Everybody loves a Catholic girl

In the middle of Lent, right after Mary's birthday, the world closed down. At least that's how it felt. I was pregnant, afraid to go to the grocery store, stockpiling toilet paper, contemplating buying a mask, nervous to press the elevator button at my doctor's office, and coached by said doctor to go ahead and buy that mask. 

Last Easter, we couldn't even go to Mass. Instead, we watched it, live streamed from the Basilica of the Sacred Heart on Notre Dame's campus. On Easter and every other Sunday during the endless quarantine, we following Catholic TV and performed the rituals of our faith in our living room. At the end, we would say a prayer to receive the body of Christ in spirt. The prayer concluded, 'never let me be apart from you again.' Except every week, we were apart. Again and again and again. 

Finally, Covid numbers decreased, regulations relaxed a bit, and our church opened its doors with limited capacity. The moment I heard that news, I made my reservation and walked into Church with tears in my eyes. They stayed there throughout Mass, welling up a little more as I received communion.

While the outward, stereotyped parts of my faith are very evident: I used to have and wear a t-shirt that said, 'everybody loves a Catholic Girl'. I went to Notre Dame. I have five kids. All named after Saints. They go to Catholic school. I can often be caught whistling or singing a church hymn. I wear a Marian medallion around my neck. And this week, I just had to show everyone at work the picture of Mary in her First Communion dress. Gown and veil by David's Bridal. Antique pearls from my Godmother. Hair and makeup by me. Bruise on her right arm, likely from Bobby. 

My relationship, my practice, all the stuff behind the stain glass windows, beyond the human institution of the Church and its flaws and failures over Millenia, is very personal. But central to my character.  

When I studied in Rome in college, I took a theology class that was called Foundations of Christianity. In the classroom, we studied the Mass and the early Christians, and we debated sought after mysteries like the transubstantiation and questions like, 'do dogs go to heaven?' I can remember that one being highly emotional. But it was the field trips that were particularly impressionable. We went to ancient tombs, into the Scavi of the Vatican and down the street to the Church of Santa Cecilia, where we descended under the building to see remnants of Cecilia's ancient home, including bricks dating to 34 AD. In that Church, the Mass has been consistently celebrated, even through persecution and plight, for 2,000 years.  

Walking in the footsteps of Cecilia, as well as Peter and Paul and the other apostles, gave me conviction. It opened my eyes to the mysteries and marvels of Catholicism, it excited and engaged me, and it connected me to my faith in a way I hadn't before. It made me truly understand the signals, the sacraments, the rituals of a practice that I had done on autopilot for years. That connection opened the door to learning, praying, and listening more. To taking a step outside of what I wanted. And reflecting more on what I was called to do.

Today, prayer comes in pieces, Mass with an element of distraction, faith with a lot of blindness, but it's there, guiding my day by day. Without concentrated time to contemplate, I do worry that I'm not any closer to a calling. But somehow I have strength to get through each day, and that has to be a sign that I'm doing something right. 

And maybe part of that, is just sharing my faith. Living it in my house, practicing it in the community, being guided by it on the job, passing a similar zeal for it onto my children. And over the past five weeks, there has been a lot of sharing and passing it along. 

We got to go to Easter mass, all together, as a family of seven, filling up nearly an entire pew. 

The babies were baptized and welcomed into the Church, masks, face shields, sanitizer and vaccinations protecting us all from the spread of Covid. 

We celebrated cousin Joe's first communion. 

And last weekend, we feted Mary, as she received her first Holy Communion as well.

 

It was the most dressing up, socializing, hugging and hallelujah-ing we had done in ages. And just like that theology class I took, the celebrations brought renewed hope, joy, and love into my heart. I think we all felt it. 

I'm so optimistic that the worst of the Pandemic is behind us and that the doors of the Church are open for good. I hated being so apart from the centrality of my faith, but like the other silver linings of Covid, I have a renewed appreciation for being present at Mass. While I'm still searching for that calling, I'll start by doing what we are asked to do at the end of our Sunday ritual. To go forth, loving and serving our neighbor.  

Lo. 

The Oldest

Last year, Mary's birthday fell on the weekend before the national lockdown. 

