The Move

Some say, 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.' Others, namely my mom, 'this too shall pass.' I've even said 'give it two weeks.' 

It's been more than two weeks. 27 days to be precise. And it still feels like we are very much in the thick of our transition from Chicago to our new hometown. We're not dead. Bruised and beaten down a bit, but surviving. Heck, thriving.  

My blog has provided relief or rather self therapy in the past. So too shall it play that role today. 

So let's pick up where we left off. It was Margaret's birthday. I got home (or rather to Opa's house, where we were staying), from Connecticut just in time. I bought her Kirschbaum's donuts for breakfast, hosted a little party in the park with her friends, took her out to dinner, put a candle in her ice cream which she didn't eat. And made her feel like the queen of the world. Her cuteness and sweetness and just about ready for kindergarten-ness deserved it. But oh shoot, the babies weren't feeling well. And Mary went to bed saying her throat was scratchy. 

Friday morning. Last day loading up our house before the move. And ... good morning to high fevers all around. Babies, Bobby, Mary and Margaret. All down for the count. Bobby threw up twice sitting at the breakfast table, then went back to bed. Mary's head was killing her. Margaret shrugged it off and played with her new toys. I drank gallons of water, hoping my throat would turn un-scratchy. We all had Covid. Well except Peter. Peter never gets sick. 

Saturday, and I couldn't get out of bed. Fever, no appetite, lethargic, rather immobile for the majority of the day. This was not mild symptom Covid. It was bad symptom Covid. Bobby basically didn't wake up for 48 hours.  

Regardless, that afternoon, I pulled myself out of bed ate a couple of Mrs. Larsen's cookies and found it in me to say goodbye to our empty house. I walked inside, all freshly scrubbed and polished from our wonderful cleaning ladies, Maria and Aracelli. Tears streamed down my face. I cried hard, ugly cried. Especially when Claire and Trent drove by to say their goodbyes. Man, I loved that house. That yard. That street. Everything. Why were we moving again? Oh yeah, cause of me.  

I wiped my eyes dry. Ate nothing for dinner. And vowed that I would be better in the morning. I was. And Eva came over to help big time. God bless Eva. What would we do without Eva part 10,000. We cancelled our flights and drove to our new home, several states away. The twins and Mary in my car, Bobby and Margaret with Peter. I got Eva. PA or bust. 

We made it to the AC Hotel downtown without much drama and quarantined ourselves for another day. I slept well - earplugs in. Peter slept terribly - no earplugs in. His room was right next to train tracks and boasted screeching locomotive sounds all night long. 

The next morning, I took the babies for a run along the river and got donuts. We live and die by donuts clearly. As soon as I got back, Peter went to the new house to help the movers. And the construction workers who were still finishing off our light house renovations. Today they would finish. I was convinced. 

Day 1 brought excitement and promise and possibility. Mary's bunk goes here, the piano there, the coffee pot right ... there. And then there was water. In the basement, in the master bathroom, in the Jack and Jill. And the 120-year old creaky, cracky cast iron pipes showed their true and terrible side. Or the side not present on our inspection. Fast forward to the diagnosis and prognosis - they all need to be replaced. 

As we were unpacking throughout the next week, light construction turned to plowing through walls of the house and a ton of dust as we ripped out the old and put in PVC. The sounds whirring through our house in the first week were incredible: banging, bumping, sanding, sawing, jackhammering, Mexican music, footsteps up and down, up and down, men grunting from carrying some of the heaviest furniture up two and three flights of stairs, babies crying, kids whining, People talking on the phone, me teetering on the verge of defeat. But I had to stay strong. This had to be it right. Why did this have to be so hard? And come on, this is it okay, we cannot manage anything more right now.  

Then Margaret got a tick bite and we were scrambling to find a doctor and medicine. 

Then on the first day of my job, no one told me where to be or when. I found out mid-morning I was supposed to be in Columbus for a meeting. I was nowhere near Columbus. I might have cried as HR was telling me it would be okay.

Then the kids got stains on their new carpets, which I didn't clean correctly, and Peter got mad. At that moment, I felt like we had made the wrong decision. And what if we had? What does that mean?      

