Breck or Bust

The year was '94 or '95. It was one of the first Christmases in our new house and one of the first where my Mom and Dad took over the reins hosting Christmas dinner for the extended family. It had snowed, but not enough for anyone to take my Mom's offer of sleeping over seriously. (Although the copious of amount of Freixenet Brut poured throughout the evening might have offered additional reason for some to bunk on the third floor.) My Aunt Beth's friend, Koko, from Japan was there, offering an international grace to our raucous Irish heritage. There were white and green leather pants worn that evening. There was a full turkey dinner, followed by a Christmas play heralded with hearty laughs and thunderous applause, and then finally the cue to open the mountain of presents in the living room. There would be a lot to carry. (An inside joke that went down in infamy.)

There was excitement everywhere. Boxes that could contain bedazzled 90's sweaters, VHS tapes, something a little wild from my Aunt Kay, something from Asia from my Aunt Beth, checks giving you independence to shop as your heart desired. And for my cousins, something from Aunt Nora and Uncle Don - a coveted gift as to this day my Mom is known for her skills (and generosity) in gift giving. I could see the excitement in Meghan's and Ryan's faces.

'Okay ... Ryan, Meghan ...' I can still see and hear her calling them over. 'For your Christmas gift ... you ... will ... be ... going to SKI CAMP ... with my kids!

The looks on my cousins faces were a little less than enthusiastic. It was hardly the 'you're going to SPACE CAMP' response that kids expressed when they won the physical challenge on Double Dare. It was a little more, seriously?! NOOOOO!!!

Let's face it, we were all a little lukewarm about Hidden Valley ski camp growing up. Hours spent in group lessons on the slopes the days after Christmas. But our cousins were going with us this year, so if anyone was excited it was my siblings and me.

In the end, everyone loved the experience. And the evenings spent around the fire of our mountain house after skiing, laughing with our cousins about the day's adventures, were priceless.

***

So in the spirit of gifting ski lessons; we did the same for our kids this year. On the 27th, we flew to Denver at the height of holiday travel, then drove to Breckenridge, for a long weekend in the snow.

The travel there had several opportunities: the crowds at O'hare and Denver airports were insane. Made worse by Mary's sudden paralyzing fear of escalators.

There was a mad dash at the car rental to get the last remaining SUV. Luckily, my status at National helped us secure a Minivan to the dismay of some aggressive dads. We hit bad traffic en route, and because our car wasn't humming along, everyone woke up from naps, whined, and wreaked havoc in the back seat. When we arrived everyone was a little crabby, but nothing that a stroll around town, taco dinner and early bed time couldn't fix.

Fixed.

The next morning, Mary and Bobby were eager to go to ski school. Margaret had gone from pink eye to booger eye syndrome and was more than happy to stay inside with the sitter.

The kids checked in, got their passes and skis and went into the room where no parents are allowed. Peter and I were thus free to ski. Bliss.


At 3:30, we picked them up, both with varying stories about how they had cried throughout the day because they missed us too much. Mary told her instructor that she was afraid of the lift (a similar sudden phobia as her fear of escalators) and wouldn't go on it. Bobby told his instructor that he wanted to take a time out and just play in the snow. For a while. They whined all the way home about how tired they were and how they were never going back to ski school again. They both fell asleep at dinner that evening, out at a nice restaurant, dead to the world as we wheeled them home through the snow and cold, back to our townhouse.

They were up early again the next day, although not with a tenderness for their return to ski school. Mary waged a full on protest, crying and throwing the tantrum to end all tantrums. It was -5 degrees after all, so we decided they would skip Sunday, and return on Monday. Our sitter watched all three kids, and Peter and I got another full day of (challenging) skiing.

Yes, Peter went up all the way there (see that hut up top). I opted for a little less above the tree line.

Monday came with more tears; this time sad, weepy ones as we dropped both of them off for the day. Around 10:30 though, I went to spy. They were cruising up and down the bunny hill without a problem, and better yet, looked like they were having a blast. At 12:30, I decided to pull them out early so I could see their progress. Their tune about ski school had suddenly changed. They loved it: loved their teachers, loved the lift, loved skiing up and down the mountain, they wanted to go back next year. What?
  


