Country Bunny Working Mommy

It's the midpoint of the year. Which in corporate America is an inflection point. A time to rally your troops, motivate your stakeholders, and build confidence in your shareholders that momentum will continue, no build. That domination is inevitable.    

In Daniel Pink's Masterclass he talks about timing, and the importance of the middle. He talks about basketball teams who are down by one point at half time. Statistically speaking, they are more likely to win the game. 

Why? 

Because they galvanize around the midpoint; they reflect, knowing they need to catch up, then they carefully run the plan and the plays over the remaining minutes of the game to come out on top. I'm no basketball player, but I've been using the analogy. It's midway through the year, we are here, where are you, what opportunities do you have, how are you adjusting your goals, how are you going to show up to win. win. win.

I sell hamburgers for a living, but the philosophy is transferable. 

While I dish out feedback and inspirational words of wisdom, I end up on the receiving end of perspective as well. Superiors, peers, and even family members tend to weigh in during my mid-year check in.

The positives are never that surprising. They are trending strengths I've utilized my entire career to get to where I am. But boss to boss, the negatives vary. In a new role, in a new function, with yet another new boss, I crossed my fingers that my defined for me opportunities were familiar coaching points far from uncharted territory. 

On Friday, my mid-year review was delivered to me with mostly predictable content. I nodded and accepted, realizing just how momentous this check in actually was, given the role and risk I had taken on. But then there was an area of gray in my opportunity set. Huh. I spent some time marinating on it and am in fact still marinating 48 hours later. The feedback came from my boss and then was reinforced by my family later in the day. 

Boss: Delegate work better so you are not so stretched. 

Me: Hmmm.  

Margaret later in the day: I wish you had a Mommy job.

Me: What does that mean?  

Also Margaret later in the day: Your job needs to be us. 

Me: But what about all the people that I help at work? 

She jumped in the pool after that, leaving the deeper meaning of this rich feedback to me. 

As I've studied and applied Leadership techniques, one of my favorites is framing a most valuable problem to solve with a narrative baked in analogous material that brings additional dimension and emotion to the job of seeking resolution.  

In London a couple months ago, my week-long enterprise leadership education was saturated in metaphor. We painted on water, explored a museum not to observe the artifacts but the gallery walkers, listened to a string quartet, had dinner at Shakespeare's Globe theater, laid out ropes and argued on either side of them, and took off our shoes and tried to run a business barefoot. Through these sessions, I learned that true partnership creates something more beautiful, there is inspiration in the most unusual places, leaderless teams play in perfect harmony, it's my role to shape culture and elevate talent, and when you argue against the aptitude of 24 people representing different functions and markets in a big global brand, you find the value in the other side of the aisle of the most contentious topics. 

Inspired by the curriculum in London, I've been reading more and reflecting on the intersections between the learned and lived experiences. 

I've been through Row the Boat, Unreasonable Hospitality and the Culture Code. I've underlined and applied, but nothing had quite the right metaphor for the intersection of professional and personal advice I received this week. So, I went a different route - to an unsuspected genre of literature. Children's books. Yesterday, I pulled out one of my favorite books from childhood and read it to the twins before nap time. It's called the Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes. Growing up, I liked it for the pastel pictures. And I recalled the part about the Country Bunny training her 21 children to do all the chores in the house, including politely pulling out the mommy Bunny's chair at dinner. Brilliant. 

The story goes like this. There was a Country Bunny who wanted to be one of the five Easter Rabbits when she grew up. Yes, there are five, not one. To do that, she would need to be the kindest, wisest, and swiftest rabbit in the world. But then she got married and had 21 baby bunnies. [Favorite part.] Who she paired up to do the cleaning, cooking, sewing, gardening, and even music making to keep everyone happy around the household. When the time came that an Easter Bunny retired, she and her family went to the palace of Easter Eggs to try out. Grandfather Bunny, the selector of talent, saw that she was wise to have all her kids helping around the house, she was kind to have a house that was so merry, and she was super swift because she had to keep up with her kids. Damn, Grandfather Bunny thought, I need that bunny. But he lamented. 'I wish you could be my newest Easter Bunny, but you will have to stay home to take care of your kids.' She cunningly replied, 'my kids can take better care of our home than I can.' She was hired. She got some gold shoes. And became the best Easter Bunny around.  

