A little less work to have fun

It was 1989. There were five kids with bundled limbs stuffed like sausages into snowsuits. There was a pile of skis rattling around in the back of our Ford Taurus. Hand warmers, check. Toe warmers, forgot those. So, let's go back. My Dad heel toed back through the snow, into the condo, where my Mom was already highlighting legal briefs - her chosen mountain escape activity. Okay, toe warmers now in tow. 

We slipped and slid on snow covered streets, down the mountain to a parking spot, not nearly close enough to the Hidden Valley launch pad. Awkward and exaggerated heel toe, heel toe, ski-boot style footsteps made marks in the snow that was piling up. There were tickets to buy and inaccurately affix to neon jackets, kids with feet already hurting, kids complaining that their pre-Pandemic face masks smelled weird, lockers where we wanted to store a few things, lines that were getting longer, and my Dad's friend Mark chuckled and said, 'it's a lot of work to have fun.'

My Dad laughed out a response, 'you always said that.' 

Skiing with Mark and his family at Hidden Valley in the late 80s was the first time I remember hearing that quote. But wow. Mark, how you have been quoted since. When life gets a little hard on vacation ... 

... when waves were crashing against my Mom and Aunt Dee Dee, soaking them from head to foot on the ferry to Bald Head Island, after the word schlepping had been used countless time ...  

Like Mark always says, 'it's a lot of work to have fun.' 

... when we were standing in line for two hours, before the era of Fast Passes and Magic Bands, for Space Mountain 

Remember what Mark says, 'it's a lot of work (and waiting) to have fun.' 

... and when my Dad was stuffing five suitcases into the trunk of the biggest European car available while parked in a corner of the Rue De L'Odeon in Paris. The rest of us, inside the car, bouncing up and down to the rhythms of the Tetris game being played in the trunk of the car. 

My Dad was probably swearing en Anglais and also repeating what Mark said, 'it's a lot of work to have fun.'  

The familiar adage was also the first thing my Dad said to me as Peter and I unloaded five kids and a whole lot of stuff from a shuttle that drove us from the Savannah Hyatt Regency to our 'cottage' at Sea Island earlier this summer. And it was how I felt as we drove a very full car from Boston to Cape Cod onto a Ferry to Martha's Vineyard and up the hill to our house for the week, which wasn't quite ready when we arrived.  

Never before in the history of my life have Mr. Hansen's words been so relevant in my family's attempts to have a good time. From our first vacation in more than a year to our Fourth of July festivities to our recent trip to Boston and Martha's Vineyard, there was fun. That's for sure. But man did Peter and I have to work for it. 

As a couple visual examples, this is what it looks like to travel with five kids in the middle of Covid (don't worry, I took extra United sanitizing wipes and really scrubbed down that seat that Jacqueline is chewing on) 

This is what is looks like to tour Savannah with five kids. It looked the same way walking through Boston at times. The number of people that a) gawk and b) tell us that we have our hands full is a non-zero number. 

And this is how cute babies look when you are walking them back from the beach, when all you want to do is have a drink at the adult pool. Oh the magical adult pool. Only to reveal that your idea of taking their diaper off to clear up their pool-induced diaper rash backfired as Caroline pooped all over that towel. 

Schlepping or not. Work or not. We've had so much fun this summer. And I'm so grateful, especially after a year of being homebound, that we just did it. Got vaccinated, took precautions, masked up, kept as much distance as possible. But did it.  

I think I've shared travel tips before on my blog, but I feel like I have reached a new level of savvy, traveling in the middle of a pandemic and traveling as a family of seven. So I thought I would share my thoughts on making a vacation a little less work to have fun. 

1. In the middle of the biggest rental car shortage I've ever experienced, it's still really helpful to have a car at your destination. So book ahead. And if you can't find a minivan, try a smaller nearby airport. That worked for us in Boston. I did tour the Boston Public Garden and Boston Commons with five children alone that Saturday morning, while Peter was getting the rental car in Lexington, but we got the van nonetheless.

2. I always book our flights around naptimes - which almost ensures they nap on the plane. For the longest time, Bobby actually thought everyone was supposed to nap as soon as you sat down. But I was recently called out as a liar. Additionally, in my experience, the airports tend to be less crowded in the middle of the day. 

3. If you are packing car seats, you don't need your own bags for them. The gate check agents have huge plastic ones that go over them. Those work just fine. 

