The Magic of Disney

As a corporate marketer, I've been trained to look for feedback, own it, leverage it, master it, pass it on.

As a mom, I shy away from feedback at all costs.

Lucky for me, no one seems to be in any hurry to give a Mom direct feedback. It's too delicate of a subject - too sensitive of an occupation. Instead, you can look to the literature to judge yourself. (Which I've largely bypassed.) Or you can affiliate with the local mom brigade. (Nothing they are doing that I'm not - so all good.) Besides that, you keep on moving, relatively confident that you are in fact, a good, if not great mom.

Sure, there are moments when you make errors - moments that become 'bad mom' legend. Say, when I thought the jug of punch at the party was lemonade and I poured Mary a glass. She told me, 'Mom, I don't like this. It doesn't taste good.' I responded, 'just drink it, alright?!' When she pushed back again, interrupting my conversation, I finally tasted it to see what she was talking about, only to panic, wondering how many sips of a Margarita she actually took.

That story and others like it, become your 'bad mom' stories. You tell them over and over again, laugh with your friends, relate to someone else's bad mom moment. And in the end, walk away feeling pretty good about the kind of mom you are. Humble, humorous, human, still on top.

But then, whether solicited or not, the unexpected feedback arrives. That look someone throws you in line at the grocery store. The letter from school. The call from another parent. The nudge from your partner. It's not a joke. It's not a funny story. It's real. And there's nothing harder than facing it.

As I've mentioned recently, life with three little ones, plus two high pressure, full time careers is challenging. Strike that - very challenging. A challenge nonetheless that I love and wouldn't trade. But there are days when it gets the best of me.

When I haven't slept well. When the stress is mounting at work. When I have to travel. When we are both stretched too thin. When we're out of toilet paper. And ugh, out of wipes too. When the kids need the attention they deserve, and I'm just tapped. When I wish my kids could do things faster, without whining, without fighting, without losing it. When I wish they would just listen and do it and get it done. When I forget that they are five. And three. And 8 months old. And I snap. I yell because it's all I have left at the end of the day. And then I cringe, wondering why I just let it come to that.

I saw and felt the feedback. The kind you don't solicit or prepare for. The kind that makes your stomach churn because it's a little too real and a little too raw. But just as feedback can be necessary at work, feedback at home, can be even more crucial. So I took the time to digest it, learn from it, apply it.

Motherhood is largely about perspective and patience. Perspective is the part where you see things from your kids' eyes. Patience is the part where you don't lose that perspective despite the pace it can present. Recently, I've experienced times where I've lost both the perspective and patience you need to be a good mom. Times where without a joke, I could classify myself as bad. Only to hug my kids tightly seconds later wondering why I couldn't do it all a little more elegantly.

So at an all too opportune time, I had the chance to walk away from the stress, sprinkle pixie dust on my family, and fly off to Fantasyland to make dreams come true, or at least suspend reality for a bit.

Even though I was working part of the time we were in Orlando, being immersed in Disney gave me an extra dose of the perspective and patience I needed.

Everywhere we went around the Magic Kingdom - everyone we talked to from the characters to the custodians - embodied these virtues. Little girls were princesses, boys were little princes, even if they were whining or fussing. Families, double strollers and all, were welcomed, accommodated, cared for, and eased of their worries. Doors were opened with smiles, beds were made with an extra touch of magic, the rides transported us, and every evening there were crayons and coloring books, good meals followed by ice cream with mickey mouse sprinkles, and stunning fireworks over Cinderella's castle. With a grand piano and big band playing a medley of Disney's best every day, it was hard not to have a song and smile in your heart.

It wasn't taking my kids to Disney World that made me a good mom. It was what Disney brought out of me, that helped recapture a little of the mojo that I felt I was losing.

When Mary was sad, I gave her a hug and asked why. I took her aside kindly, quietly, and gently, spending the time listening instead of reacting immediately.

When Bobby was scared, I got down on my knees and saw things through his eyes. The crowds get to you from that level so I lifted him up as much as my arms and back would allow.

When Margaret was tired, I let her figure it out in her own time, cuddle close and gently nod off, staying in my arms a little longer than usual.

When the kids wanted to sing, I sang with them.

When they wanted to swim, I put on my suit and rode down the waterslide with them.

When they wanted to do the Barnstormer one more time, I made the wait in line as entertaining as possible.


When they didn't want to go to sleep, I read them an extra story, sang a song, and patiently coaxed them off to Neverland.

When we had to pack up and walk out the door of our beautiful hotel, I promised that we would return, even if it's only in our imagination.
Because at the end of the day, and at the end of this trip, they are five, and three and eight months old. Because they are such good and precious kids. And first and foremost, my job is to be their mom. And a good, if not great one, at that.

