my big boy, my newly minted three year old, as close as I can.

 

I love you more than words can say, Bobby. And I hope three is your best year yet.

Mommy.

It's Colder in Kohler

When I was pregnant with Mary, my department threw me a beautiful baby shower. Along with presents, cake, and sparkling lemonade, there were toasts which featured words of wisdom. Most of them went something like this, "enjoy every minute ... it all goes too fast."

My VP at the time said something very different though. While he echoed the sentiment that (his three teenage) kids are special, the most important person in his life is his wife. In 18 years, your kids will leave you, he said, but your spouse stays. You have to honor that partnership first.

Given my infatuation with my baby, I thought it was odd at the time.   

***

A month or so later, Peter and I were staring at our new born baby with awe, trying out the labels of Daddy and Mommy, and starting down a road of cherishing every second with our little peanut.

We apparently liked the experience so much that we welcomed two more kids into our house in a relatively short period of time. For the past five years, I've either been pregnant or nursing, fearing that it will all go too fast, soaking up every moment, and most recently slowly realizing what my VP was talking about.

That is, before we were Mommy and Daddy, Peter and I were just man and wife. And with all we have going on, it's hard to get back to being just us.

So this Christmas, Peter and I decided to give each other the gift of a getaway. And on the 27th, away we went ... two and a half hours north, to Kohler, Wisconsin, where we checked into the American Club as carolers sang in the library and ravenous onlookers scavenged the cheese table while slurping down hot chocolate. 

We spent the majority of our time in Kohler soaking up the historic hotel and sheltering ourselves from the frosty temperatures. We had some great dinners among cheese heads who knew their cheese curds, we got to work out without pushing a jogging stroller, we bowled on ice, used our Kohler clad bathroom to its full potential, and tried to take a tour of the Kohler Design Center which promptly closed as we walked through the doors. All of Friday morning was dedicated to the posh, award winning spa; a destination where I realized just how Mommy had become.  

Susie B. with the look and voice of an elementary school librarian, checked us in and reviewed our billing. I immediately got sticker shock. Seriously? I hadn't spent that much on myself in I don't know how long. Ok. Fine. Signed. 

We went downstairs to get robed like the rest of the guests and then waited in a tranquil room eating raw almonds until our massages began. At 8:00 AM on the nose, a suite of technicians came out and found their respective massage buddies. I had Jerry. Jerry was likely a cheese head, but rang Pittsburgh through and through. I could totally see this guy swinging a Terrible Towel at a Steelers game while guzzling an IC Light. I was just waiting for him to say, 'yinz wanna roll over?' 

He told me to relax though, so I stopped over analyzing him and the fact that I had somehow ended up with a male masseuse. I listened as he told me, 'with deep breaths in and out, in and out, I could return to this place at any time, in any place.' Right. Do you know my current lifestyle?  

Jerry revealed that he specialized in reflexology at the end of the massage. He told me that certain parts of the feet are directly connected to certain parts of the body. Like if you rub right in the middle of your foot, you can stimulate the digestive system. I was caught in the middle of hoping the foot rub would rapidly digest all the Christmas cookies I'd been eating and fearing that his technique would spontaneously prompt a Christmas cookie fart.  

After my massage was over, I was supposed to go through a variety of aqua therapies. I sat in the whirlpool, plunged into cold water, took a neutral temped shower, and then officially turned into a prune in the rooftop hot tub. 

Next stop on my itinerary was a facial. Ingrid, an absolutely beautiful woman with the softest hands known to womankind, led me into my treatment room. I let her in on my secrets early; it was like pulling off a Bandaid. I had never had a facial. I had picked a pimple to oblivion and back in the past week; it was slowly healing. I wash my face with Neutrogena soap and apply Ponds cold cream in the morning. I have no ritual. I could feel the icy judgment through my cucumber covered eyes.  

