Single Dad

I'm flying home from Seattle right now next to a kindergartener named Phelps who is a lover of super heroes, Hi-Chew candy, Pokémon and Sprite. He is slurping said soft drink, spinning a fidget spinner, and watching the Smurfs movie on my iPhone.

In a row cattycorner to mine, his Dad, who is likely ready to lose his mind as he wrangles a terrible two year old while keeping his eye on a three year old, is completely keeping his cool. At the beginning of the flight, I let him know I had kids of my own, had been in his shoes, and was happy to help. He offered a silent, stressed smile, which I took as a thankyouverymuch.

Phelps has relayed to me that his Dad's dad passed away. Yes, his Grandpa. 'Not the bald one. The other one.' That's why they were in Seattle. His Mom stayed back though.

I told him I was in Seattle for work. And that I had three little kids at home: A five year old, same age as him, a three year old, and a baby. I showed him some pictures and he asked to see some more. I said my husband was taking care of them; flying solo for a couple days, just like his Daddy.

Throughout the five-hour flight home, as I helped Phelps open his pretzels, blow his nose, throw away his cup, and put his tray in the upward and locked position, I realized that I was the only one helping this poor father.

I've flown by myself with kids several times, and with it experienced people opening doors, pulling baggage down from the overhead, playing peekaboo with my baby, and picking up dropped teething toys without a look of disgust or disdain. Meanwhile, this guy wasn't getting any of that. And I wondered why. Maybe it was because the two year old was a screamer, or maybe it was because he wasn't emoting the need for help, but despite the stoic performance, I knew he could use a hand. Or at least a friendly face, saying you got this buddy.

Albeit a burlier version, it reminded me a lot of my husband, wrangling my kids when I can't be there.

I travel quite frequently for work. More than I'd like. But I board planes, rent cars, do business, and sleep soundly while collecting hotel points, knowing there's a silent hero at home; a single Dad doing double the work, all too well.



While he enthusiastically supports my career, I know there are parts of it, like the travel, work dinners, later nights, and now train commuting that are challenging. I write a lot about the hardships of being a working mom; but the challenge of being a solo working dad when Mom is out of town probably beat me.


Peter's told me before that 'Mom' has a special kind of magic, and he feels at a deficit without it. I get it. Especially with a baby who is still nursing. But I also know that Peter's got a different kind of magic, a unique style, that makes this household function the way it does. And like that Dad on the plane, it's very humble.



Each and everyday, I'm so thankful for my husband, and our partnership in life. In raising our kids, providing for our household, joining together in prayer, and finding ways to laugh through the hard parts.


A week late, because late is all that I can do these days ... Thank you for being the kind of dad who is always eager to provide the entertainment ...


Referee the fights

Feed the hungry

Cure the boo-boo-ed

Cloth the nudies running around their rooms after bath time.

And read, sing, back rub, and hush the overtired to sleep at the end of the day.

And to all other Dads (particularly my own) who know how to fly solo; Happy (belated) Father's Day.


Lo.

Dance Mom

I'll start this blog by saying, I was a dancer. Strike that. I AM a dancer; a lover of creative motion, jazz hands, time steps, sharp turns, plastered smiles, sequins, sparkles, ecru tights, poses, and the applause. Oh the applause.


So ... my daughter is a dancer too. A natural, but also nurtured dancer.


For the past two years, I've taken Mary to her beloved dance class every Wednesday evening. She loves her teachers. She loves the process, the routine and routines. She loves learning new moves as much as rehearsing the old ones. And she brings the rhythms, energy, and positivity home every week, dancing through the days as if life was a stage.


So when recently, she was asked to participate in an Elite Jazz Class because she had the talent and drive (at the age of five, I was suspect), I asked if she'd like to try it. Her response was an enthusiastic, proud, eager, 'Yes, mama please!'


We were in Florida when the four-session class started, so Mary arrived at a deficit on Day 2. Dressed in her ballet uniform and with pigtails in her hair, Mary looked different than the other girls who were seasoned 6 and 7 year old jazz dancers. They had a more mature wardrobe, they knew the teacher, her style, sass, and speed. All of this was new to Mary, and my stomach churned as I watched her try to keep up with the intensity.


To my surprise, she did. I could tell she was tired, no exhausted, after already doing ballet and tap for 45 minutes before this class, but she was learning and seemingly liking it.


The following week, after her normal ballet class, she excitedly lined up again for a second installment. I took the same seat right outside the classroom, next to a mom I could tell I didn't like from the start. She turned to me and told me with a smirk on her face, 'seems like there are less kids this week. Interesting.'  


I didn't know how to respond and I brushed the comment aside.


It was an atypically hot spring day and the studio was warmer than usual. I've hardly ever seen Mary break a sweat and she was. The class was loud. fast, sharp and sharp and sharp and as they lined up to practice their dance for the last fifteen minutes, I saw Mary's eyes get red. I saw her try to hold back the tears. I saw her start to quiver. It's a look, a feeling that I know all too well; that moment when you have to act professional yet all of your emotions get the best of you.


And they did. She broke and started crying, 'I want my Mommy.' I walked in and pulled her out, gave her the biggest hug I could, held her on my lap, and said, 'that's it ... let's go.'