Legendary. 

And back to my feedback. Delegate more, do a Mommy job, stay at home. It's the midpoint of the year, do better. 

Last night, Mary made chicken pot pies for dinner. Salad on the side. Afterward, she helped me get the twins bathed and dressed for bed, read to them and sang them songs, tickling Jacqueline's back as I tickled Caroline's. This morning, I went upstairs and my three oldest were cleaning their rooms up showing me different things they had made or discovered during another week where I was mostly away. It's not just the kids, Peter has come to my rescue doing just about everything around the house this year. Perhaps challenging Margaret's understanding of the roles parents play. Which is good. Why shouldn't mommy rabbits get to be the Easter Bunny?  

Directed or not, the housework has been delegated. And the kids have grown, matured, and become pretty amazing citizens of the world because of it. Yes, taking a step away from being in the trenches of the household day to day has been uncomfortable for me and the family, and it's probably made things a little harder at times, but we are learning and growing through it, shooting for a country den as clean, cared for and happy as the Country Bunny's.  

Now could I delegate more at work? Sure. And that is something I will take to heart. But the stretched thin thing ... I just don't know. Because I am stretched thin. Period. While I can push stuff off, polish my frazzles, create a calendar that gives me breathing room, and outsource as much as possible, having a big job and five kids is a stretch. But it's not impossible. And perhaps, perhaps, showing up a little late, slightly askew, a little apologetic, gives other working parents the permission they need to dream a little bigger. There is humanity, vulnerability, and ultimately empathy in a working mom who is stretched thin. And as I take on the second half of the year, as a likely underdog, in a bigger role than I could have ever dreamed of, I'm taking into account the well-timed feedback, adjusting my goals, and showing up for others at home and at work in a way that breeds true partnership in our common mission. 

And maybe buying a pair of gold shoes to remember that if the Country Bunny can do it, so can I. 

Lo. 

   

Mom Enough

"Oh, you're back!"

Caroline coined this Caroline-characteristic phrase a couple months ago. She started saying it when I would return home or just when I would pop out of my office to say hi to her and her sister. Jacqueline caught on a couple weeks later, a typical lag time from our alpha to beta twin. Caroline would start, 'oh you're back!', and Jacqueline, in her more diminutive voice, would echo, "you're back!"

'You're back' is colored with their beautiful little smiles, a running charge to their mama, and a hug. No hugs. And their sweet little, heavenly hugs can right all wrongs, cure all ills, make a trip to West Virginia seem like distant history. 

As I reflect on their clear-as-day message to me, it means one simple thing: that I've been gone. And arguably too much. I've been gone from them, from many kids' activities, from a Wolfpack Pup meeting that Margaret did not let me live down last Thursday, from homework help, piano instruction, dinners, and bedtime routines. I've been immersed in work that's taken me to some of the finest towns in the continental United States: Ripley, West Virgina, Caldwell, Ohio, Winchester, Kentucky, Oil City, Pennsylvania. Name the low household income, former manufacturing town in the coal belt of the country, I've probably been there. 

New city, new school, new job, bigger new job, more travel, more time away, now more 'Mommy, you're back" moments.  

As much as I've worked though, I've rationalized that when I'm home, I've been fully present, fully engaged in the most important things. 

Mary's tenth birthday.  

Continued explorations of our new city

         

Our ski trip out west for Spring Break. 

Easter celebrations. 

Margaret's kindergarten play where she played a pig who sang, 'ham it up!' and taking her to the Tech fair to celebrate a job well done. 

Erin's baby shower. 

Bobby's first communion.  

  

Mary's piano recital. 

Scooting around the block with the twins, eating dinner with them piled on my lap, reading and then rocking them to sleep as many nights as possible. 

Loving and loving and loving them all. Hugging and hugging and hugging them all. I tell them I can't hug them enough, the embraced moments always too fleeting. 

Despite the energy I exhaust on both sides of my life, the give it my all mindset that exemplifies how I work and how I mother, I anxiously go to bed every night wondering have I done enough for everyone that needs me? 