I took them skiing the rest of the afternoon and was blown away by their achievement. Both able to get on and off the lift without assistance. Both cruised down the hill making turns and coming to a stop when I told them to. Both able to go the steep part down. It was the break through I had been waiting for - I almost cried with excitement.

***

There is something called the Imposter Syndrome. Basically, it's when you feel like you're a phony despite past successes - that you don't belong in the role you have despite earning it. While it hits me at work sometimes, I more frequently feel it as a parent. I question my judgment and the decisions I make all the time, despite feeling they must be right.

When the kids cried to be skiing with me and not at ski school, I felt awful, and I think Peter was right there with me. We were about to pull them entirely from the second day. It broke my heart - their spectacular Christmas present, the investment I made, had gone terribly wrong. But whether it was from past experience with similar situations or just my understanding of human behavior, I erred on having them stick with it. And despite feeling like a bad parent, I think it was the right move. At least that's what the kids told me as we were traveling home.

We had a wonderful Christmas in our new house, filled with hype and anticipation, friends and family, great meals and wine, presents upon presents. There were a pair of perfect days spent regaling the season.

    







But the best gift wasn't under the tree, it wasn't even met with infectious enthusiasm, it was something that required stress and duress, but whose memories and lessons will last a lifetime. Going out West, skiing as a family, and bragging all the way home were worth the work and sticker shock of a Colorado holiday.  
       
Lo.

Thankful for ...

In life, I'm generally running five minutes late to a meeting; an hour late to getting dinner on the table, two to three days late on a birthday card; and a month late writing a blog. Life is fast and furious and on a day to day basis, I have a hard time keeping up.

Even though we are nearing the end of the Christmas countdown, I'm still reflecting on Thanksgiving. This year, we didn't go around the table addressing the things we're thankful for. And in a way, I was relieved. I didn't have a thoughtful answer.

A month later, I do. And while no one is asking me to share, I will.

***

This past weekend, I should have stayed longer at our department holiday party on Friday. I should have gotten dressed in something other than sweat pants on Saturday. I should have gone to my girlfriends Christmas party on Saturday night. And then on Sunday, watched Christmas movies all day, in a glorious hung over stupor from the night before. At least that is what Instagram told me.

Instead, I spent my Saturday and Sunday trying to fend off the second coming of strep throat and dealt with the revenge of amoxicillin.

Let me explain. I had strep throat in October and all weekend it felt like it was coming back. Yesterday, I was diagnosed and got a Z pack to recover. Bobby and Margaret on the other hand had ear infections so both were on antibiotics. While Bobby was progressing nicely, Margaret was suffering from side effects. That is, lots and lots of poop.

On Friday night while watching Elf, she pooped in her pants. Then pooped on the floor while I was cleaning up. Lots of poop.

On Saturday, she was back in a diaper, with diaper cream, pooping the day away.

On Saturday night, we put her to bed, only for her to wake up twenty minutes later crying about a sore rear end. For two more hours, she cried and cried the same lament.

My bummy hurt. My bummy hurt. My bummy hurt. 

Over and over and over again.

She ended up in our bed, kicking, rolling around, crying, taking a turn sleeping on me, taking a turn sleeping on Peter, trying out her crib again, crying, pooping, getting changed, asking for her undies, asking for more cream, more cream, MORE CREAM - I WANT MORE CREAM, not sleeping, at all, all night long.

Through the night, I watched the neighbors host a late night party, Ubers arriving from both directions. I saw the same party end at 2:00 AM, Ubers departing from both directions. I dispensed Tylenol twice. I pleaded to her to just go to bed. I worried that she would poop in her undies on me for a good hour. And then I finally fell asleep at 3:00 AM, only to be woken again by an alarm clock saying 'my bummy hurts, my bummy hurts.' At 6:30 I got out of bed for the day. Saying that I woke up hardly fits, because that implies sleeping.

At Church, I prayed for one thing. A good night sleep. Both Peter and I had been deprived for too long.

Throughout the day, we both got short with the kids. We both seemed a little less enthusiastic with each other. And when Opa's brass band of grands came marching around the house blowing trombone, trumpets and a bugle to celebrate his birthday on Sunday evening, we put an end to the noise, noise, noise. Breath. Sleep is approaching.

On Sunday night, the kids were asleep by 7:30; I was out at 8:30. And miraculously, everyone slept silently through the night. Thank you, God. 5

Peter and I woke up different people. It was an amazing reunion; seeing each other with rested eyes makes all the difference.