I started to think about all the great things that happened. Not all the challenges. In those thoughts were so many signs that things were going to be okay. Not okay, great. We've been able to see and be with my family, the kids with their cousins (after our Covid tests came back negative of course), we've hung out with my high school friends, we've met new friends including a bunch of interesting and kind people at the most beautiful and thoughtful welcome dinner organized and cooked by our backdoor neighbor, we've created new rooms and more spaces to play, we are right near museums, have new bike riding routes, have pruned ourselves at the pool, and eaten many popsicles at cafe. You can certainly see the desirables through the construction dust.    

I am hopeful our house is finished with phase 1 of an attempt to breath new life into it this week. The kids are back in school and doing well thus far. Peter and I took a much needed break - a time to reset and celebrate our wedding anniversary in Charlottesville. And on the drive back home, along the country roads of Virginia and West Virginia, I realized we're going to be fine. Not fine, excellent. 

Because perhaps a better saying is what doesn't kill you, makes for a better story. And after 11 years of marriage, we've accumulated some great ones - including the one of this last month.  

Lo. 

Margaret's #5

If you've worked with me, you have likely received the following text message right before our meeting is supposed to start: 

'Sorry, running late!' 

It's generally just five minutes, but my record was 17. Terrible. 

The general rationale for why I'm always late is hereditary. I have inherited my Mom's knack for squeezing one more thing in, before I get back to the rightful sequential order of events. So at work for example, one meeting ends, I find someone in the hallway I need to talk with, check that box, and then end up being 5-10 minutes late for the next meeting. It's a character flaw. I'm working on it.  

This week, it wasn't an extra meeting or task to complete that prevented punctuality, it was thunderstorms. A big front spanning from Chicago to the Eastern corridor of busy airports: flights from Logan, Laguardia, JFK, Dulles and Reagan, all grounded if they were coming into Chicago. I was in lowly Hartford, there was no way I was getting out. First flight: cancelled. Second flight: cancelled. My prospects looked grim. I scrambled between multiple carriers and airports to get out as soon as possible. It was Margaret's birthday the next day and I have never missed one of my kids birthdays.  

I called the corporate travel agent, and gave her carte blanche instructions. Any carrier. Any airport. Just get me in the vicinity of Chicagoland by tomorrow morning. She got me on a 5:20 AM from Hartford to Midway, put me up at the Sheraton right next to the airport, and charged me a lot of money. But it was the sweetest victory. 

So, I'm at the Sheraton hotel on Wednesday evening, facetiming with Margaret. Her hair is a skew. She had a good day, getting to see a movie with her cousins. And she asked why I wasn't home. And would I be home for her birthday tomorrow? I assured her I would, which made her smile. As she looked at me on FaceTime, she said, 'I wish I could just grab you through the phone.' I wished I could have grabbed her too. It was such a Margaret thing to say, fitting with her sweet, kind, caring personality. 

Margaret turned five on Thursday. I made it home at 7:30 AM, with Kirshbaum's donuts in hand. She got to open a present from Uncle Andy. And have a party in the park with her St. Francis friends. We took her to Vistro, one of our favorite places in the Western Suburbs for dinner. She got dressed up and mostly dined on French Fries and a Shirley Temple. She fell asleep that night, like she always does, with a smile on her face. God, is she cute.   

All of my kids are special to me, but on their birthday, I like to reflect on just how special they are individually. 

Margaret is the happiest kid. Always smiling, always laughing, always loving life. 

She loves people: her friends and her family, and has a way of bringing everyone together.  

She gives the best hugs and always wants them.    

She is filled with dramatics: facial expressions, dances, goofiness. She can make you roll with laughter. 

She loves everything girly - princesses, purses, a little lipstick when she's dressed up to go out. 

She tried soccer this year, but spent most of the time walking up and down the field. She seems to like tennis much better. 

She is always trying to keep up with her brother and sister: playing the games they play, swimming like them, jumping off the diving board, and as I wrote a couple weeks ago, peddling as fast as them. 

She authentically says the sweetest things, and you just want to eat her up when she does. 