Lo.

Getting Out The Door

At Mass at our neighboring Parish on Easter Sunday morning, I listened to Father Guido recite the Easter Gospel by memory. As he talked (and I pointed out big Bs and little bs in Dr. Seuss' ABCs to Bobby), I reflecting on Jesus' great escape from the Tomb. And my thoughts drifted toward a pain point in our lives right now. Ah ... makes total sense. There's a method to the madness.







What do I mean ...








Well, at home, we're all pretty good at life.

And when we're anywhere else, I'd say the same.

But the middle ground. When moving from home to anywhere else, particularly as we try to get out the door, can feel like the world is falling apart. Or least my small part of it.










For instance, that same Sunday morning pre-Mass, getting out the door was quite the ordeal. There was a fight over Bitty Baby's bottle. Five minutes later, Mary's dress was wet and there was a puddle on the floor. I wiped it up and then tried to put Bobby in his pressed shirt. I couldn't button it, so we moved on to the wrinkled one. I packed my bag and put in the car. Crap. I forgot crayons, then a car for Bobby, then Margaret's diapers. Bobby broke one my Bumblebee candles and glass shattered all over the ground. As I swept up glass, I told Mary to put on her dress shoes. There was an argument over shoe choice, then an argument about what coat to wear. Then came the bartering for a better snack at Church. Margaret was in the wrong infant carrier, but she was sound asleep. So do we dare wake her and transfer? ... or do we just take two cars. Two cars it is. Frazzled and frizzy haired, I got the puffs, I got the camera, I was locking the door, but I forgot to go to the bathroom. And I'm unlocking the door ... you get the point.







And honestly, this was one of our better scenarios. We actually made it to our destination on time. Usually we are running out the door late for something, with someone in tears, someone dirty, someone about ready to lose it, someone with a headache, and poor Margaret just going along for the ride.







Five or ten minutes later, the clouds part and everyone's singing along to the Soundtrack of Moana. Twenty minutes later, we're where we want to be and generally speaking, full of joy.


So goes the reflection and connection. The finale of Lent, the transition from Good Friday to Easter Sunday is a dark time for us Catholics. We pray. Keep quiet. And get pretty hungry. Then the tomb opens and there's hope, hallelujahs, and lots of ham.


Many transitions in life bear a resemblance to the most holy one; they can be challenging, confusing, filled with emotion, and very taxing. Personally, I've been through them. Currently, it's the whole getting out the door bit, an all too regular occurrence in our life that keeps me prayerful and patient.


Last Sunday, with a silent Our Father going through my head, we did it. We made it out the door, to Easter Mass, to Mimi and Opa's Easter Egg Hunt, to Aunt Jeannie and Uncle Andy's feast, to a day full of hallelujah, joy, pastels and seersucker, hidden eggs, chocolate and more chocolate, family, wine, whiskey, and so much promise. Promise that there is always a way outward and upward, if you set your spirit to it.  

To keeping in Easter in my heart every day. And to that time tomorrow morning, when I'm trying to pack the pool bag, get everyone bundled up, and not lose my mind, I will keep this reflection close.


Lo.

A Five Year Old

On Tuesday night, I told Mary it was her last bath as a four year old ... then after that. the last story, the last hug and kiss, and the last bedtime song. I got a little choked up saying it. She looked like such a big girl, sitting beside me, American Girl clutched tightly.

She couldn't wait till the morning though; to announce her special day and get her birthday present, to celebrate with her friends at school and then at dance class, for a special birthday dinner, to be a hair taller, more mature, less of my baby, more of my big girl.

I'm sitting at her dance class now, watching her learn new choreography for her Spring recital. She is wearing black tights and a hand me down leotard from her older cousin. Not the prescribed uniform, but as always, she had to do things her own way. Her long blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her face is alight with a signature grin, dotted by the little birth mark on her cheek. She confidently twirls, saches, and leaps, and I have to brag, better than the rest of her class.

If I could freeze time ... (I would have finished this entry while we were still at dance class not four days later) ... this is you at five, Miss Mary.

You are filled with love for others; for everyone who has touched your life in a meaningful way. Your teachers are always telling me how kind and thoughtful you are; always making sure everyone is included. You love making projects, writing letters, or drawing pictures for the person you miss most on any given day. And you hate saying goodbye when people leave.

There are times when your sweet face hides too; when her little brother has gotten the best of you; when you're tired, hungry, or just plain fed up with not getting your way. You whine, or worse cry. And then you get even more upset because you know how good you usually are. It takes my stern words and a warning or two, but within minutes you bounce right back.