So what I'm thankful for (a month late) ... besides the gift of family, being able to go home to the place where I grew up, stopping at Notre Dame on the way of course ...


my dad's turkey and stuffing ...

first hair cuts ...

friendships that don't age ...

familiar faces at familiar places ...

the chance to play some tennis ...

laughs with loved ones ...

and those moments when you just got to be alone ... 
cousins and aunts and flag football games ...

the joy my kids get out of coloring books and the relatives that gift them (thank you, Aunt Erin) ...

those who bravely fight for our country ...

and those that pray for them ... and set us up with Frozen 2 tickets ...

for shopping trips with my mom, walks around the neighborhood, and talks around the dining room table ... besides all those things ...

I'm most thankful for the times when God knows I can't handle one more thing. When he answers my prayer to take something off my plate so I can thrive not survive as a Mom.

Being a parent is such hard work; especially at this time of year; especially when colds are going around and around. And I think there are a lot of couples out there at a breaking point on a weekly basis, likely derived from a lack of rest in their life. I firmly believe though, that keeping God in the center of a relationship, believing that he will ease the burden, trusting in his graces, is the secret to success.

Also ... I'm thankful for everyone who forgive my tardiness on a daily basis. The slack is appreciated.

Lo.

Other Shots

My daughter loves dumplings - Jamie Oliver's recipe for Gyoza to be exact. Every week she adds the ingredients to my grocery list; I successfully capture said ingredients in my cart about once a month.

After at least a dozen tries, dumplings have become relatively easy for me to make, but they remain time consuming. The filling takes a lot of chopping. The dough takes kneading. Then one by one, to get the desired level of thinness, I roll and roll and roll countless little balls into flat circles. Finally, there is the stuffing and pinching of each individual dumpling. From there, they are fried, then steamed. I make a little Asian sauce concoction to go on the side. Serve hot. With chopsticks. Voila. One happy little girl. 

Mary requested that I make them last night.

I had the ingredients after many pleas to put ground pork in my cart on Sunday morning. But I'd been in meetings since 8:00 AM (a pattern on repeat recently.) I had to take one last conversation as I was trying to head out of the office for the day, so ended up running most of the way to catch the train. I was home after an icy bike ride at 5:45 PM. The dumpling preparation process described above takes at least an hour, so I figured dinner would be later than usual. Bobby had a soccer clinic in the afternoon where the coach didn't show up, so all three kids ended up running around a gym with their friends for an hour. They would all be starving, requesting snacks every 30 minutes. I looked at the frozen chicken tenders in the freezer. Nope. I can do it. I will do it.

Chop, mix, knead, roll, roll, roll, roll .... stuff, pinch, fry, steam, stir, serve.

At 6:40, one hungry, overjoyed girl gobbled up five and a half dumplings. I didn't count, she did. The faces she made bite by bite were comical. Filled with pure ecstasy. Margaret requested one after another as well. I told her enough, but she kept saying, 'no ... I wan more.' Bobby meanwhile had fallen asleep on the basement couch, curled up like a little angel, bowl of Fritos still in his hand. A full day of school plus soccer was a little too much for that four year. The images of those three last night, all well and wonderful, made the work worth it.

***

I was asked in an employee survey recently if I believed that I had a work / life balance.

My answer: No.

However, that response was unfair. I actually do have several hours of any given day plus weekends where I'm not working for my company - time where I could be doing yoga, reading books, socializing with friends, refining a unique hobby - time that corporations deem as 'life.' Those sacred, lively spare hours are dedicated to something else though - being a mom. So in essence, I'm always working. I call that a trick question.

Here's the thing though - I've always viewed life in general as hard work - at least that was the discipline my parents instilled in me. I try to express the same with my kids as well. I believe work gets a bad rap though - it's pinned as the stuff that no one wants to do. But I love my work - both in the office and at home. And I feel balanced as a person in my dual career. Save the example where I'm independently wealthy, I wouldn't want it any other way.

I will say though, even on the busiest of days, it does help to just sit and breath after the kids are asleep and after my brain has given my job all it can. Recently in that mindless time, I've been opening up my phone and scrolling through pictures. Ones where the kids aren't kids, but babies.
Ones that show how much fun we had at the pumpkin patch ...

       
and Cider Press party this year
       
Ones of Halloween parties and parades

  
And trick or treating through the snow.
   
