April

I've been writing in months, not weeks, not days. I've been writing in holidays, birthdays, and the minor and major accomplishments of our life. It's the reflection time I can afford recently, which if done right, is perhaps enough.

April brought a wonderful girls weekend in New York City to celebrate my sister's birthday. It brought drinks at the Flatiron Room, an epic spring run through Central Park, a reflective visit to the 911 Museum, Dear Evan Hanson, and quality time with the female side of my family.

April also brought a lot of work travel: to San Antonio, to Augusta, to Augusta, and to Augusta again. I watched Bohemian Rhapsody for the fourth or fifth time on plane rides, I ate more fried chicken, and I got to ride on the Corporate Jet, which was unbelievable.

Despite two snow days, April's spring weather sparked my running pace in the morning and made the walks to and from Union Station a little more enjoyable. The kids started playing outside every day, they sheltered themselves in my lap and in my bed from the big storms that came through Chicagoland, and they soaked up the Zoo, Arboretum and playgrounds on their many days of Spring Break. 

April also brought a trip home. Or my home. To Pittsburgh, which was kind of a last minute decision. We were going to stay in Chicago for Easter, celebrate at Uncle Andy and Aunt Jeannie's house. But then I calculated the gap, and I figured I needed to book the tickets to get home. 

We try to visit two or three times a year, and each visit has become more or less predictable. There is always a bit of stress in the air as my Dad tries to make things look and taste perfect.

When we arrived I could see the progress on his to do list. The fridge was stocked, the meals were planned, but he was still deciding on the addition of pea soup or not for Easter. He had made us steak frites upon arrival for dinner. The next morning, he was up early making pancakes for the kids, a streusel coffee cake for the next day and a coconut cream pie for dinner. 

When everyone wakes up in the morning, my parents try to commence their routine, which is inevitably foiled by my kids desire for constant attention.

Every morning, my mom tried to exercise only to find herself policing the treadmill, which Bobby had learned how to use. Opa could only read one of his three newspapers because Mary wanted to play games of Chess. And Opa had to delay the emptying of the dishwasher until Peter's late wake up of 8:00 AM.

During the days, we go for walks and runs and play at Mellon Park. We visit a Pittsburgh attraction of two. My kids play with all my childhood toys and games and my Dad tries to pawn them off on me to take back to Chicago.

In the evening, the big kids get to go out to dinner. We have a meal at the PGC and I do a nodding tour of the folks I used to see around the pool in the summer. There are later nights, earlier mornings, busy days in between, and the occasional dramatic moment. Well this time, there were quite a few. 

We didn't bring any car seats so our Uber driver yelled at us and left us to our own devices at the airport, which led us to a Trinidadian Taxi driver with 5 foot long dreadlocks and a back seat that malfunctioned and slammed me in the head while I was trying to put it upright. My head is still bruised.

My Mom, Sister and Aunts were assaulted by drunks at the Cher concert on Thursday night which created ire and angst in the household Friday morning.   

Margaret learned how to climb out of a crib, so night after night she kamikaze'd out onto the floor and stood crying in her doorway for someone to get her. I ended up getting very little sleep. 

Bobby lost my parents antique doorway key, which is their only way to open the front door in the morning to get their newspapers. We spent hours on Friday night looking for said key. Literally turning the house upside down to no avail. You would have thought Notre Dame was burning again.

Over the course of the four days we were there, the security alarm, internet and cable weren't working, the garage door wouldn't go down, and the frame of a door fell off.

Despite it all, the dramatic felt familiar. It was known territory, and I knew how to laugh it off. Cause there too many other great times to be had. 

        

 

After celebrating Easter, we left, key still undetected, with the understanding that the gap had closed. Until our next visit.

Lo. 

Six and Some

Last Saturday, our friends invited us to their St. Patrick's Day block party. Along with the three hundred or so people in attendance, there were Irish Dancers, a fire truck, a DJ, an array of options for outdoor play, and lots of beer. It was a lot of fun.

While the kids seemed to have had a good time, the next morning Bobby said something unexpected to me.

I asked him, 'Did you have fun at the party yesterday?'

His response, 'No.'

I asked him to elaborate, 'What? Why?'

'It was too big. And I felt too little.'

It made too much sense. Eerily so. And I wondered how often my kids felt like that. Too little in a too big world. Poor guy.

The frame he provided also made Mary's perpetual birthday countdown make a little more sense.

Since Christmas, Mary has been anxiously awaiting her birthday. The anticipation likely started before that, but it was after Christmas when it became more pronounced. What started as months, became days as we entered March. And everyone from her friends, the cashiers at the grocery store, Debbie the donut lady, the mailman, sales ladies in town, attendants at the gym, waitresses at restaurants, and of course her family knew where she was in the count. Days, hours, minutes, and finally she would be six. She could hardly sleep leading up to it.

