Wow!

As you grow up, Christmas kind of grows up with you.

Even between the ages of our kids, from one to five years old, there are different interpretations of what the season and culminating special day means.

For Margaret it was largely about putting on fancy dresses and shoes this year. She wanted to decorate herself with the ribbons from packages, play with the box instead of what was inside, and eat a lot of cookies.


Bobby just really wanted to open his presents. And as the door bell rang with yet another package day after day, it got more difficult for him to contain his excitement.

On perhaps the fifth day of Advent, Bobby opened just about all of his Advent Calendar windows hoping that Christmas Day would come a little sooner. So I was pleased when I learned that he was learning the virtue of patience at school. He brought home an image of St. Monica, patron saint of patience, colored in every shade of the rainbow, a little closer to 'in the lines' than his last work of art. After work, I would reinforce what he had learned - that it's about patiently waiting, being a good boy, and don't you dare open that present!

At three, I can imagine how hard it would be to neglect presents with your name, tins filled with freshly baked cookies, bowls filled with chocolates, and events on the calendar that all came with instructions to wait ... just a little bit longer.

When Christmas morning finally came, Bobby was in absolute heaven. Trains, trucks, cars, and planes zoomed around the house with pure joy emanating from our little boy who had practiced patience so well.



Mary, at five, started cataloging and cementing our family's traditions.

Unlike Bobby, she opened one window of her Advent Calendar at a time and even offered him her chocolate each morning because, 'aw, you don't have one again.' (I should have said, don't feel sorry for him Mary, he ate fifteen chocolates one morning when we were all sleeping. But I liked her spirit of empathy and generosity.)

She loved all the events we had planned leading up to Christmas. Decorating our house and tree, remembering where ornaments originated and where they should be placed. Seeing Santa, and this year, writing her own letter. Dancing in her Winter recital, baking Christmas cookies (and eating them), going downtown to the Nutcracker, and having Tea with our good friend Charles on Christmas Eve and getting a big iced cookie from him, because that's a tradition mom.

She excelled at being a good little girl and she would frequently check her behavior rating with me. 'Did I get an A+ today, mama?' She helped me with chores, set the table on Christmas Eve, cleaned, wrapped presents, and excelled at being one step ahead of me. I told her she got an A++.

And true to his word, Santa delivered to our very good girl on Christmas Day.



At 36, as the magic maker, Christmas isn't effortless. With the time off from work, I booked doctor and dentist appointments for me and the kids, preparing not only for a happy new year, but a healthy one.

Ear infections - healed.
Measles and mumps - vaccinated.
Skin cancer - negative.
One kid - cavity free
Other kid - in the process of becoming cavity free.
Mommy - I hate my dentist so I postponed the appointment.
Back issue - medicated.

I also volunteered for Bobby's classroom Christmas party, hosted a play date, did mountains of latent laundry, organized closets overflowing with crap, shopped and wrapped. Cooked and baked. Rushed and reeled. Trimmed and tucked in. Stayed up too late and woke up too early.

On the 26th, Peter asked me if I had a good Christmas. I said yes, of course. But I really didn't have the right words - the expectations of elaborate, remarkable, momentous. I still don't. Instead, I have been thinking about the vocabulary that Margaret has developed over the past two weeks - words that I think Christmas  brought out of her.

Mama and Dada. Bubba and Mar Mar.

Up.

More.

Kiss and hug.

Peeeeease. Peeeeease. Peeeeease.

Cheeeeeeese.

Shhhhhhhhhhhh.

Cookie.

Tanks.

Woo, woo, woo, ha, ha, ha (dog sounds)

Wow.

Whoa.

Wow!

Whoa! 
WOW!

WHOA!

She says Wow! so well now. And it's just the right word for a Christmas that was super wow.

Lo.
 

Routine

After Mary and her kindergarten class graced us with the cutest little Thanksgiving concert ...

After we raked leaves ...

After we played in winter's early arrival ...

After we flew to Pittsburgh and rode up the Incline ...

After we played with cousins and shopped with Nana ...

After we carved the Turkey and mashed the potatoes with Opa

After I finished the 1,000 piece Civil War puzzle and we saw two train exhibits ... 

After we flew back to Chicago and then waited an hour and forty five minutes for an Uber to take us home from O'Hare.
Bobby got pink eye.
Then Mary got pink eye.
Then Bobby got a double ear infection.
Then Mary got the single version.
Then Mommy threw up all night long.
Then Mary threw up all night long.
Then Bobby, Daddy and Margaret came along for the ride.
Then Bobby's ear infection didn't heal and he had to go on a different medication portioned in a tonic bottle straight out of a turn of the century pharmacy. Oh and he might get an allergic reaction, so here's some Benadryl. 
Then Margaret got an ear infection. And with it, the runs.
Then I flew to Seattle, loopy and malnourished from not eating in several days, and left Peter and Eva with three kids and a window sill lined with meds and syringes. 

This week, we faced more sickness than health. And I kept thinking to myself, will we make it through?

In times like these I worry a little. I wonder if our household was built strong enough. I question whether I'm a good enough mom. I pray that Peter can handle it all. And I anxiously look forward to when things will just go back to normal - to the routine - to the days I can manage and control.

On my long plane rides to and from Seattle, I thought a lot about our routine. The known, the anticipated, the schedule I've tried to create. And then in actuality, how non-routine our life has become.

Every day seems to bring a new challenge. A missed train and a changed plan. A late meeting and a new logistic. Mama's gone, Daddy's in charge. The nanny's sick, so are the reserves, it's a snow day, trains are down, Mama's working from home, or trying to, Bobby just eat your lunch, take your medicine, you too, no you can't have another chocolate, no Santa is not coming tonight, no you can't watch a show, yes you have to take your nap, everyone please stop fighting, oops I was not on mute. Muting.