4. I bring our baby's bedding but have never schlepped a pack 'n play. Most hotels have cribs, and if you are staying at a house, there are companies that rent full sized cribs. Just google where to do this close to your vacation destination. To me, simulating your baby's sleep environment is everything. 

5. Our double stroller has been everywhere. If you have more than one kid, I would bring it. You can easily gate check it, it makes all the difference in the airport and at your final destination, and it moonlights as a highchair for us. 

6. For us, it's really important for the kids to have quiet / nap / down time in the afternoon. It makes dinner time or anything after that much more enjoyable. 

7. When booking dinners, ask for a table in the corner - it gives you some space to let the babies move around outside of their highchairs, so everyone can sit and enjoy dinner a little longer. 

8. It's really awesome to have help on vacation (thank you to my whole family who helped out on Sea Island and Aunt Dee who helped us on Martha's Vineyard.)  

9. As summer destinations go, I highly recommend Sea Island, Martha's Vineyard, and the La Grange Country Club's American Party. The latter was such a surprise and such a fun evening.  

10. Take as many photos as possible, because while you can't always be on vacation, you can always come back to the moments that you worked so hard to create. 

 

  

Lo. 

Family First

The great thing about the Pandemic and the associated lock down: no colds. The bad thing about integrating back into normalcy: colds. 

Last week runny noses ran through the family. For the oldest three, there was a dose of cough syrup, plenty of water, and earlier bed times. Easy. 

For the babies, there was cough syrup, booger suction sessions, fussing all night long, more booger suction, more fussing, and two tired parents. Hard. Add on diaper rash and teething. Really hard.  

There were times during the never ending day last week, as I yawned, rubbed my eyes, and sharpened my vision into alertness, when I wondered if I could do it. Not do it all. Just do it. Do a job. Be a decent mom. Get by. 

Sick week seemed like a timely anchor to the career conversations I had at work the week before. 

I've set a personal goal to be at the upper echelons of corporate America. And my company said they would help me get there. On paper it seems thrilling, exciting, and easy to sign up for. But as you start identifying what it will take to climb the next couple rungs of the ladder, there comes some significant personal and professional debate. 

Broadly speaking, there will be a shift in the work I do and how I do it. There will be more travel and most likely a domestic or international move. Or two. Or three. While there might be reward, it will be countered with risk and sacrifice.

To really understand the expectations and adjustments associated with taking on more, my boss coached me to reach out to the women in the aspirational positions I want to attain someday. All with kids. All with calculated and conflicted choices they've made.   

To date, I've had at least four candid conversations. All very helpful. All eye opening. The context isn't easy to swallow; I'm still chewing on it, but it's there. I've heard ... 

... that I might have to put family second - career first.  

... that it's really hard to leave family behind, especially the support of a mother. That was the hardest decision. 

... that I might need to go down to a one-income household.  

... that it's easier to move kids when they are younger. 

... that it's easier to move kids when they are a little older. 

 ... that there could be nannies not a nanny. 

... that I might not be there for all the recitals. 

... but to think more of the adventure ahead than what you are leaving behind. That a marriage could be stronger because it can withstand the test of mobility. That kids could be more resilient with a more worldly resume. And that finances could be more secure.  

I've found myself thinking about these conversations and the pending decision I need to make as I cheered on Mary and Margaret at their recitals this past week. 

As I watched Bobby hit off the tee.

As I watched Mary race in her first swim meet, Margaret hit her first tennis balls, and Bobby hit his first coach pitch.  

As I walked the babies around the neighborhood after dinner and took them swimming for the first time. As I cooked dinner for an appreciative husband. And I wondered if all that my mentors said would be true for me? And if not all, what would apply? Or could I just write my own narrative? Could I pave a new path for the next generation? 

My next piece of advice was to map out my personal values - the non-negotiables that I won't sacrifice. That's what I'm doing now. Number one: family will always come first. 

The other thing someone said to me was that as I debate and deliberate and ultimately decide, there are others watching and learning from me. I'm more aware of that now. 

As I closed out the week, I was texting a colleague to send me some research. She was delayed in getting back to me, and apologized. 'Sorry, I was dealing with sick kids.' She got me what I needed a couple minutes later and it was spot on. Better than what I had asked for.

I told her I knew the struggle all too well. I had been there earlier in the week. Earlier in life. And that it was absolutely no problem. Because the best advice I can give to up and coming working moms out there is that it's no problem to put family first. 

Lo. 

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.