Martha's Vineyard

Last Saturday, when we walked into the house for the first time, I peaked around, envisioning the fun we would have on vacation in Martha's Vineyard.


The patio table where we would serve Peter's fresh catch of the day for dinner.

The shed with sand toys, chairs, and a big umbrella - the perfect size to shade a big baby on the beach.


The outdoor shower where a day's worth of sand would be washed away.


The kitchen where my Dad would mix up Margaritas because the formerly dry town where we were staying didn't seem to carry them.


Four beautiful seaside bedrooms, where kids and adults alike would sleep soundly knowing they had lived their best day yet in the sun.


And the living room, where there was a puzzle.
I could have chosen to ignore it, but there it was, sitting on a puzzling table with two chairs and a lamp, begging me to do it when the rest of the house was asleep. I had work to do during naptime though. A book I could read. A nap I should have taken. But 1,000 pieces shouldn't be kept in a box and worse, apart - they too wanted to live their best day in the sun, together.


So after our first day, scoping out our part of the island, swimming at the beach, and polishing off a plate of fried oysters at the Black Dog Tavern, I set to work on the puzzle.


There is something so satisfying, relaxing and rejuvenating about doing a jigsaw puzzle. The organization of the pieces. That click you hear as one piece connects to another. The moment you figure out the frame and just how big the puzzle is going to be. When the blur of nothingness comes into focus and you see what's been hiding in front of you all along. The partner you express your frustrations to when you just can't seem to get the sky to cooperate. And that missing piece. The one that got away, or worse, the one that Margaret threw down the vent. Then the great rescue, tweezing it out, and putting that last piece in. Seeing it all come together. Feeling the bumpy surface. The accomplishment and glory.


Day after day, I put one by one of 1,000 pieces together, with help from my Dad and my Aunt Dee to form a scene straight out of the Vineyard. And as I worked on it, I thought about some of the pieces that I uncovered while on vacation.


Like the way you are really supposed to do laundry - i.e. give it the attention it deserves. Change it right away. Fold it right away. And savor that fresh laundry smell. Yes, I did laundry on vacation.


Naptimes and bedtimes are easier, when the kids are exhausted from an amazing day of play.


Long bike rides and runs are better when the views keeps changing.

Laughter is far better than stress.


Big waves are awesome.


Fireworks are overrated. Hamburgers on the grill are not.
The escalating price of added scoops of ice cream on Martha's Vineyard will never make sense.
My son is very, very tan.
Fish tastes better when it's fresh off the Skiff.
When there's a free concert in the park, you go. Especially when the band playing is the second oldest continuously playing band in the country.
Avoid the poison ivy.
Don't jump can sometimes mean go ahead and jump.


Watching your kids pick up rod and reel for the first time and catch their first fish; that's when the pieces just click together.


And seeing your husband in his element, in the light that best frames all his features, makes you wish you could stay in this place forever.

Finally, experiencing vacation the way it's supposed to be, is invaluable. Turn on the 'out of office' message, put away the powerpoint, and then remind yourself to put it away again. And just be, truly be with your family. That's what vacation is about.


Cause life is so short. Work is really hard. Motherhood is often times mayhem. Vacation is meant to be a vacation. So take it, absorb it, document it, and then keep working hard so you can take vacation again, making the next one more epic than the last.
Monday, here I come.


Lo.







Lo.

Together

On yet another plane, on yet another day of mom life, I snuck into the first class section to use the bathroom. It was easier than usual because I was one of five or six remaining adults on the plane - no elitist in sight to right my wrongs. As I crept forward, I signaled to Peter back in row 23 that he needed to keep an eye on Margaret and Mary; they were sound asleep and I didn't want them to roll from slumber to icky airplane floor wakefulness. He moved forward and stood halfway between his row, where Bobby was also sleeping, and mine.


When I returned, we reassessed our strategy in the middle of the aisle, as yet another passenger squeezed past us to deplane in hopes of a better night sleep in a hotel in Indianapolis.



We were on the way back from Pittsburgh, where we celebrated Father's Day with my family. Typically, it's the easiest flight - up, down, 55 minutes, 3 kiddo cat naps, 1 bag of pretzels, 0 bathroom breaks. Home.




This time, not so easy. We encountered weather outside of Chicago, circled, and then were diverted to Indianapolis where we sat and sat and sat without an indication that we would make it home that evening. I ate Oreos for dinner; gratis first class snacks from the flight attendant who found pity on us. Somehow they didn't taste quite as good from my grounded state in steerage. I opened up my computer and used my normal sleeping hours to do some extra work.


A couple hours later, they said we were going to take off and fly through a clearing in the radar. With lightning bolts streaking the sky outside my window, we landed in Chicago early the next morning. Four hours later, I was up again getting ready for the week ahead.




Even though we were grounded, we encountered more weather as the week progressed. Literal rainy days, giving the weeds license to take over more and more turf in my flower beds. And then figurative weather. The realization that my project wasn't going to meet the timeline; the presentation where you start with 'here was the aim ... now here's the adjust.' Words that never go over well. The nanny called off sick. And I scrambled to find coverage in time to catch my train. Then it happened again. Another scramble, another mad dash to the train, another soggy morning in the city, socks sloshing from meeting to meeting.


On Friday afternoon, as Peter asked how I was doing with an emphatic TGIF attached to it, I wondered if there was actually anything to be excited about. But as I walked home to relieve my cousin, Jane, who had saved my day, I saw a little sunshine peak through the clouds, and I decided to let it in.




Because at the end of a rather sour week, I was coming home to my kids. They were there, happy as can be. They had been fed, had taken a nice afternoon nap, had played, learned a thing or two, and experienced the best of life. An hour later, Peter arrived home too. And we were together, looking forward to a weekend that celebrated family. Cherished togetherness.


As I reflect on these photos, I realize the luxuries that life affords me. Togetherness being one of them.


Last week at Mass, with a heavy heart and stern voice, Father Bill delivered a moving homily to a receptive congregation. He shared his sorrow and shame at families being torn apart, the internment of children, and the state of our immigrant country. He ended by nearly whispering, 'We need a prayer. We need a prophet. We need God.'


I can't get his words, and more, his relinquished tone, out of my mind.


Togetherness is not a luxury. It's a human right. And we should stop at nothing to preserve it for all.


Lo.

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.