The big day came, and the girl was grinning ear to ear from morning till night. As she walked down the stairs to get a hug from me. As I sent her off to school. As Peter and I visited her classroom and her classmates sang Happy Birthday to her in three languages (English, Polish and Spanish!) She was beaming as she came home from school and Eva gave her a special collection of beauty products. And when we took her out to her favorite dinner, she loved having all of Mom and Dad's attention. It was a day, all day, that she felt really big and really important, and I could see how special that was for her.

Sure, it was about the cake and candles and presents, but more than that, I think kids cling to their birthdays because on that day, the world kind of bends down to their level. It sees eye to eye with them. It proclaims them ruler for the day. And it's what they need to help make sense of the too big world they inhabit.


Mary, you are six. And while I know that may seem little at times, in so many ways you are bigger than big.

In your smarts. You are reading, writing beautifully, and can do mathematics like a second or third grader.

In your sass. I'm actually a little nervous for how that attitude might evolve some day.

In your sophistication. Yes, she was the one who chose Nabuki for her birthday dinner.

In your sense of humor. Your laugh as you crinkle up your nose warms so many hearts.

In your sisterly ways. Despite the persistent fights with Bobby, you care so much about your little brother and little sister. And they both look up to you.

In your style. Over the past three or four months, it has evolved from party dresses to casual cool and you now have a way of putting together an outfit that I might call daring, but that you pull off all too well.

In your sweetness. You are kind, caring, and loving toward all. Always stay so sweet.

Little, no big, six year old, I love you.


Mommy / Lo


  

On Top of the Hill

I was nine years old when my Mom and Dad turned 40. I remember making a homemade sign using old school computer paper hung together by its perforations. It said something as eloquent as, 'You're Over the Hill.' It was the 90s and life was a little more abrasive.

In comparison, in this softer day and age, my kids made Peter cards that said, 'I love you,' I sent my sister a card that didn't mention the big #40, and my brother in law received a card that said Happy 29th Birthday again.

While I'm not quite there yet, I'm trying to reconcile the worry around age 40.

Perhaps it's the fact that when I was growing up, 40 seemed like the quintessential parent age. At that juncture, you had a little gray in your hair, you were wise, all knowing, staid, tried, and true. Good old, Mom and Dad. 

And perhaps, it's because for a lifetime, 40 seemed forever away. A number I couldn't possibly reach. But with each year I creep closer, I wonder if the definition assigned to 40 is right.

As I look to loved ones around me, who have all celebrated a 40th birthday in the past three months, I am finding new dimensions to this age. Husband and wife, co-parent, careers, a little gray - sure. Staid, tried, true - definitely not.

Last weekend, I celebrated 40 with my good friend Dan and Peter in Aspen. It was Dan's awesome idea - we just signed up to participate immediately. From what I witnessed, 40 looked amazing.

To them it meant being happily married and standing with that person at the summit of a mountain. Not a step over it.  

It meant cute kids ... and parents who are willing to fly in for the weekend to watch them. 

It meant enough cash flow to take a long weekend in Aspen. 

But at the same time, no where near the cash flow of the botoxed bunnies in Moncler coats skiing next to us.

40 meant you could sneak in to the party without getting carded. 

And that you knew how to patiently wait for lunch.

40 meant you could discern really great champagne, but also release your inhibitions and start spraying it everywhere. (At 37, I was still too nervous and ended up running out of the party.) 

40 also affords you years of experience skiing, so after having too many bottles of champagne and buckets of Bud Lite, you can still make it down the mountain at the end of the Cloud Nine party.  

40 meant an accumulation of friends from all stages of life who not only love you, but love celebrating with you.

40 meant the wisdom to know that speed kills and that skiing with Kerry will make you live forever.

40 meant summiting. Literally. At least for Dan and about four others in our group ... and then it meant skiing down the steepest in bound run in the Colorado.

40 meant you could start planning the next party in New York City ... and then the next one after that in Martha's Vineyard.

Because one of the things I've realized when you get in the range of 40, is that life is too short, I need more time with my hubby, and the best part of work is the vacations it affords.

Happy 40th to Erin, Peter, Dan and Joe - four people who are on top of the mountains ...
... singing for all the world to hear
... trying to get me to move closer to them
... photographing the views
... and riding the powder with ease all the way down to the Apres Ski destination of the day. 

Lo. 