My parents had flown in from Florida for the weekend. No mask. No fear. I took Mary and three of her friends to get their nails done, to eat lunch, and to do a little shopping around town. At the restaurant, my Mom and I laughed about how people were already spooked about Covid. The St. Patrick's Day revelers were sparse. I couldn't believe it. The employees at Blue Mercury politely asked the kids not to touch things. 'We are trying to be careful with you know, coronavirus.' Got it. We hurried out, the kids giggling about the make up samples they received, my Mom and I speculating about stores and restaurants and God forbid schools actually shutting down next week. We went to the grocery store that afternoon to shop for Mary's birthday dinner, and I bought some toilet paper. 

***

A year later, Mary turned eight after trudging through 365 days of pandemic life. I shouldn't say trudging, she skipped through most of it. She went to bed on her last night as a seven year old wondering if she would feel different in the morning - older, more mature, wiser. She seemed a little curious, or rather confident that she would.

I don't think one day, or rather one night, made this shift happen. I think the year of the Pandemic created a sense of maturity that I didn't think she would reach so quickly. 

Mary is my oldest, and I call her the leader, asking her step up and be an example to the littler kids on a daily basis. Typically, she embraces the duty with ease, and this year, as she became big sister of four and learned how to navigate a Covid infested world, she took on an even greater sense of responsibility, stepping up in a way that I could not have imagined when I was eight.

She helps get everyone out the door in the morning and then makes sure everyone has their seat belts on in the car.

She leads by example, studying, reading, and doing math problems rigorously. She was even picked to read at her school Mass last week, and did so proudly and poetically. 

She is our best eater and encourages the others to try more exotic foods. 

She helps with the babies, feeding them, burping them, playing with them on a daily basis. 

She shepherds Margaret along, helps get her bathed and dressed before bed. She'll even read her a couple stories if you ask.  

She builds Legos with Bobby, who watches her skill with reverence. Thirty or forty minutes in, there is bound to be a fight though - someone needs the Lego that the other one has - and boom, it's over. The leader caves. And there are tears. She comes running up to tell me that Bobby is a not nice name. That she hates being the oldest. That I don't know what it's like. That I was the middle. And that only Aunt Erin understands. 

At first, I brushed these comments aside, but something about pandemic life brought clarity. 

She's right. I don't get it. I've been Bobby my whole life. It's been easier because I've had someone pave the way. Erin was a ballet dancer, piano student, Calvary Camper, field hockey player, family tree creator, literary under-liner and note taker, semi-formal dress shopper, collegiate, graduate and adult before I was. I largely knew what to do, and was comfortable doing it, because of the leader in my family. And that's something, as a middle child to be grateful for. So thank you, Erin. 

I can see that now in my kids. While Mary takes her first in line role well, it can weigh on her. She wants a story, song, hug and kiss goodnight like everyone else. She wants a chance to ride in the stroller and rest her legs on long walks. She needs help carrying her extremely heavy second grade backpack. She appreciates a treat for good behavior. And she needs our undivided attention as well at times. In these regards, she's still my baby and I feel bad when I forget to see her as that.  

This year, despite the Pandemic, Peter and I took her out to her favorite restaurant for sushi. I let her have a couple friends over for a pizza dinner outside, a movie in the garage, and a lot of running around and screaming. The day after, we had the family over for dinner, birthday cake, candles, presents, and all. It was a celebration that felt necessary, and I could tell how much she appreciated everything about it.  

To my first born, who will always and forever be my baby, I love you, am so thankful for you, and wish you a wonderful number eight year ahead. 

And Aunt Erin (and Aunt Dee Dee), thank you for helping to celebrate her. 

Mommy / Lo.  

All

About a month ago, I was doing the morning hand off to our super nanny, Eva. I told her the babies had been fed and were playing on the mat, Mary was dressed and ready to go, I was headed to 'my office' above our garage, and the other two were in a holding pattern in the basement. 

Peter started laughing. So did I. The statement seemed ridiculous, yet so honest. Add a lot of noise, perhaps an argument over a necessary brown Lego, a messy kitchen with the crumbs of breakfast scattered everywhere, the aroma of a cold cup of coffee in the air, and snow falling and falling out the window - now it becomes a pretty perfect visual of our recent morning routine. 

Besides working and parenting, Peter and I often find ourselves playing other roles. That of referee, jail warden, entertainer, butler, Sherpa, and yes, air traffic controller. Which makes me chuckle when I think about the ideal of having it all. Yes, we certainly have it all. Or rather attempt to do it all. 

In that all, I might distinguish that it's really more like a little bit of everything, than a full portion of anything. 

That's unfair. I have an over-allotment of work. 

Which makes the portioned minutes outside of my job too few, too frazzled and too fleeting. To fit the all in, activities become abbreviated or worse, multi-tasked. 