I was so happy to be home on Margaret's birthday, to get to make it a little special for her, which was no small task, given the fact that we were moving out of our house and living at Opa's. But judging by the smile on her face all day, it was a great birthday. 

 

Happy #5 sweet Margaret - 

Mommy / Lo.

 

Split Personality

On an unknown but typical day in my life, work went well. I looked polished and professional. Lipstick on, hair done, nails manicured. I had the right outfit for the right set of meetings. I was 'dressed for my day,' as the outdated 2012 policy states. In front of leadership, my update was firm, decisive, memorable. 'Nice job,' I was told. I had some killer meetings afterward. I portrayed the right balance of empathy and action. We got some stuff done. I had a Cappuccino, made the rounds on the 6th floor, gave an up and comer career advice, and closed out the day having a laugh with my team. It wasn't a good day at work, it was a great day. 

I changed my shoes and went from 5'8 to 5'5; from slow to fast. I hustled the mile or so to the train station, and boarded in the nick of time. I found one of the last seats, still dished up as single servings per row in this post-Pandemic world. I checked my phone, and with observed and anticipated silence, I opened my book. Even in my walking shoes, I still looked the part. Polished and professional, manicured nails quietly turning pages as I sped straight west. 

There is a shift that takes place when I get off the train and get onto my bike though. I am no longer appropriately dressed for my day. While the skirt looked great at work, it's not good for peddling. With one hand on the handle bar, one hand holding together my bottom half, and my backpack in the baby seat, I dodge through the crowd to get a first mover advantage across the tracks. If I don't, I'll be stuck behind the determined walking mob that has no desire to let a biker through. Stuck, I will then teeter and fall from unreasonable slowness and never get up again due to sheer humiliation. So instead and in everyone's best interests, I sweep around the pedestrians waiting at the crossing, cutting everyone off, then push forward as soon as the beams are on the rise, and phew, glide freely, but not effortlessly the rest of the way home.

The bigger, broader pendulum swing happens when I enter the door. Some are waiting, anxious for my arrival. The hugs and smiling faces at the end of the day are unbeatable. They are so excited to see me, and I cherish that. I smother them with hugs in return. But there is also a sad one. Someone that needs to be held. I pick Jacqueline up. And then a jealous one. Caroline needs to be scooped up too. So I have two really heavy babies in my arms. I can only hold them for 90 seconds, two minutes tops, because they are huge and incredibly heavy now. My arms are already starting to shake when Mary comes up from the basement asking for a glass of ice water. So down go the babies. Screaming. Wailing. I choose to pick one of them up again, the other one screams louder. Up they both go again. Nope, Peter comes downstairs and grabs one of them from me. 

'Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom ... Iced water. Mom.' 

I toss a cup at Mary. 'You know how to get iced water.' 

Then the questions about dinner start. What are we having? Why can't we have? Why do we always have to have? How long to have? What time to have? Can I have a snack before having? 

The answers are as follows: 

- Something that not everyone likes (there are literally three meals that everyone concurrently appreciates in this family.)

- Because we had those three meals the past three nights. 

- Because I have about 20 meals on rotation and you will inevitably eat the same meal at least 18.2 times a year in this house. 

- 15-20 minutes 

- Do the math.

- There are no more snacks. You have once again consumed all the snack food in the first 3-4 days of the week, leaving the bottom of the bag chip splinters as your only option. 

Kid grunting, disapproval, and then recession back into the basement. 

Okay, where was I. I should get changed before I get stuff all over me. Nope, the babies already took care of that. There is a sticky brown thing on my white blouse - it's a ... raisin. A smooshed one. So I'll cook in my work clothes I guess. 

I put the babies in front of the TV. Cocomelon is simultaneously the most annoying and miraculous show in our streaming universe. While I want to rip my hair out listening to it, the babies are mesmerized the moment I turn it on, leaving me a clear 30 minutes to get dinner on the table.   

Dinner gets made, I yell at someone to stop doing something in five minutes intervals, and eventually yell for everyone to come sit down. They do, but it only lasts for five minutes. The children scarf and depart, which makes me grumpy. 'Why do I even try,' I lament. 'They are going to manner school', I state with conviction. 'Manner school ... did you hear that?' 