There is a lot of literature on the importance of routine for children and families. How kids excel with it. And parents often go to extremes to maintain the integrity and security of their hard wired schedules. Personally, I tend to blame myself for not mastering and maintaining a regimen in our household as well as others. If only it were tighter ... would they eat better, act better, do things without me asking again and again and again?

At the same time, my company has placed significant value on resiliency. At the end of this tumultuous year, we will be evaluated in large part by our adaptability. Employees who were able to navigate the 'change' while remaining highly productive will fair well, the others will flounder. 

So with all the routine everyone preaches, how is anyone supposed to learn resiliency? At school? Not likely. At least, it was never part of my curriculum. But back in the day, I did learn it home.

As much as they could, my parents created a routine for us. However, like Peter and I, they managed a two income household with its share of pivots and changed plans. I had all different kinds of babysitters and care givers growing up - many unique personalities and management styles that I had to win over. I was the first one at school and the last one picked up on multiple occasions - I became adept at calling 1-800 Collect and twiddling my thumbs. When my dad wasn't home, my mom would make something - so I learned to cook at a pretty young age. We all chipped in. We acted like a team - everyone covering for someone when we were a man down. There were evenings when I could tell that a secretary's absence, another on-call night, another week in West Virginia, or a loss of a child at the hospital got the better of our household. I would sit on the steps listening and worrying about the dialogue. But I went to bed knowing there was a strong enough foundation - that love would always mend the emotions in the kitchen.

Which takes me to the most important part of the routine. The must haves in any given day that make a changed plan more manageable. Instead of asking myself did everyone check the boxes? I think the most important things to ask are ... 

Did we give out enough hugs?
Did we say we were sorry, when we needed to be?
Did we do our best at school or at work?
Did we reach out to someone who needed a hand?
Did we say a pray or two or ten?
Did we tell Eva, thank you (a million times over!)? 
Did we tell our kids just how special they are?
And did I tell Peter, how much I love him?

And with that, I will keep telling myself that the combination of routine and resiliency will give our kids a leg up in the end.

After a long week, we woke up on Saturday morning and bought our Christmas tree. We decorated it, hung our wreath, strung our lights, and put the finishing touches over our fireplace. It's officially the Christmas season, but I have one more thank you to share.

Thank you, Mom and Dad. Not only for all the love and support. But for showing me how to keep a household together despite the times when it feels a little fragile.

Lo.     

In Costume

Growing up, there were a few select years that I had 'good' costumes. I aged out of the legit and into the hand spun around the age of 8 as I recall.

Two of our 'good' costumes were the less fluffy predecessors of Pottery Barn's dress your kid like stuffed animal get ups currently marketed in their catalogs. We had a mouse and a bunny. Small and medium respectively. The third and designated large costume was a witch - a forgiving black mu-mu, complete with cape, black hat, and green mask. My siblings and I took turns being rodents and then graduating to witch; my brother got a pass and the permission to buy a Skeletor costume at that point.

After that, we were left to our own devices. To the 'costume box' in the attic. 

It was a long rectangular white box, typically used in law firms for file storage. By the time I was ten, the box was overflowing with stuff. By the time I was in high school, one box had expanded to two or three. I honestly don't know how we collected most of the random clothes, props and parts that were in these boxes. Some were remnants of Dance costumes. But most - straw hats, silk Asian influenced pajamas, little house on the prairie style dresses, flannel shirts, masquerade ball masks, old sheets - seemingly sprouted from thin air. 

Out of that box, I became a farmer, Madonna, a burlesque version of Minnie Mouse, a Chinese person (cringing with embarrassment), and a butcher. My brother was the pig. 

I never saw the costume box as a way to express my inner creativity as perhaps my sister did - she was always much better at the charade than I. Instead it stressed me out. So I welcomed college. The dawn of trick or treat-less, costume-less, anxiety-less Halloweens. Until I met a girl named Meredith.

She was the girl that owned Halloween growing up. Her family, equipped with hand sewn, embellished, embossed, themed costumes won Trick or Treating every year. And she brought that ownership to Notre Dame with her.

Every year, she made me and the rest of our friends dress up with her. Everyone had to participate, no questions asked. One year we were all super heroes. Another year, the cast of Zoolander. Our senior year, her mom made sashes with personalized badges for each of us so we could be Girl Scout Troop 702. I always moderately hated having to dress up, longing for the more flattering clothes left behind in my closet. But my friends loved it, and I loved my friends, so on went the costumes.

The other weekend, a couple days past Halloween, Troop 702 reunited down in Austin, Texas for a girls weekend.

A couple days late wouldn't have stopped Meredith from celebrating Halloween with her girlfriends back in college, so it didn't stop her in Texas either. Cue the 1980's neon night theme.

There's actually a little more to this story. I might have just suggested the theme. I might have come completely unprepared. Meredith might have made me wear lacy hot pink sleeves with matching head band. We might have all gotten a little out of, or perhaps for some of us back in character. And I might have just been laughing so hard that my face is blurry in just about all of the pictures of me. 

Except this one.

Like any really great friends though, they rub off on you. With this particular group of friends, I've learned to take myself less seriously. I've learned to let the unflattering fly. I've learned that laughter is the best medicine. I've learned that Moms can and deserve to have their own dance parties. And I've learned to love Halloween. Especially the costumes.

Especially the ones that I don't have to make for my kids. Thank you, Amazon.  

    

Lo.  

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.