I take short runs and call it a work out.  

I cut corners doing laundry. There is a load size called 'super' on our washing machine. All of my loads are super. 

I've taken thirty minute meals down to twenty and fifteen minute suppers.

I make lunches, pack up backpacks, buddle up kids, load them in the car, hug them, mask them up, drop them off, and get on the phone to start my day at a land speed record. My velocity was particularly swift the day that I banged my head on a half open trunk door a couple weeks ago. Blood trickled down my face as I drove the kids to school.  

I get a little sleep at night. And I add a little concealer under my eyes every morning to make myself look a little more awake. 

And what pains me the most, is that I have too little time to spend with my kids every day, especially with any one of them individually. And the time that I do have tends to be a bit distracted as I anticipate the next set of steps in a given day. Instead of being in the moment with an infant who just wants one more cuddle, a toddler who wants me to play Anna and Elsa, a son who wants another story, or a little lady who wants to play a board game, I catch myself thinking about taking the diaper pale out, sending that email, paying the overdue bill, and changing that super-sized load of laundry.

On Thursday night (and I'm cringing writing this), I was caught multi-tasking in a moment that I should have cherished. I was waiting for Margaret to be done with dance class and talking on the phone with my boss. Somehow I missed when the parents were called in to watch the kids do their Valentine's dance. On the ride home, Margaret asked me, no tears in her eyes, why I didn't come watch her? She said all the other moms were there. Why wasn't I? I felt terrible. No horrible. Or whatever word is worse than that. 

I didn't have an answer. I was on the phone. But why? For what? I missed her dance. I missed her. It just killed me. 

From the back seat, she told me, 'it was an accident, Mommy. Miss. Jesse gave me a hug. It's okay.' 

I loved her even more in that moment. 

So having it all ... frankly, there's just not enough time in a day to make that statement true. 

I think the only way we've survived the past several months, is acknowledging that we can't have or do it all. But as we attempt to tackle our daily agenda, we need to add as much love, patience, and forgiveness as possible into everything. Then the things that don't go quite right, like Margaret's dance class or my head wound, we get to a point where there is a story to tell, a joke to share, and a bond that brings us closer. 

This year, Peter wrote in my birthday card, 'thank you for filling this house with so much love.' That recognition of a daily attempt, was honestly the best gift I could have received. 

This month, we both turned another year older, but also another year wiser. 

Lo. 

My Best Boy

Time slowed down between September and December. There seemed to be ample opportunity to sit and reflect and relish, watching my family settle in as a unit of seven. 

In comparison, January has been on warp speed. The days have flown, and it seems just as I close my eyes to go to sleep, it's time to wake up again and go. I've been running, literally running from meeting to meeting, moment to moment, mom to marketer. Linearly, Bobby's birthday kind of swept by as well.  

Peter can attest, I was kind of tired on my little boy's big day. I'm being generous. I was very tired. Peter even called me grouchy, which I can't stand. And at the end of the day, when I put Bobby to sleep I felt kind of bad. The kid, like all other kids, was cheated enough having a birthday during Covid. But having a Mom fighting back fatigue, when she generally promises limitless energy, seemed like robbery. 

I do think Peter, his two Opas, Nana, and the girls covered for me though. Mary and Margaret made the cake. My Dad made Steak frites. Peter took Bobby skiing. The babies gave him lots of hugs. Opa Jan scooped him up on his lap. There were presents and cards. My Mom read him stories and sang songs at bed time. And I snuck in, as she was finishing up, for one more hug and squeeze, just as his six year old eyes closed. 

Ugh. I felt sad. I felt like I didn't do him justice. If only I had paced myself during the week. If only I had focused more on motherhood, less on my job. Maybe I was being hard myself, but probably not. 

The thing about Bobby though, is that he doesn't let a person without positive energy, stop him from creating his own. At six, Bobby finds joy in just about everything that he does. And I adore that quality. He had it at five, four, three, two and one as well. But with each passing year, his enthusiasm, passion, and love of live matures, along with all the other things that make him unique.  

That he loves to dance, particularly to Gangnam Style on repeat. 

That he is simultaneously fascinated and fearful of tornadoes, hurricanes and earthquakes.  

That he legitimately believes in Big Foot. 

How he sketches pictures of Darth Vader, Han Solo, Cousin Meghan's army battalion, and yes, Big Foot all day long. 

That he is sensitive, sweet and caring. And man, does he love his sisters.