Of course not. I couldn't have. I'll skip to it, I didn't. There aren't enough hours in the day. So, Peter's taken on the majority of stuff I used to do. He's got the practice, I'm there for the final performances. I don't cook any more, barely clean, don't wash or dry or fold the laundry of a 7-person household, I don't make the doctor appointments, I don't take them. I don't love the traditional motherly duties, but it's felt uncomfortable and efeminating to take a step back from them. And my heart asks, does not doing them, and does being away make me less of a mom? Less of a wife?   

As I sat in the Newark airport, en route to London on Sunday night, these were my thoughts. Scurrying through my head marinated with a couple of tears. 

Two days into my week-long leadership training course in London, my convenient conclusion is that my pursuit of reaching senior leadership at my company, while attempting to be the best mother and spouse I can be isn't all wrong. And outside of the guilt I felt when leaving on Sunday, I'm generally very happy playing both of the demanding roles in my life. God gave me a lot of energy, and I'm expending it. I also look at Mary's mature helpfulness, Bobby's resilience, Margaret's selfless love, and the Twins happy go lucky tone when they say, 'you're back' and believe their character tells me I'm or rather we are doing something right. 

As I look ahead to celebrating Mother's Day, back home, with my family this weekend, I am filled with gratitude for my husband. Caring for and keeping the kids in a centered state of mind is the only way I'm able to do my job. He's the one who empowers me and emboldens me to be my own, wandering definition of a mom each day. And I'm ever appreciative for that, rooted in his love for me. 

More tales from London when I recommit to being a blogger on the plane ride home. 

Lo. 

Friday Night Lice

Last week, at her piano lesson, Mary's teacher asked what was the secret to her success this week? 

Mary didn't hesitate, 'that you can't depend on your mom,' she said. 

Her teacher chuckled. When I was out of town all week and unable to help her practice, she hadn't played well, and the teacher told her just that. 

'Yes, that,' he said. 'But also, when you count, you get it right.' 

'Oh. Yes,' she softly responded.  

I could see a little tear in her eye. It was a glimmer really. A speck that didn't make it out of her eye, onto her cheek, onto the piano. But just enough to make me understand that she was reflecting on something we talked about weeks ago. That is, growing up is uncomfortable and a little scary for her. She wants to depend on me. She wants her dad to read her stories at night. She wants to be a little girl. I appreciated that, and told her I still wanted to be transported to Neverland.    

The glimmer of a tear started when Mary was given the leading role in her fourth grade musical before Christmas. The title: Stormy the Singing Snowman. Her part: Stormy the Singing Snowman. The show premiered midway through January, and she sang beautifully. She belted out her solo with piercing perfection, looked like the sweetest little gumdrop on stage, and carried a smile that lit up the auditorium. The same one where I acted the part of Loraine Sheldon in the Man Who Came to Dinner a million years ago. 

Her center stage role sparked some jealousy and then controversy in the classroom though. There were students who were frustrated and then envious that they couldn't be Stormy. Which manifested as hurtful comments toward my girl. I got involved because it had reached that point. There were meetings, and reparations, and resolutions, and through it all she handled everything with bravery and a maturity that made me even prouder than her performance. The two of us talked through the challenges, we navigated some new waters together, we confiding in each other, and made our relationship stronger. She does still depend on her mom, and I still want to be there for her. 

It wasn't just Mary though, this has been a season of maturity for all of us.    

Bobby turned eight in January. At his special birthday dinner at the little restaurant down the street from our house, he told Peter and me that his favorite part of being a seven year old was hockey. And that the thing he was looking forward to most as he turned eight was hockey. He is a boy obsessed. A boy on a mission. A hockey mission. Moving to Pittsburgh gave him the opportunity to Learn to Skate with the Penguins, and now Learn to Play with them. He gears up in roller blades or ice skates every day and furiously practices to became Bobby the great. For a kid who has always been dragged along to sports - soccer, tennis, basketball, baseball, you name it ... he has finally found something that he loves. And he's doing so well at it. My only worry is how his hockey obsession will impact our afternoon and weekend logistics.  

Margaret. Poor little delightful Margaret. This month she has been through a stomach flu, pink eye, congestion, and then last week's drama, which I'll get to. But through it all, she continues to grow and mature. At her parent-teacher conference last week, her teacher let us know just how special she is. Always happy. Always helping. A friend and partner to all. And by the way, making significant progress on her handwriting and math skills.      