You are very smart. Born on Pi day, I continue to envision your future as an engineer. You put two and two together every day; you have a passion for geography and genealogy; you are starting to read and write, and you carry around a scientific calculator to help you figure out life's more difficult equations.

You are an entertainer. And it's not just the way you dance and sing for any audience who will watch. This past weekend, I witnessed you hold court at your fairy tea party. You sat in the middle, told Siri to turn off the 'fairy music' and play Shut Up and Dance With Me. You clapped along as you sipped your lemonade and got all your pals hopping with you. You told jokes, passed cookies, and made sure everyone felt included. You have a maturity about you that I find incredible at times.

You are truly an original.  Yesterday morning before school, you were cozied up, on the floor with all your blankets, stuffed animals and sleeping bag. Sitting in the dark, you were listening to your American Girl jukebox, an illuminated miniature that plays 1950s songs. You were tapping your toes and 'doing work.' You were living in your own world as you so often do, and it was adorable.

You are creative and artistic, always looking for another opportunity to do another art project. You can swim, ride a balance bike, and run with me. You desperately want to win a trophy for doing something, so I encourage you to keep at these activities.

You love Happy Meals. But your favorite treat is Mint Mentos, and you ask for them every time we go to the grocery store.

You love Piggie and Elephant books and your favorite show right now is the Magic School Bus.

You make me laugh out loud at least once a day. And above all, you are loved. So loved.

Happy belated birthday my beautiful little five year old.

Mommy / Lo.

Curve Balls

When you are working mom, married to a working dad, raising three small children, life is a hustle each and every day.

I'm not complaining - I like a good hustle. And most days, most weeks, I'm pretty good it at it (minus the fact that I'm generally 5-10 minutes late to everything.)

The problem is, the hustle isn't just about pace, it's about precision. To get through any day, you depend on the dependable; things going as planned. But life is never that generous; error free execution is unlikely; when one kid poops all over me, there's bound to be more. 

This past week, my experience was anything but dependable or error free. Each day instead of the typical, I got dealt the a-typical. I had to change gears, make up for lost time and stay optimistic. But by the time I pulled into my driveway on Friday evening, I was nearly ready to give up.

It all started with good news that happened a while ago. In December, I was promoted. Big deal. Awesome. (Finally.) But on the flip side, I was used to the day to day as a Manager. Executing as a Director, with the increased responsibility, hours and stress is a little more tricky.

Then you add traveling for work. I was in Charlotte this week, pumping and flying yet again. Missing my babies, praying that Peter could do it all, trying to get home as soon as possible.

Then you add security screening. I got stopped for my stash of breast milk in my carry on. Instead of letting me pass, I got questioned about the whereabouts of my baby. I kid you not. Then I got tested for the vapors coming off my milk. Then I had to get a second opinion from the head of security. Then they tried to return my baby's milk to the wrong mom. Again I kid you not. Finally, my milk and I were released, just in time to line up and board.

Then you add car complications. I arrived home and found that my tire had a hole in it. Like literally a hole with air pouring on out of it. The friendly service man at O'Hare couldn't do anything for me. So I drove all the way from O'Hare to Oak Brook to make it to my 12:30 creative brief review on a run flat / very flat tire while 18 wheelers honked at me to move aside. Life in the slow lane doesn't work.

Then you go to sleep at the end of a long day, only to wake up a couple hours later because someone is having mommy went away anxiety or an ear infection or teething or who knows just please go back to sleep.

Then you finally remember your kids doctor appointment, and arrive relatively on time, only to find out that your son might have a lazy eye. So you get the ophthalmologist referral and plan accordingly.

Then dinner is sub par. Then when everything's cleaned up, you hear Lincoln Logs being spilled all over the floor again. A glass breaks, you get a paper cut, the spit up on your newly dry cleaned jacket turns rancid, the box of wipes and the bottle of wine are both empty. And there's still another day in the week. A day where your equipment team drops a bomb. And everyone leaves for the weekend with a sinking feeling in their stomachs.

Blah.

After complaining to my Mom, Dad, Aunt Dee Dee and husband about the week I had experienced, I decided to find the humor in it and celebrate the weekend. Because it wasn't any typical weekend, it was my daughter's fifth birthday party weekend. We had guests in town, places to be, Mimi's chicken pot pies to eat, and a fairy tea party to throw.

       

It was all wonderful. And exactly what I needed to put life into perspective once again.

It's Monday, things are going as planned (so far), and it's going to be a great week. Even if more bombs go off at work, at the end of the day, I'll have these three smiling faces welcoming me through the door. And as long as their smiling, I'll be laughing right along with them. 

Lo.

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.