Cider and Steel

Yesterday afternoon, we hosted another Cider Press party. It was the 7th one since my Grandpa Barry passed away. Each year, seems to be a little bigger and better celebration of Red's Press and its legendary autumnal labor, now transplanted a little closer to corn country than the coal country where it was born and raised.

 

We had a great time. Everyone got a chance to drink a glass fresh from the tap, families left with a Cider roadie, our friend Michael found a Groupon for extra large pizzas so we kept the festivities going later and later. Cider turned to wine and beer. The kids sugar highs spiked and then plummeted. The house was a mess, I was really tired, but I think Grandpa would have been proud.

I had a hard time falling asleep though, and an even harder time staying asleep last night.

Like my Grandpa, like his Cider Press, I too am from Pittsburgh. My roots are forged in the steel of the city. A picture of the Homestead Stacks where Foreman Red Barry, my grandpa, worked for 41 years, greets guests as they walk into my house.

Burgh transplants like myself are everywhere. And together, we call ourselves Steeler Nation. Sure, we wave Terrible Towels on Sunday, likely annoying those around us, but it's way more than our beloved football team. Steeler Nation represents an intense, almost mean sense of pride in our character rich city.

We can sense each other in a crowd. Someone lets out a 'dahn.' Or slips on a 'slippy.' And soon enough, you're asking ... so where did you grow up?
Pittsburgh.
Git out, me too! Where from?

I tell people that I'm from the East End. It's how my parents always referred to our neighborhood. I lived in Squirrel Hill first, then Shadyside from fifth grade on. My family is all still there. I go back as much as I can these days, which is never enough.

Typically, the people I meet are from the suburbs of the city, so if asked to color in my community, I offer a little more detail.

I tell them about the bagels we had growing up. The ones in Chicago don't compare. I can say the same about the pizza in Pittsburgh versus the Midwest's version. I was spoiled on Napoli's and Mineo's. 

I had 33 girls in my very liberal, all-girls high school. Most graduated to go on to even more liberal colleges.

We had amazing museums, just miles away from our house. You could find any kind of ethnic cuisine, even in the 80s and 90s, all over the East End. I grew up exposed to and loving it all.

My Mom bought me shoes from Littles and clothes from Newmans, then I would beg her to get me just one toy from Randall's. 

We went to movies at the Manor Theater and got cones at Haagen Dazs afterward.

We took piano lessons at the JCC and in later years, reveled at the Hanukkah parade driving all around our neighborhood. We were the only ones on our street with Christmas lights growing up, the rest of the block simply lit by the humble hum of menorahs. There were four synagogues within a mile radius of our house. We always had Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur off from school. We sang as many Hannukah songs as Christmas Carols at the Holiday concert. I had a Jewish babysitter and Jewish friends. I lived in a historically Jewish community that I never saw as anything out of the ordinary.

When I heard about the violence yesterday, just blocks from my parents house, a corner that I walk and run by, every time that I'm home, I was traumatized.

Then I was angry. 

Then this morning at Mass, I cried. It hurt and continues to hurt knowing how much pain the Jewish community in Pittsburgh is taking on.

The hate that is boiling in this country is intolerable. The politics and politicians inciting it are shameful. We keep having to pray at Church for an end to hate. For peace. For the kind of world that I try to create for my kids. But protecting them from the scary parts keeps getting harder and harder.

Like the mighty steel, forged from coal, iron and limestone on the banks of the city's three rivers, I know my hometown will not bend or waver. We will always be a welcoming, melting pot community. And I will always carry the spirit of my hometown in the community that I now call home.

Lo.

Cry Baby

Have you ever cried during a performance review?

No?

Well, I have. And several times.

There's something about the review process - the self reflection, the things I want to say going in that take courage, the potential of those things not getting said, or worse, backfiring, the fact that my scheduled 'conversation' always seems to fall on the first day of my period ... there is pressure and related emotion, and over the years I've let it get to me more than once. 

I'll take you back to the first time. I was an amateur. It was my first foray in corporate America. I was used to getting coached by Tracy Coyne, not judged by an executive. (And there was plenty of emotion in the ND Women's Lacrosse Office over the years.)   