How he loves school and how everyone at school seems to love him. 

That he is very tan. (Still.)  

That his smile takes over his whole face. 

That he's got big beautiful eyes. And when I look into them, I find hope, amidst a worried world. And maybe that's the thing that ultimately brings a tear to my eye. I don't want that hope to go away. I don't want him to grow up and out of that kind of optimism. I, we so need it. 

The day after his birthday, I woke up rested and in a much better mood. I took Bobby sled riding with a couple of his friends. And kept up with him all day. After baths, as we were feeding the babies, I put on the song that I told him we would dance to at his wedding some day. He laughs at me when I sing him the lyrics. He gives in when I make him dance arm in arm with me. And he looks into my eyes, finding that tear, wondering why it's there.

Cause, buddy, you're my best boy.  

Handsome. 

And brave. 

And strong. 

And no one can take your place. 

Happy #6 Bobby. 

Even on days when I'm super tired, I love you to pieces. 

Mommy / Lo.    

Working Mom 5.0

During the week, I would walk the mile or so to my kids' school to pick up Margaret. A couple hours later, I would get Mary and Bobby.  

I watered my flowers and pulled weeds with the baby monitor in my pocket.  

I binge-watched Parks and Recreation and Schitt's Creek while pumping in the morning, mid-morning, early afternoon, evening, and for the first two and a half months in the middle of the night. 

I gave the babies bottles, burped the babies, changed diapers, put them down for naps, and entered everything in the log, seeking to establish a schedule that our nanny could manage. 

I played soccer and baseball with Bobby, board games with Mary and make believe with Margaret.  

I did the holidays. 

I read some great books and practiced piano. 

I ran, and got 'back in shape.' 

I walked up the stairs, and down the stairs, up the stairs, and down the stairs, again and again and again. 

I picked up toys, and picked up toys, and picked up toys, and then made and remade all the beds. 

I did load after load after load of laundry. 

I yelled. And then screamed. And then felt like a bad mom. 

I laughed. And cried. And hugged and squeezed each one of my kids. Each and every day. 

I was a mom. Just a mom for three and a half months. And it was absolutely glorious.   

For the fourth time, I've taken maternity leave from my company. (A policy that was increased since my last maternity leave. - thank you, thank you, thank you.) And again, I have an immense gratitude for the paid time off and hard work of my team covering for me. To have three and a half months to focus on the health of my babies, to figure out how a new family formation will work, to establish routines, and to get to the point where I'm actually resting at night was so necessary - and I'm so thankful that I work for a company that supports this. 

Every time I go back to work after maternity leave, I think back on my first transition from mom to working mom. And I think about some of my friends, family members and colleagues going through that same transition and corresponding dilemma now - a feeling they might never have predicted. 

My advice remains to give it two weeks. Try on the new role for size and then talk through it with the loved ones in your life. The only right decision, is the decision you make. 

While I'll storm back today, I'm telling you, it's never easy. I still wish at times, I could call it quits. That I could be there for my family all the time. Be theirs and all theirs. But for many personal reasons, I tell myself it's better this way. For me and for everyone. 

***

Over the past three and half months, my friends have asked me a common question. When I saw them at school pick up, talked to them on the phone, chatted with them over text, they would worriedly wonder, 'how are you doing?' 

Given their concern, I feel like they were looking for a fragile answer. But my response was never that. I was sleep deprived, but I was good. Honestly, more than good. I told them to please check back in January though. Things were bound to get rocky with my return to work.

(Seriously, please check in this month.)

I know I will have to give up many of the parts of maternity leave that I loved, but as I listened to my kids tell me their favorite memories of my time at home last night, I pledged to keep some of them in tact.

Playing Guess Who with Mary. 

Playing in the snow with Bobby. 

Being Anna to Margaret's Elsa.

Pumping for the babies.

Putting a decent dinner on the table as frequently as possible. 

And being there when I'm needed most. Especially for those hugs and squeezes. Each and every day. 

Working mom 5.0, here I come. 

Lo. 

All I Want for Christmas is You

When I was in sixth grade, I asked Santa for a CD player for Christmas. Compact Discs were all the rage. Players were finally being mass produced. I couldn't wait for the elves to manufacture and red-sleigh ship mine. 

On Christmas morning 1993, there it was: a big rectangular box, the letters S-O-N-Y revealed under Santa's signature wrapping paper, two big speakers, a cassette player, AM/FM radio with such a sleek little antenna, and there on top, the open button that magically unveiled the mechanism to spin a shiny, beautiful, little futuristic record. 

