Growing Up

It's the last week of school for my kids. To be precise, yesterday was Bobby's last day, but I didn't even realize it. No picture. No reflection. Just an unceremonious drop off and pick up. Whoops. Mary's last day is tomorrow, so here's hoping I remember in the morning.

The school doesn't have graduations or moving up ceremonies for their early education students, which as a forgetful mom doesn't help me anticipate or celebrate a special day. As an over emoting Mom though, I'm good with it. I function better when life doesn't afford me the time or focus to get sentimental about my kids growing up. Instead, I'm left to my own devices to reflect which means I can ugly cry in the privacy of my own home.

School has been wonderful to them.

Just. Wonderful.

Mary is reading, writing beautifully, doing math, and spreading her sweet nature around her classroom. She told me her favorite subject was Science. Also Gym. At dinner, she loves leading our prayer with one from school and then serenading us throughout the meal with Mrs. Ricks' portfolio of concert tunes. She is always bringing home a new piece of artwork, telling me about the life of a lesser known Saint, correcting my hypotheses with scientific facts, or relaying what her crush told her while blushing. She is becoming a cooperative, collaborative worker, and I'm proud of her for that.

Bobby also excelled this year. In honesty, I worried about the behavior he would display going in, but apparently all the discipline at home translated to all-star status in the classroom. He graduated Pre-K 3 with early literacy and math skills. He walks in every day with a fan base whispering to their moms, 'there's Bobby!' I can tell that he is a natural leader and aims to bring others along with him. He rushed into his classroom on the first day, and left it behind this year glowing with positive experiences.

One of the things I love most about their school though, is the network of friends they have made. The school is filled with great kids who have great parents and I know some of the friendships they are forming will be lifelong.

The same week that they graduated, I celebrated my own graduation. Or rather, being fifteen years removed from it. I went back to Notre Dame with seven of my lacrosse teammates last weekend to walk around campus, drink at the Backer, get on the field (or rather court) again, and reminisce about our glory days.

I met these girls at Notre Dame's Lacrosse Camp the summer before our Freshman year. They were from all over the country with all different pathways leading them to the University. We were fast friends - inseparable from the start. We bonded over our general awkwardness. Over Abby's inability to stay awake during team meetings and Meredith's uncanny ability to get yelled at by T. Coyne. Over Kegs and Eggs and mandatory tailgates. We bonded over bike rides, because why wouldn't you bike to and from practice? We suffered the wrath of our coaches, the drama of the upperclassmen, the strain of balancing academics and athletics, sprains, tears, broken bones, and many bruises together. We lifted weights and raised glasses together. We fell down and got up back up. We won and lost. And we will be friends for life because of it.

Fifteen years after graduating, I felt like nothing had changed about our friendships - that our bond was stronger than ever. The conversation changed a bit, but the laughter that followed, just the same.

Tennis anyone? Sure!
Lacrosse? No.
Botox? Largely a no.
Who would get it though? Kinnik.
Abby's a vegan? Yes.
What? Yes.
Didn't she just eat the bacon bits off her salad? No. Never.
Kristen, want to play flip cup? No.
Kristen, want to dance? Yes.
Ask for a raise? Yes.
Quit? Maybe.
Go back to work? Eventually.
Any more kids? No.
Any more kids? Okay, maybe.
Maven or Broker? I'm the Maven. Mere's the broker.
Resistor? Bridget.
Legalize Marijuana? Dare Bear winners - no. All the others - yes.
Where's Mia? Crying.
Why? She misses us being together.

It's that last line where this all fits together. Mia was crying, which ultimately made me get teary eyed on the drive home.

There is sorrow in graduations and in all those moments when you have to say goodbye after working so hard to get together again. And Moms seem to feel this more than others. I have seen and read it in many mom testimonials this week. 'Last day of school, I'm not crying, you're crying ...' and the like. It's painful because you know that with age, comes separation and uncertainty that the bond you created with your kids (or friends) will stay as strong as it was.

So what I do? When Mary asks for me to wrap her in a towel and carry her like a baby after her bath, I do. When Bobby runs out of his bed at night and into mine, I welcome him, at least for a little bit. When Margaret wants to be lift her up again and again and again, I oblige. Because the more they know my arms are open, the more I believe they will always come back to them.

 

And anymore, when my friends suggest a reunion trip, I'm there.

Lo.

Here, There, and Everywhere

Wheels up at 11:00 AM. Goodbye again. Gone again. It actually seems to be getting easier, but that makes me wonder if it actually means things are getting worse.

I've been going, going, going for the past four months. And there doesn't seem to be an end in site.

I've been to Fargo when there was still a foot of snow on the ground.

I've been to San Antonio when it was 94 degrees.

I've been to Atlanta, Augusta, Dublin, and Augusta two more times after that. I've been on all the rural roads of Georgia in between Hartfield Jackson and destination boonies, and most of those roads don't come with cell service.

I've been to Little Rock and several tiny towns about 30-40 miles outside.

I've been to Aspen and New York City.

I've been to Seattle. Several times. Renton, Takoma, and Kirkland too.

Oh, and I've been to Pittsburgh.

I'm ready to just be home sweet home for awhile.

Before I left on any of those aforementioned trips, I tried to launder, pack, plan and even cook ahead, putting something in the fridge for Peter to easily heat up and serve when he came home from work. I asked Eva to make sure the kids were all bathed by the end of the day. I wrote notes. I called. I brought home souvenirs. All gestures to help the kids understand that even though I wasn't there, I was with them.

With all that I've been traveling though, I feel guilty about just that - not being there. I rationalize to them why. It's so we can go on vacations ... so they can go to their special school ... so we can buy a bigger house ... so they can move out of the Mini Cooper and into a Minivan. But in their mind, all those things don't really matter in the present. They just want their mom. They want me to be here and not all the places I'm asked to go.

However, as I was thinking about the conflict between here and there that a mother faces, I started thinking about the other side of guilty. The part that I mentioned at the beginning. When not being there gets easier. And I think I know why.

See, after becoming a Mom, you feel this overwhelming pressure to always, and I mean always be there for your kids. You feel like you will miss something. That they'll be corrupted by a babysitter. That Dad's not quite sure of himself yet ... or still ... or never will be. (Trust me moms, they get there on their own, in their own way.) That they won't know your love at bedtime, for a whole day, worse, a whole week ... and that just seems like the worst thing in the world.

I've had all those feelings. When I went back to work for the first time. When I made the decision to stick with it. When we go on date nights. When I go on a girls trip. When my company asks me to travel again, and again, and again.

But I've found a pattern, likely made possible by the other amazing caregivers that help me raise Mary, Bobby and Margaret. Every time I come home, they come running to me and we pick up right where we left off. Work, dates, and long weekends, can't break our bond.

The kind of mom pressure that society places on us comes with sacrifice. Being so there for your kids, could mean you're not there for others. I sometimes wonder how many people I've missed over the years; when they needed an ear, a hand, or a hug. It was only recently that I felt better about finding the time away from my kids to work on the other relationships that matter so much to me.

With my sister.

Well sisters. And Aunt. And Mom too. 
With friends near.

And far. 
With my co-workers - particularly the chicken team.

With Dan and Kerry.

And with Peter.

And perhaps, sometimes most importantly, with myself.

Because I'm not just a mom, even though it's my favorite title. I am a daughter, sister, aunt, friend, spouse, and individual. And when I see myself only as mom, I can lose site of just how many people might also need to be nurtured, as us moms love to do.

Lo.

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.