After our less than relaxing dinner, Peter and I have an after dinner conversation where we are interrupted after every other sentence. This time, Peter yells. We forget where we were. I guess I'll remember and finish over email tomorrow. Onward. Next activity. We divide and conquer. Peter takes the dishes, I take bath time. My dress for the day outfit now has raisin gunk, a grease stain, and water all over it. And ugh, my nail just chipped from the shampooing cycle of my patented kid-scrubbing assembly line. 

I pull the babies out first and sing songs to them as they get dressed. 'Gotta put your hands up, shooby dooby dooby, put your hands up, shooby dooby, doo.' That's an original. 'Pants on, pants on, shoobadidoo, pants on, pants on doobadidoo, pants on.' Another original. Another classic. The others get out of the bath too and join in the silliness. We dance and goof around on the second floor. Peter tries to listen to something else in the kitchen to drown out the racket. I fly the babies in the air. Bobby wants to fly too. He is massive now. Like the Boeing 777. He is grounded almost immediately. 

Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom ... it's the call I hear even when they're all asleep. I'm in the bathroom wiping a bum. I'm helping brush teeth, coaching on oral hygiene. I'm getting knots out of hair to the dismay of each of my girls. One wiggles away and downstairs to the freedom of the kitchen and the potential of an ice cream cone. The others follow. Peter dishes up mint chocolate chip and moose tracks. Even the babies want in on the dessert routine now. So much for baths, their faces are covered in chocolate. It's dribbling on their pajamas too. I'm too tired and they're too cute to get frustrated. We should probably change the order of events in the evening. Baths last. We'll try that tomorrow, along with various corrections to other bad habits.    

Finally, the babies are in bed, and I'm lying in Margaret's room reading stories. For the record, I'm not the preferred story reader. Daddy is. The kids fight over who gets him every night, but Margaret accepts my brief, non-lingering story-reading style, so with a 'fine, I'll take Mommy,' I'm with her. After I close the book and sing her songs, she wants me to lay with her for two minutes. I very slowly count somewhere near 45 in my head and call it. As I try to get up from her twin bed, I start to think about the person I was at work today. And the person I am now. Same me. But such different executions. Such different looks. And temperaments. I feel exposed. Undone. What would my coworkers think of the real me? The raw me? The Mom me? 

What people know about my motherhood resides in a pretty family photo and the easy stories: little league games, dance recitals, vacations. It's simple conversation because it's good and sweet and shiny like the image. The unpolished part of parenting is left at home, masked my manicures and mascara. 

In the coming weeks, I will take on a new role at my company, and with it, I've been asked to share my story with my new team and stakeholders. It's a narrative set to a couple slides to illustrate who I am, how I lead, and what to expect from me. I was coached by my mentor to start with the most important thing - who I am, first and foremost - a wife and mom. So this picture is on the first page. 

We took it this week in Martha's Vineyard. Jacqueline was done - no more cheese. Margaret needed to go to the bathroom. There were people closing in on our shot. I threw the camera to Aunt Dee Dee and said just press here! Look here, press here! Go, go, GOOOOO! She did it. We did it. Everyone looked and smiled and the people moseying toward us didn't need to be cropped out. 

I love it. As I love my family and the role I play within it. But man, the day to day is hard. I don't know if I will share all the challenges that go into those smiles with my team, but maybe some. Because I truly believe being a Mom to this basketball team has actually made me a better leader. Endurance, resiliency, adaptability, problem solving, negotiation, talent development, even crisis management seem to happen at home first. Making the application at work seem easy by comparison. 

I have a couple more weeks before my story makes its debut. And while I was thinking about the transition ahead this week, being on vacation was about one thing: having fun with my family. (Which is no small feat when you vacation in Martha's Vineyard.) And we had a great time. Exploring lighthouses, fishing in the Skiff, crabbing on the dock, sand and surf at Long Point, Tashmoo, and Menemsha, tennis at Farm Neck, lobster dinner, a visit from the Carpenters, walks and talks, and just being together, laughing in the waves. The pictures are worth a thousand words - they are memories I will cherish as much as their hugs when I come through a new door every evening, after taking on a new role.    

 

Lo.