Anyway, on the morning of that first review, all the stupid stuff I had done over the past six months came back to haunt me. Why did I show up in sweat pants to that International Conference pre-meeting? Why did I blow off my boss to go out with someone else the night after? And then why couldn't I quell my love of the dance floor in service of a little professionalism the night of the Gala? But on the other hand, hadn't I performed well? Wasn't I doing what I was supposed to do, plus some?

As my boss and I walked into the meeting room the stress mounted, my hands started to sweat, I looked at the list of accomplishments I had written down on the piece of paper - inappropriate work attire plus inappropriate work partying not included. She asked how I thought the year had gone. I started saying something, quivering, tearing up, then lost it. I started crying and then trying to explain myself. I'm just so nervous. I've never done this before. She looked at me like I was crazy. but then like she really cared. She told me to relax. That I was doing a good job. Professionalism was an opportunity, but I was a great hire.

Note taken. Relax. Keeping working hard. Be professional.

Over the years, I've shed other tears. One of the most embarrassing cries was to my ex-VP, who I loved, but who clearly didn't know what to do with a crying pregnant woman in his office.

After that horrendous expression of emotion, I thought I was over it - that it would never happen again. And then mid-year review 2018 hit. I didn't even have an agenda going in, just a list of goals and progress against them. We started talking. All good. Easy. And then she asked me, 'so ... how's this year been so far?' 

It's good. Fine. Demonstrating significant advancement on key initiatives. (Nothing like lame business jargon to take away any lingering emotion. Stay with that, Lo.)

No, really ... how's this year been so far? 

She looked at me like she really cared. Like she really wanted to hear the answer.

So I told her.

Well ... It's been one of the hardest years ever. The work has been hard. Non-stop. Stressful. Then we moved downtown. Then the re-org. The commute is challenging. Every day is a hustle ... (And I started getting choked up.)  

Tell me more about the commute? 

It's like I'm sprinting through each day. I have to time it down to the second. No literally, I'm always running ... to get my kids dressed, to get them to school, to catch a train, to make a meeting, to get home in time to get dinner on the table. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted. I can't even find time to get a hair cut! (By this point, I was really crying.) But it's good. Everything's good. It's fine. Honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. 

(And I meant that last sentence with all my heart.)

I swear I caught a glimmer in her eye. She said she knew how I felt. Working mom to working mom. And it felt good to know the emotion was understood and even shared. 

There is a lot written about showing emotion at work. Most of it, telling you to 'man up' and put on a mask every day. But as someone who has cried at least a half dozen times in the office, I have a different point of view.

I don't have a work self and a home self, you get the same person both places. So when told to leave emotion at home, as hard as I try, I can't. Maybe it's because I've been lucky - I've worked for bosses that truly care about me - but in my experience, every time I've let my raw self out, it's actually helped. My bosses seem to trust me more. They truly know who I am and what motivates me. And as my ex-VP said, they see that the passion for what I do and what I juggle runs deep. 

So to my co-workers and friends who ever just need to let a tear show, I'm here for you. Cause I've been there before.

Lo.

He Did It

Those that know me have likely experienced my competitive nature. While it was nurtured around card tables, in the classrooms of St. Edmund's and Ellis, in our backyard and on athletic fields, the personality trait has carried over into my career.


While I'm proud of the contribution I've made to corporate America at the age of 36, I sometimes find myself looking around the conference room, assessing my peers and wondering if I couldn't have been a little further, a little higher up, had I spent more time in the career development office in college.




Back in 2004, I graduated with a Varsity Lacrosse letter at Notre Dame, a major in Art History (with a summa cum laude mark on my degree), many hours spent in between the ceramic studio and stage, several nicks on the dance floor of Finnegans, some amazing friends, but no career prospects. 




It took me three years, meandering through character defining jobs, to figure out I needed to get a more practical education in order to get a more practical job. So ... I didn't study for and mediocrely took the GMAT, pushed my way into Notre Dame's MBA program, and enrolled with about 15 other girls who showed promised of a dual degree.




The first day of MBA school, I told a guy with floppy blond hair that I would be at CJ's that evening. He showed up, we started talking, and I started smiling. As my jargon prone colleagues might say at work, 'there was there, there.' And I enthusiastically signed myself up for it.




11 years later, 3 kids later, my crowning achievement is my family. And despite the time it took to get here, I wouldn't change a thing about the route I took.


But as I write this, reflecting on the number of times I've scribbled the word 'I' over the past several paragraphs, I'm pretty sure I'm assuming too much responsibility for my path in life. I speculate there was more of a Him, with a capital H, behind the plan.