With a Smile On My Face

Monday, February 11

24 is the last row on the plane. It smells like airplane tinkle, my seat doesn't recline, and the consultant in front of me who stole my overhead bin space is reclining. I am typing with t-rex arms. Roar.

I left my house at 3:45 AM to fly to Augusta. Not for the Masters - for work - Augusta in the off season. Oh the places I go.

Bobby was sleeping in my bed. He was burning up with the same fever Mary and Margaret had. One after the next. It killed me leaving him, knowing he would wake up wondering where I had gone.

Ugh ... it smells, and I'm so tired.

February 12, 2019. 

I'm now on my way home - short trip. Presented to some franchisees, went to Bonefish Grill, slept, and then headed back to the airport.

There's heavy fog in the area so we are delayed. I'm nervous I won't make my connection in Atlanta. Which makes me nervous I won't get home in time for Mary's dance class, or the two ear infections, pink eye and clogged tear duct waiting for a dose of Mommy's love.

Come on fog - lift.

February 13, 2019

Cold rails. Decision making workshop. Home. Dinner. Medicine distribution. Baths. Bed.

February 14, 2019 

I had a vision of everyone waking up to find little heart balloons, valentines, and some Fanny May chocolates. Apparently that is how every family on Instagram greeted the day. Instead, I was working when everyone came down the stairs. I had nothing. Nothing. For anyone. Wait, I got the kids souvenirs from the Augusta airport. Does that count?

Peter surprised me with a beautiful little bracelet in a little blue box. Guilt settled in. I'm a bad wife.

I had to catch the early train. I showered and ran out the door, forgetting to kiss the kids good bye. I'm a bad mom.

February 15, 2019

Yesterday I cried in Conference Room 5NW13. Priority #3 of many more in my current work portfolio got fouled up and I felt like it was all my fault.

For the past 36 hours I've been trying to reboot it, righting the wrongs. There is uncertainty and blame going around. Who missed the gap? How did process fail us? How will we orchestrate this?

Get me out of here.

February 16, 2019

I'm 37 today.

37.

40 minus 3 is 37.

February 17, 2019

Church. Swimming with the kids. Lunch. Naps. Work. Dinner. Bed. Please let this next week go okay.

February 18, 2019. 

Cancel all meetings, focus on one thing. Sell in the Q3 2019 window. Wait two things. Also don't cry at work again.

***

Later that day, I found myself laughing with the team again. There was a ripple effect and everyone kind of pepped up together and worked through solutions. On February 19 and 20, we got the votes. Everything was okay. In fact, better than okay, I actually got kudos for getting what I did, done. And with a smile on my face.

The 'smile on the face' thing, has always been one of my strengths. And it bothered me that I let it get away - that there was so much going on I couldn't see beyond the problems - and that the people around me had stopped smiling too.

Any one of those days that I went wah wah wah all the way home, I should have been focusing on the wows. And there are far too many of those to get hung up on the small stuff.

I'd like to conclude that the bad days are behind me, but I know they will creep up again. I will just keep reminding myself to smile though, to find the humor, to actually take a weekend, and then maybe take a vacation too, to put family first, and to listen to my husband when he says, it'll be okay.

Lo.

Bobby's 4th

Bobby,

You are four plus four days old. Four! I kind of remember when I was four, and I remember it being a very good year. Mrs. Stephens, ballet with Ms. Chitman, Geoff Gordan giving me a necklace, being a Candy Cane on a Christmas Tree. Landmark.

I'm excited for your fourth year, knowing that you already seem a little more mature than your age. You talk like an adult at times. The typical seems tame so you find ways to make activities more challenging. The big kids don't intimate you, instead I feel like you envision yourself in their shoes already.

But on the other hand, so much of you is exactly four years old.


While your little power position bum is getting a little cramped, you are a perfect size 4T.

You had four cavities - and you bravely sat through four drillings and fillings with only local anesthesia.

Occasionally, you still take four hour naps.

There are only about 4 foods that you like to eat. Most end in 'tos.'

You likely have four hundred cars and trucks in your collection at this point.

It takes about four stories, four songs, four hugs and kisses, and then four minutes pinning you to your bed, to get you to fall asleep at night.

Instead of choosing three things for your 'me box' at school, you chose four: your baby owl, a picture of your family, a remote control car, and your precious blue blanket.

You fight with Mary at least four times a day, but also give her about four bear hugs to balance it out. Margaret just gets the hugs.

Your feet are about four inches by four inches. Basically they are little paws.

It takes you four seconds to suit up like Superman and then fly around, saving our house from make believe peril.

You love biking up and down our 4 degree angle hill on your balance bike. You've mastered it, so Mommy and Daddy got you a big boy bike for your birthday.