Then the babies. Talking more than ever. Best friends to the end. Lovers of snacks. Scooter riders. And getting their back tickled before bed. They had progressed so much that I thought, hey let's try to see if they can get pushed ahead in school. While only two, I applied for them to do 3-year pre-school in the fall. They got assessed, and then firmly rejected as not at all ready for this elite nursery school programming. They did receive glowing remarks on how cute they were though. 

Peter and I also matured - we had some very real conversations around the state of our partnership, in light of our move, a shift of jobs and a shift in roles, the outlook for the year, and projections for the next five. In the middle of our daily chaos, we don't have a lot of these discussions. And while all the change we've taken on this year has been challenging, it's forced us to connect and calibrate on a much deeper level, supporting and cheering for each other in new ways.  

As I've looked and reflected on everyone under our roof, I've seen how far we've all come. It's still a house of five kids under ten. It's still a challenge. But everyone is coming into their own. Taking on additional responsibility. Leading in their own ways. 

So much so, that I actually have a vision within grasp. I might just get to sign off from work on a Friday evening, have a glass of wine and a slice of pizza, laugh with the family, maybe watch a movie, play a game, stay up a tad later, because heck, it's Friday night. And everyone is getting so much more self-sufficient.   

Last week, I brought the kids home from their overpriced piano lessons - the one where I started this story. They had done well. Actually, really great. I walked in, dusting off the cold, and reapplied lipstick. 

'Ordered the pizza,' Peter said. 

He had a beer. I poured myself a glass of wine. Friday had never felt so good, given all this maturity blooming in the house. The smaller kids watched a show. Mary and Bobby chatted it up. The pizza came and tasted absolutely delicious. Mostly because I didn't make it. 

A piece down, a glass of relaxation consumed, and the twins came roaring down half wanting dinner, half wanting to sleep forever as they hadn't napped. Roars turned into frenzied fanaticism. They went nuts, so I threw them in bed early. Slight deflection from my perfect Friday night, but once in bed, it was quiet again. I came downstairs to continue talking with Peter, and he said, 'I might be over thinking this, and I don't want to raise alarm, but I feel like there are flies in Margaret's hair.' 

'Um, yes, let's be concerned.' 

I went upstairs and looked through Margaret's hair. Alarm raised sky high. Peter was at CVS two seconds later. 

Five minutes more and we were all scrubbing our hair, sheets, towels, blankets and stuffies. We were spraying and disinfecting every room in the house. We were combing the kids' hair strand by strand. And then Peter was doing the same to me. Gross. Just gross. The babies were sleeping, so I just prayed the bugs weren't in their room too. 

A couple more rounds of sanitization and nit removal and the problem was gone. The too late announcement from school saying lice was going around dinged in my email box as I was going to bed. Yep, it sure was.   

I'm still itching from the trauma, but our maturity paid off. We laughed through it. Friday night lice I called it. Another shared experience, and another family story we'll chuckle about years for now. 

In all, pre-teen drama, travel and lice included, I've found that Mary's piano teacher wasn't quite right. You can grow and mature and gain independence, but whether out of town or not, you can always depend on your mom. 

Lo

A Perfectly Imperfect Christmas

Browsing through the photos I took this Christmas season; I'm filled with awe. And a lot of awwwww. The memories look so sweet and precious, so well organized and executed. They look quite miraculous even. 

                

It's not that I curated the photos in this way, removing or displacing the ones that didn't tell the right narrative. It's that I tend to only capture the good moments and images that match. And because of that, there are distinct, palpable and lasting memories missing from my collection. 

I can't be the only one that does this. Thinking back on my childhood and looking through the photos in any given year of it, my dad did an amazing job archiving the flawlessness of the 80s and 90s. There was no sign of exhaustion of two professional parents, no indication that the vacation took way too much work to have fun, no sibling squabbling. It was all pure and perfect. 

But some of my more vivid memories come without a photo attachment. There was a Thanksgiving on Bartlett Street when I remember playing in my bedroom with all my cousins. I was wearing my sister's patent leather 'high heels', dancing and kicking my legs up high like the Rockettes in the Thanksgiving Day parade. One shoe flew off and landed heel first in my little brother's lip. It was gushing blood and he was rushed to the ER. I remember silence and sobriety in the house, my Dad's Thanksgiving dinner resting idle until Tiny Tim returned. I remember my dad carrying him inside the house, hours later, seven stitches later, to a room of anxious and hungry attendees. When dinner was finally served, my brother still under the effects of anesthesia slept through it in my mom's arms. I was probably five or six at the time, my brother two or three. There are no photos of this scene. But no one in the family will ever forget that imperfect Thanksgiving.       