An hour later, my skin was revitalized by a laundry list of products that I was supposed to purchase in the spa's general store at the end of my visit. (I did nothing of the sort). I was also supposed to schedule monthly facials. At these prices, never. And I was at the VERY LEAST (she warned in almost a scolding tone) supposed to exfoliate twice a week. Okay. I just might do that.

I left the place, walked down the sub zero degree street to our hotel room, feeling almost guilty for purchasing the lap of luxury. But back in our room, the two of us told stories about our experiences and agreed it was something we needed. Even if it had to be coached out of us, we both needed to unwind and bond over something uniquely designed for parents with a lot on their shoulders. 

On the way home, we stopped at Kohler's market where Peter stocked up on all things Nueski and several high profile Wisconsin cheeses. It was still distant from the French markets where we shopped on our honeymoon. But despite the cold, it got us closer.

It's 2018 somehow. And I made a resolution. To do a lot more of what Peter and I did last week. Because just as JC said, we're in this together till the end.

Lo. 

Believe

This year, Mimi and Opa treated the whole family to a ride on the Polar Express.

On December 20, we shuttled our pajama clad children down to Union Station where we checked in, received golden tickets and then boarded a train bound for the North Pole.



Leading up to this highly anticipated event, we all became versed in what this experience might entail. We read the book over and over at bedtime, we watched the movie, and we sang along with Josh Groban. 360 degrees of indoctrination.

I hadn't read the book since I was a little girl, and I remembered the Caldecott winning pictures more than the story itself. So I read it to Mary with fresh eyes one early December evening. Snuggled together, I found myself starting to cry at the end. The last line, 'the bell still rings for all those who truly believe' killed me. Crushed my heart. How dearly I still wanted that bell to ring for me.

A couple nights later, I read the exquisite author's note on the back cover. It talked about childhood, the glorious progression of growing up, and all the gains that come with it. But then comes that one moment carrying an abrupt reveal of information that is shielded from the most innocent. At this point he concludes there is no gain, only loss. A loss of the profound and wonderful fairy tale that graces every young mind. He said that on the Polar Express though, it doesn't have to be that way. He ends by begging the reader to climb aboard.

The kids and I were more than ready.

We climbed aboard and let the cast of characters transport us as they sang songs, danced down the aisle, acted out significant parts of the movie, and in general kept us focused on the interior rather than the industrial Chicago landscape that slowly moved past us on the outside.
   
We all left with hot chocolate mustaches, specially punched golden tickets, little silver bells from Santa's sleigh, many memories, and the mantra, 'believe.'
 
On the 21st though, I started to panic. Between work, the baby, her Baptism, activities, events, illnesses, and a general lack of sleep, I was dreadfully behind on getting Christmas ready for the family. I found myself caught between wanting to believe and just putting on the red pants again. I ended up succumbing and with it finding my inner frazzle. Schlepping, wrapping, baking, cooking, running, caroling, stressing, and then stressing some more.

But as Christmas Eve came, I realized that there were certain things that took a leap of faith. And by truly believing ... believing in family, friends, the spirit of St. Nicholas, and most importantly the majestic reason for the universal celebration, things just kind of magically happened the way they were supposed to.

I believed that three batches of cookies would be enough for one year.

I believed that the kids would behave at the Penisula and have enough energy at the end of our five star brunch with our five star friend, C., to take a spin around the Sky Rink.

I believed that the giant bruise I got after falling on the ice wouldn't prevent me from kneeling to say my prayers at Church.

I believed that everyone would very quickly get dressed in their Christmas best and that we would be on time for Mass.


I believed that Mary wouldn't ruin the Christmas pageant.
   
I believed that after a late night at Mimi's, I could stay up till midnight wrapping presents and making the house look as magical as possible.

  

I believed that everything would come together and the party would be even better than last year.
        

I believed that an exceptional Manhattan would magically make its way into my hand. Thank you Opa Jan.

I believed that the meat would turn out perfectly, the horseradish creme delightful, the potatoes little salty balls of deliciousness, and the fennel salad reviewed with highest praise.