And there are four people in this family that love you dearly. And we hope that all four of your birthday wishes come true in the year ahead.

    

Mommy and Daddy are so proud of you, Bobby. 

Mommy / Lo. 

We're Going to Need a Bigger Backpack

Last week, as I was walking (or rather running) Mary and Bobby into school, I was haphazardly trying to put each of their little back packs on as they scurried toward the door. About halfway there, I noticed a little boy right on my heels. I turned around and he was staring up at me.

'Hey buddy,' I said.

'Mrs. M. says Mary needs a bigger backpack.'

'I know, I know ... It's coming!' I barked at the 5-year old.

What the heck? 

Let me back up. A couple months ago, our nanny relayed to me that Mary's teacher had requested a bigger back pack for her. Her papers didn't fit, her folder was getting mauled, and the necessary winter ware - hats, gloves, and boots, alongside her Bento lunch box, were adding to the dilemma. That night, Mary reenacted her teacher words, 'You need a bigger backpack!'

Naturally, or at least according to my nature, I procrastinated and apparently made the whole classroom anxious. Mary told me her teacher kept asking, so I finally ordered one.

That Tuesday, when the little boy reproached me, Pottery Barn was exactly 2.5 days late with the shipment. And Mary was exactly 2.5 times more desperate with every passing hour. At night, she would pray and hope that the doorbell would ring with her new backpack, size large, bells, whistles and mermaids swimming all over it. It finally arrived and Mary was ecstatic. She showed me where she was going to put her snack, her lunchbox, her pencil, and her new folder, promised to her by her teacher.

I was partially enthused and partially rolling my eyes thinking how ridiculous this all was. It wasn't so much the actual backpack. I totally got it - her folder looked like our non-existent dog had taken a bite out of it after all. Instead it was the notion of a 'bigger backpack.'

What do I mean?

I was talking to a co-worker this week and he was telling me about his two boys - ages 3 and 4. They were three sport athletes. What? Seriously? Oh yeah. They also do hip hop.

I overheard a mom at dance class the other night rationalizing why so and so couldn't do ballet too. Well she's already in gymnastics, swimming, and jazz - it didn't fit into her schedule. So and so couldn't keep a beat. I sat there wondering why the investment?

There isn't just one girl scout troop you can participate in around here, there are two. And most people sign up for both. 

Just as soon as you think your son or daughter has got it down, there's a mom next to you telling you her kid did it a year earlier. Oh and you have tried this too? No, no I haven't. Ugh.

No wonder everyone needs a massive backpack - there is way too much stuff to cram into it - and at such an early age.

I am nervously trying to navigate this strange, new world where three sport athletes are groomed at the age of three. I find myself frantically surfing the park district website, worried that I haven't signed Bobby up for anything yet. (And he's going to be four tomorrow!) Along with every sport imaginable, you can also sign your kid up for culinary arts, chemistry, sewing, cartoon drawing, chess, model ship building, or even a date with a unicorn. It's honestly really awesome, but at the same time the choices and potential costs paralyze me. So Bobby remains a no sport athlete. 

As a collegiate lacrosse player, that started playing her sport in high school, this all baffles me. And to date, I've kept to my own theory - which is avoid the schlepping and teach them myself.

Culinary Arts (ages 3-6) 
Take turns standing on a stool to help Mommy cook the dinner that you won't eat.

Early Engineering (ages 1-6) 
Build LEGO creations with Daddy. Margaret monster will then ruin all your hard work, Mommy will yell at you to pick up all the little pieces, and then everyone will end up crying.

Pee Wee Soccer (ages 3-6) 
An over competitive Mommy will school you in the backyard. Bobby will get frustrated, pick up the ball and throw it over the next door neighbor's fence.

Mr. or Mrs. Fix It Junior (age 3)  
Learn the name of every screwdriver and wrench as well as what a plunger can do. Then learn how to use the aforementioned plunger as you unclog the toilet that you stuffed up with toilet paper.

Intro to Skiing (ages 3 and up) 
Bundle up! A certified Hidden Valley ski instructor circa 1998 will have you making french fries and pizzas in no time. Don't want to go up the chair lift? Mommy will make you anyway.

Chores and More (ages 1-6)
Learn how to fold clothes, do dishes, make beds and achieve streak free windows only to be re-streaked seconds later with Margaret's dirty hands. 

Family Interpretive Dance (all ages) 
Enjoy a freestyle family dance party each and every night. Mommy throwing out her back, guaranteed. 

So it's unorganized and shoddy ... it's schlep free though. But since Mary has plenty of room in her backpack now, I'm feeling the pressure to fill it up a little more. And I'm assuming Bobby will be next.

Lo.