I walked to the car and drove home feeling terrible that I had put her through that. The activity that she loved so much suddenly had become scary and worse, sad. And it killed me.
Then I couldn't stop thinking about the woman beside me. As Mary sat there crying on my lap, she didn't say a word. She didn't even offer a glimpse of comfort. Instead, she looked on at her own daughter, proud that she was still standing, quietly smirking as we walked down the stairs and out the door. One less kid. Another one bites the dust.


We went back to focusing on her normal dance class after that, preparing for the recital which she beautifully performed this past weekend in front of some of the people who love her most.
She loved every minute of it; getting her hair and make up done, waiting in the wings in the dark, the lights and louder than normal music, the moment at the end when you knew you did all the right steps, and the applause. Oh the applause. She was regaled with flowers and little presents from her Mimi, Nana and Gigi. Then Opa took everyone out for a wonderful Italian dinner. She told me last night, she wished she could do it all again. I loved hearing that.


But since that tragic dance day, a sad visual that will always be fresh in my mind, I've thought a lot about that mom sitting next to me. I was so mad at her and all that she represented, which I see far too much of anymore. Another mom is flustered, kids screaming and crying, out of control, and the group looking on smirks, thinking, thankfully, they're doing a better job, instead of consoling, trying to help, offering an encouraging word.




We all have a little Stage Mom in us. (I certainly do.) We all want our kids to succeed. But it should never be at the expense of another kid. Life's performance is a whole lot better when everyone is in sync, dancing their heart out, and being applauded in the end.
 

Lo.

The Train

Well, I'm on the train. Sweating profusely, after running the last seven blocks to get to the station, but on the train nonetheless.


A year ago, I didn't think this was a possibility. I told people that I wouldn't do it. That they would lose this working mother once and for all. Goodbye fast food. Hello retirement. Or more likely my next job.


I spent the past six months in denial that it was going to happen. I deleted the 'We're Moving' emails. Get my badge? Not right now. Do the technology webcast? Maybe later. I skipped the tours, feedback loops, and presentations. Inwardly, I thought something will change. They'll reconsider.


Over the last month or so, it became all too real. I entered a grieving phase. The loss of my all too conveniently located office building, ten minutes from home, school, and any emergency that might unfold, pained me. I grieved the loss of a campus that housed my first foray into a big girl job, where I toiled away for the love of a good French Fry for the past nine years. I grieved for my home away from home; for my desk and its surrounding three walls littered with pictures of my kids.


Last week, I accepted my husband's gift of a 10-ride Metra ticket, boarded a train and made the commute downtown. It was pouring rain and I got soaked schlepping from Union Station to the West Loop. At the front door of the sparkling new building, I was greeted by a pack of poncho clad protesters furiously demanding a $15 minimum wage. I couldn't get around them so I went to the side door where Security told me no badge, no entrance. My soggy pleas for help finally convinced the powers that be, and I miserably, and admittedly a little emotionally dragged myself to the front desk to check in.


Today, I feel a little different. Over the past two weeks, I've found the rhythm and energy of the city; I've embraced the stark, shiny new building with smart conference rooms, a massive gym, and fantastic outdoor spaces. I've collaborated, written on the walls of the conference rooms, and pretended I was one of the high sought after young, dynamic talents. I was happy - tired, but enthusiastic - going to and fro, and I felt more and more like I could do it. All. Everyday.


When I went back from maternity leave with Bobby, I wrote about my two weeks. In my mind, which suffers from the adversity to change of an 80 year old, it always seems to take just that to adjust. Two weeks to turn a very negative attitude into something different. And different is just what I'm feeling this week.


I now have a badge, a bike lock, and a back pack. I have a monthly Metra pass, the beginnings of spatial orientation inside Union Station, commuter shoes, supplies for my locker at school, I mean work, and friends who want to have a drink with me on the way home. I also have a smile on my face. Not just about said drink.  


Because I'm 80 at heart and nostalgic about everything, I do want to reminisce about a couple of things that made my (old) corporate headquarters so special to me. 


I remember driving into the headquarters of my company for the first time in MBA school. I remember thinking, this is it; I need this job. The peacefulness of the campus - the virtual arboretum in bloom - calmed my nerves and at the same time made me want to get my foot in the door even more.


I remember wellness walks around the building with my good friend Cristine, tracking through the trees, eating pears off of them, finding ways to laugh off stressful situations.


I remember proudly showing off the building to Peter. Then to my parents. Then to new hires with fresh, eager faces.


I remember my wedding shower and baby showers hosted by co-workers in the restaurant, lunches and drinks at the Lodge, classes at HU, and the artwork, all the fanciful artwork.


I remember coming back from maternity leave with Mary, and crying at my desk for a solid three days. Bit my bit the building and culture of the company welcomed me back into the fold, and I assumed the status of working mom.


I remember landing the job on my current team. When Kasey texted me to meet her by the kitchen. She enthusiastically told me, welcome to Menu, and proudly showed off all the kitchens, the heartbeat of the company, that were now my domain.


I remember all the work, the high profile presentations, the fresh, exciting new food. 


I remember the retirement parties, the tearful, unexpected goodbyes, the changes that kept moving the campus from irreplaceable to replaced.


The leadership team believes the company needs a cultural facelift, which I believe, was a big part of the move from the sleepy suburbs to the crazy city of Chicago. There is merit to the sentiment, but there's also a lot of great stuff about the culture that raised me in this company. And despite having to schlep it downtown every day, I'll keep bringing the remnants of a campus and culture that I really loved.


Lo.

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.