Ones with family.






And ones with 'Older Friends.'

Ones when it was just Peter and I. When things were quiet, calm, and life was a little more in tune with what the corporate survey hinted at.

The pictures remind me of the gaps between all the hard work - the times when things seem a little easier. The times when you can pause and reflect on what you're working for.

Lo.

Head Shot

It's been more than a month since I've last written. And in that time I was supposed to write a sabbatical part two post, which I didn't do. I wanted to continue to do Yoga and carve out some time to play tennis. I haven't. I should have kept practicing piano. I swear I will, but I was setback when my thumbnail was removed to assess if had melanoma. (Straight out of a torture scene with lingering pain for a week. But I don't have cancer.) I have friends I need to call, school pictures to mail, bills to pay, shopping to do, prayers to say, and a family that needs more attention. The lingering 'sabbatitude' that I wanted to keep is gone, and that's kind of a bummer.

However, in the literal race between being a mom and a marketer, I did manage to get one thing done: I got a new head shot.

To level set, this was not on my to do list. I should have prioritized other more important things. But it was presented as an opportunity at a marketing off site recently, so I signed up.

For background, currently, I don't have a professional head shot. And head shots seem like a requirement in today's business world. For the past two years, I've been a Mom with a floating baby head. Exhibit A below.

And before that I was a 25 year old having fun at a wedding. Exhibit B is missing.

Neither of these images reflect the way I show up at meetings, so I took the hint that change was of the essence.

On the day of the photo shoot, which included half of the U.S. Marketing team, I bandaged my thumb, biked the kids to school, walked briskly through a very windy city, and rubbed my itchy eyes till my mascara smudged. I stood in line waiting to be called for a full makeover, but they were running late. There wasn't time for touch ups let alone a session camouflaging my adult acne. So all too prematurely, it was lights, camera, action. And action there was.

I was told to turn to the left.

'That is my bad side, so I'll be going right' (The photographer didn't like that.)

She told me to, 'Look up. Come on, up, up, up.'

I stopped her. 'No ... I like looking slightly down cause it makes my nose look less broad.' (She didn't like that either.)

She told me to relax. I tensed up. She told me to shake it out as she turned up the background disco music. I did nothing of the sort. She told me to have fun. But it wasn't fun. She asked for a bigger smile. No less smile. She told me laugh it off. I couldn't fake laugh for the life of me. There was a line of 20-something marketing girls with salon grade hair and makeup peering in. All friendly faces, all people that I know were routing for me, but all I could think about was the era in my life when I had time to get ready in the morning.

The last command she gave me was 'make a silly pose.' I ended up with this photo.

The rest of my head shots are about as bad. I'm sticking with 'mom with floating baby head' for now.

***

If you haven't noticed, there are very few photos of me on my blog. I prefer when my kids, friends and family are the subjects. And after psycho analyzing my response to this photo shoot, I think I know why.

In my mind, I perpetually should look a certain way. In essence, like those younger girls on my team. I see myself as 25-year old; not a pound heavier, a size bigger, a flaw more. And when I get a photo back that doesn't look like my vision, I delete it. Basically, there are very few pictures that I've kept over the past ten years.

I don't think I'm alone in this though. In fact, I think the whole selfie, photo filter, and strike a pose movement is a testament to it. Everywhere you go, people are creating self portraits that tend to be a good distance from reality.

At the end of the day, I don't mind staying behind the camera. (Although I probably should get a better head shot.) The position of photographer is more a reflection of how I process the way I look anyway.

For instance, Margaret is very into getting up close and personal with me. She will touch my face all over, squeezing it in different ways. She will stare deep into my eyes and then squish my cheeks, open my mouth, wrap my hair around my face, and ultimately give me a big hug while saying 'I wuv you.' I'm sure all the angles she inspects during this close encounter are unflattering. Lots of nostril, many wrinkles, very bad hair, mouth agape ... but no matter she sees her mom. She loves the unfiltered face pressing against her chubby cheeks. And seeing her smile back at me, is the only reflection I need in my day. 

At work and at home, I tend to spend more time looking at myself through other people's eyes, then in the mirror. It keeps me in check, in balance. And it validates that people are seeing the whole me, not just the perfect angle.

Lo.