I believed that the kids would be so well behaved that we all could actually sit down and enjoy the delicious dinner from start to finish. And then why not, have dessert and Port seated as well.

I believed the dishes would do themselves. Nice try.

I believed that across the world, families were having the kind of joyous day that entered my home. One that went smoothly, lovingly, blessedly. And from all the social sharing, I could see that I was spot on.

It was a Christmas that begged us all to believe. And that's just what we did.

Merry,

Merry,

Merry Christmas.
   
Lo.

Pump and Fly

I will preface the following story with this: the return to work is one thing, the return to work travel is quite another. While I love my job and the role I play at the company, it's never easy. Most days are high paced, high energy, and stressful ... then you add travel. 

***

On Monday afternoon, I kiss my babies good bye and set off on my first corporate trip since last spring. 

30,000 feet in the air, I eat a Clif bar and some pretzels for dinner, then start worrying that the plane will crash and I will never see my family again. They'll be telling my story on the Today Show and weeping for the three kids and loving husband left behind. 

I return to reality as the plane comes to a screeching halt on the hilltop airport of Charleston, West Virginia. I can tell that I need to pump as quickly as possible.  

I pick up my compact rental car, perfect for the hilly, snowy conditions, and head down the mountain to my hotel. 

I wait behind a pushy over sized consultant with status asking to pull rank and get her much deserved upgrade. Carrie, a chubby, wide eyed receptionist with platinum blond hair and too much mascara politely tells her to call corporate because there are no upgrades available. If only Mary were there to explain, 'you get what you get, and you don't get upset.' 

I get a regular ol room and start unpacking, assembling and pumping. Finished. And oh crap ... where to put the milk? 

Hi Carrie. It's me again. I need a refrigerator 

... Oh you don't have any. Okay ... 

... Well, what do you suggest I do with my baby's milk? 

Five minutes later, I'm talking to Carrie in person. Carrie is now wearing glittery reindeer antlers and flirting with a custodian. The custodian asks if I want the milk in the fridge or freezer. I opt for the freezer and he tells me: ice cream freezer - we'll tell the morning crew. 

Great. 

In the morning, I attempt to cover my tracks, or rather the hair that has shed all over my room and bathroom. One of those lovely four month postpartum symptoms. 

I check out at the front desk. 

Hi, my name is Lo, checking out, also my breast milk is in your ice cream freezer. 

I grab the milk and compactly drive forty miles to meet the rest of my team in Huntington, West Virginia.

I drive past modest Christmas displays, billboards promoting Jesus as Lord, "Cheap Good Stuff" for sale, trailer parks, a nuclear power plant, bridges, icy rivers, hills, forests, snow, and small towns where fast food and Tudor's Biscuit World are the best options around. 

In Huntington, I learn the rules of our restaurant blitz, and then jump into a co-workers Tahoe, because thankfully he'll be driving from here on out. Several hours and restaurants in, I realize I'm not going to find a bathroom stall with an outlet, and I don't have batteries. So I ask to pump in the aforementioned Tahoe, which has an outlet in the back. My male co-workers wait inside and eat french fries till I'm done. 

It's a short trip. I'm back at the airport that evening, going through a security line with signage that recognizes Office Minks for finding and preventing a loaded hand gun from boarding a recent flight. "It's West Virginia after all," they tell me.  

In the gift shop which sells little animals made out of authentic West Virginia coal, I hear a customer tell the shop keeper, 'God Bless You.' I'm comforted and reminded why I love this part of my job. 

There's not much glamour in the fast food belts of America, but there are really good people; people that work hard, appreciate the little things, and pray for a little more.  

On one of my last restaurant visits of the day, I start talking to the pregnant girl at the front counter. She's due in January. She's very excited and getting impatient. As I leave I tell her to take care of that baby. She beams and assures me that she will. 

I pray for that baby as I tell her I have to go home to take care of mine.  

Lo.