And wait, what was that? Those, I should say. Three more little gifts to open. Ah, my first CDs: Mariah Carey's Music Box, Barbara Streisand Back to Broadway, and Julie Andrews Christmas Treasure. A perfect summarization of my unrefined music tastes then and now.  

I tried Julie Andrews first; it was Christmas after all. I ripped the cellophane off the case, which was difficult with my chewed up nails. It wouldn't open still. Come on. But then, ah, I noticed little round stickers on each edge. I removed those as well, also difficult without proper nails, and finally cracked it open ... wow, awesome. I carefully popped the CD out of the case, and placed it into the machine, everyone gathering around to witness how it was done. I closed the lid. Pressed play. And watched the disc spin from outside the oculus as a little humming sound whirred through the air. Magic. And there she was - Julie Andrews - her voice as sweet as Mary Poppins. I remember my Dad commenting on the clarity of the sound as my brother and sister calculated the days till next Christmas when they could ask for their own boom boxes. 

The following Christmas season, for St. Nick's Day, I received Mariah Carey's Christmas album - a compilation where every song seemed better than the next with perhaps one exception that could be deemed best of all. All I Want for Christmas is You. My siblings and I played that one over and over on my CD player, dancing through the kitchen, stirring the dough of our Christmas cookies to the beat, running back to the pantry to press the repeat button as soon as it ended. Classic 1990s. While the meaning of the song was lost on a girl who still had a long list for Santa, the melody captured me and perhaps over the years the unselfish sentiment started to rub off. 

***

Fast forward 25 years or so, and my kids have been telling Siri to play Mariah's Carey's All I want for Christmas is You all December. They love dancing to it, but in this crazy Pandemic year, I think they are drawn to it for reasons other than its catchy beat. 

Christmas was another holiday we spent alone this year. And perhaps because the season carries so many moments and memories of togetherness, the loneliness was more apparent. 

I think the kids felt it as well. A couple weeks ago, I asked Mary what she wanted for Christmas. She hadn't written a letter to Santa yet, hadn't trusted me with her secret wish list, and even at this prompting, she remained stumped. She said she would let Santa pick a gift for her. Surprise her. 

She stopped. No paused. I could tell there was something more, so I waited, ready to listen. 

'What I really want is Mimi,' she said. 

My heart broke and I didn't know what to say. 'We all miss her' came out, but I questioned if that was the right way to respond.

I thought of all the people I wanted to see too - those I miss, along with Mimi. I gave Mary a hug, wondering if that was anywhere near enough to empathize with how she was feeling. 

This year has had so many holes in it - whether you lost loved ones or just lost moments with them - experiences that you can't get back. And the holidays make those gaps more noticeable. An empty chair, a leaf of the table you don't need, a downsized menu, and for us, an extra hand to help with the magic making - someone to hold the babies, take Margaret for a walk, run around the yard with Bobby to drain some of his energy, or give Mary the extra hugs she needs because she is missing so many. 

Despite the gaps, we did it. As much as we could, we held on to traditions. We cooked and baked the food that carries the holiday feels. I set the table and ironed the Christmas linens. We lit candles and the fire place. Santa flew into town, leaving footprints by our fireplace. But it wasn't easy and behind the scenes, I felt like I could crack at anytime. 

Around 5:00 PM on Christmas Eve, as I took out all the seafood I had bought, the thought of an elegant little feast of seven fishes seeming crazier and crazier by the second, I stifled a tear or two that were ready to disturb my quiet calm. I was cooking for the two of us basically. There were babies crying, a kid needed help with the potty, one wanted another glass of lemonade, a movie got turned off, the subdued desire to open every present under the tree threatened mutiny, a thought that we should be at Mass right now surfaced, and there I was, thinking I was going to sauté squid tentacles in peace. The next tear got heavier, and I thought it would land, but I stopped it. I stopped myself. How ridiculous of me. How blessed we are. How fortunate. Stop thinking. Stop. Stop.  

I finished stuffing the calamari, ran upstairs, put on my lipstick, got the camera and starting taking pictures. Documenting a special Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Gathering photos to remember that despite being just us, we have us. And that was all we really needed. 

           

But still ... all I want for Christmas next year is you. And you, and you, and you. Your whole face. Without a mask. And without the fear of catching or spreading this terrible virus. 

Until then, I'll keep humming there's no place like home for the holidays. 

Lo.