My Aunt Dee Dee, who in partnership with her sisters keeps Hallmark profitable, sent us a very nice card for our wedding anniversary this week. It said, hope your special day is full of time for celebrating one of the greatest gifts you've ever received ... God's gift to you of each other.



There was something about that circuitous career path, that was very purposeful, and I do feel like God guided it. Had I not experienced my 20s, had I not gained some much needed humility, had I not gone on some good and bad dates, had I not gone back to Notre Dame, I might never have met Peter. I might never have found the character to complete mine, which I believe is exactly what God had in mind.




Since we met, God's also delivered two MBAs, one MRS, three beautiful children, one loving home, and the potential for so much more if we choose to keep love in our hearts.


While there are days that I find defeat, when I come home, I'm reminded of the one thing I've truly won. him, with a lower case h. And I thank Him, upper case H, for making it possible.




Happy #7 wedding anniversary, hubby.


Lo.

Back to School

Yesterday, Mary, Bobby, Peter and I piled into the car, as Eva pulled up to our house. We passed Margaret off to her, waved good bye and started what might be a new routine. When we got to school, I unbuckled my minor passengers, took them out of the car, and waited with them by the door of the school until it opened. Early bird gets the worm, right?

The gates of education opened, the bell rang, and hand in hand, Mary and Bobby entered school together for the first time. I watched them walk in alongside a mob of children shuffling forward into their toasty classrooms. Once safely inside, I dashed down the driveway, across the train tracks and onto the 8:00 shuttle into the city for yet another landmark day leading the most difficult project ever.



It's a whole bunch of new in our household right now. And it's all a little jolting. Mary started full day Kindergarten last week. Bobby just started Pre-K. We hired and fired a new nanny, then hired another one. Commuter life with the added pressure of packing school lunches, filling out school forms, and getting the kids out the door is a learning curve. I have new responsibilities and new hires at work and the demands continue to mount. I could go on, but I won't.



With all the change and all the firsts and lasts to cherish and hold, I could cry. I see so many other moms doing just that. At drop off the past couple days, I've seen the gamut of emotion. Mary's even shed some tears, telling me the days are too long and she misses me too much. But as I calm her down and push her through the door, her brother nearly dragging her inside, I have a different sentiment. I catch myself saying, 'phew ...'



With each passing milestone, with each measure of independence they claim, I breath a sigh of relief. Not quite the same sweaty exhale I express when barely catching trains to and from the city, but close.


I say, 'phew' ... because it's hard, stressful work to raise kids. And as they grow up, I find relief in the fact that all the work is worth it. That what I'm doing and what my husband and I are teaching them is working. And that they are getting stronger, smarter, and sometimes even sweeter each day.




It's been a summer of this emotion. As Mary learned to ride her bike, brush the knots out of her hair by herself, make her bed, and start to read a little bit ... 

... As Bobby learned how to safely cross a street, looking both ways, and then to zoom off to the connecting sidewalk, as he jumped from the diving board, then learned to swim all the way over to the side by himself ...

... As Margaret learned how to walk, started feeding herself (and then started eating everything in sight), and hold her own against her brother and sister, I sighed knowing they were a little less breakable. A little more resilient.



Don't get me wrong, I love the baby stage. I can't stand how cute Margaret is sometimes. But I also love that they are starting to pave their own paths as they become their own little people.



Yesterday, I got off the train, and my kids were waiting right outside my car, smiles plastered on their faces, yelling Mommy! It was the best. The best. Eva drove off, headed home for the day, and the kids walked, scooted and biked back to our house with me, Mary leading the way and knowing exactly which turns to make to direct us home.


We've started a new chapter, and I think it's going to be fun to write.


Lo.

Margaret x One

A year ago, two kids became three; a table for four needed a fifth chair; hand me downs got handed down, Bobby moved from crib to big boy bed, Mary went from a little girl to a big helper, I enthusiastically put away my maternity clothes, and we welcomed baby Margaret into our household.  

Today, she's one year old. One year that seemingly passed in the blink of an eye. One year that was far less documented or celebrated than Mary's or even Bobby's first. My mother in law and I were laughing last week about the comparative lack of bravado for Margaret's birthday party. Mary and Bobby had beautifully printed birthday invitations; Margaret got an Outlook invite. Sorry sweetie.


A lack of time is not a lack of love. And I'm sure she feels that adoration every day.


However, to give Margaret her deserving day in the sun, here is a snapshot, or rather shots, of who she, as she turns one year old today.


You are literally a (very heavy) bundle of joy.

You love your crib and your soft Little Giraffe blanket. And the combination thereof, as well as a big bottle before you go to bed, has always made you a great sleeper.


You light up when you see me, your Mom, first thing in the morning. And then you offer your Dad, brother and sister the same generous smile. So generous, that Bobby takes it as an invitation to jump right in your crib with you.


You love breakfast, snack, lunch, dinner, dessert bottles, basically any opportunity to eat. And you have THE best thighs because of it.


You love the water. You want to jump right into the pool, hate getting out of the bathtub, and didn't flinch when Bobby sprayed you with the hose.

Let's stay on that. You have Bobby as a brother. And you are already a tough little cookie because of it. But man, does he love, love, love you. You are the one force in this household, that can actually calm the storm sometimes, and it's amazing to watch.


Your sister also loves you to pieces. She loves when you come into her bed. She loves holding you. She's given you countless bottles. And she loves picking a matching dress to your outfit du jour. 'It's like we're twins,' she'll say.


Your hair turned very blond this summer - the blondest in our family.


You are walking, almost running now, to keep up with your brother and sister.

You love being pushed in the jogging stroller and going for bike rides.

You do this thing with your nose, crinkling it up, and snorting in and out. I don't know where you learned it, but it's hysterical.


When I travel for work, and you haven't seen me in a day or so, you give me the biggest hug, never wanting to let go, and it melts my heart.


Just like your Mimi, who shares your same name, you are strong, loving, and full of life.


Margaret, your Mommy and Daddy love you so very much. We hope you had a wonderful first birthday. From the pics, it looks like it didn't disappoint.











Lo.

Pure Michigan

Just like I know a Home Depot ad, the moment the radio starts playing the catchy rhythms that make me want to week whack my lawn, bag the clippings and throw it to the curb, to the beat of course; I know there will be a promotion for my neighboring state the moment Tim Allen starts huskily reading poetry about the surprising beauty of Michigan.


The commercials lure you in. Both the ones for Home Depot and Michigan. But for the next five minutes or so, I'll focus on the latter.


If you haven't heard one of the ads, the campaign is called 'Pure Michigan.' In the Fall, the former star of Home Improvement talks about the foliage, wine tasting, and fishermen casting in the bubbling brooks. In the winter, it's the gateway to amateur sledding, skating, and skiing, just enough adventure for Midwesterners who are more comfortable flat footed. In the spring, it's the biking, breweries, and tours of Motor City. And in the summer, it's the shoreline and sunset - the other coast with sandy dunes, a crystal clear lake, thousands of boats, and spectacular vacation homes.


A year or so ago, Peter and I went to Traverse City in the Fall. It was my first time really exploring Tim's pure promise. And we loved it.


Last weekend, an invitation from my grandma in law, brought me to Holland, Michigan. Another dot on Michigan's map, made a little bigger in my mind by all that it had to offer. If Mr. Allen was to glorify it on the radio, it might go something like this.


'The perfect summer getaway weekend has a voice, and if we listen close enough, we can hear it.
It whispers, one more sunrise on the beach, one more cruise around Macatawa, just let me peak a little closer at the Devos compound. And that's their vacation home?


It whispers, pour me one more glass of Rose pleeeeease, grab one more New Holland brew for Peter, and everyone take another slice of Crust 54's pizza.






It talks about boats that are a little taller, and a super great Grandma who can find a way to climb all the way up to the top deck to watch her great grands take the helm.







It brings loved ones together, bunks them up, and wakes them with the glowing sunrise in the morning. Or in the middle of the night. Whichever comes first.






It begs you to pick another bucket of blueberries, come aboard the Hennebreeze, eat a Corn Dog at the County Fair, cheer for a 12 year old at the Demolition Derby, and experience a little bit of the Netherlands right here in the U.S.



It says, come run along my shoreline, swim in my fresh water, get a fish, fire up the grill, sit around the table, and lift a glass to Pure Michigan.






Even though I only got to spend two days in this beautiful spot, the experiences I had were wonderful. All made a little more pure and powerful by getting to spend that time with my extended family. Thank you Super Great Grandma Shirley.






Lo.