I think there is an unspoken rule to take photos that match a certain vision, particularly around the holidays. And the rise of social media has exacerbated this. On my iPhone, our Christmas was delicious, decorated, and delightful. In my current mental state, our Christmas celebrations were challenged, mostly driven by twins in their very terrible twos. 

While the photos show the moment when everyone was happy, here are moments that were a little less so.

The Phipps light show. Destination worthy at Christmas time. I miraculously got a parking spot right in front of the Conservatory. Peter and his dad were delayed at the Roberto Clemente Museum, so I had set out to start our tour as a solo parent. I got the first three out, unbuckled Caroline and then Jacqueline. I lifted Caroline out and as I turned my back to put Caroline on the sidewalk, Jacqueline fell out of the car and onto the sidewalk, crying and screaming, bystanders looking at me like what the heck?! I was a terrible mom, but I kept cool. She was fine, she stopped crying almost immediately, and we all ran in to bob and weave through the crowds, me counting that I had 1, 2, 3, 4, where's Bobby?! okay, 5 kids, every minute or so.    

Our Christmas tree. Peter had broken his ribs before Thanksgiving, and they were still healing when we purchased and put up our nine-foot Christmas tree this year. Peter lugged it inside, got it into the stand, and stood back to admire it with me. I told him it wasn't straight. He agreed. He unscrewed the screws, and worked with me to get it in place, wincing, wailing, and swearing so only I could hear how painful it was to lie in the ground, hold the tree in place, and screw it into the stand. He asked the kids to leave the living room till he was done to preserve the perfection for them.

Christmas Mass. Bobby's candlelight procession was beautiful. The whole church was beautiful and full for the first time since last Christmas. The Gospel, and Caroline started her antics. The homily, and Jacqueline was getting restless too. Peter and I walked them up and down the side aisles, the source of entertainment for everyone sitting behind the massive gothic beams that couldn't have seen the pulpit or altar anyway. They scampered around the baptismal font. They had a tantrum in the back of the church, side vestibule, and atrium door. Peter finally said enough was enough and ejected them from Church. 

Christmas Eve Lunch - our reunion with our dear friend, Charles. The twins were just crazy. The security guards around the Museum yelled at them at least three times. 

Christmas Eve Dinner. Beautiful dinner. The twins watched Cocomelon through it. 

Christmas Day, Caroline and Jacqueline wouldn't nap. I knew they would be fussy at dinner at my parents house, and they were. I made myself and my mom a French 75 while Caroline was on my left hip - the one that hurts more and more day by day from the twins overusing it. I put Caroline down for a second, and Jacqueline saw her opportunity to climb aboard. As I was about to say Cheers with my Mom, she bulldozed me and my cocktail and I spilled all over me and my Mom. Cheeeeeese. 

My parents came over on the 26th for dinner. Caroline was once again in a state sans nap. As we were eating our soup that only the adults wanted to try, Bobby rushed in to tell me that Jacqueline's nose was bleeding. That Caroline had taken chopsticks and put them up Jacqueline's nose. Poor Jacqueline looked awful and it took a while for the bleeding to stop. The rest of the lovely dinner I had envisioned, came with Jacqueline curled up on my lap, and Caroline screaming in time out until she fell asleep on the floor of her room. 

The sounds of, 'up, up, up, no, up Mommy, up, up, Momma, Momma, Momma, UPPPPPP!', Mary and Bobby fighting over who is better at hockey, Margaret still coughing from the cold she's had for a month. Me yelling. Peter yelling. All of this, clearly not photographed for posterity.  

During Mass, one of my stops with the temperamental two-year-old in my arms was the Manger. Caroline was actually perfectly quiet contemplating it, or my bracelets that she was holding in her hands. I looked and prayed. For patience. For fortitude. For peace. And as I stared a little deeper, I recognized how imperfect the diorama was. It was a manger after all - filled with animals, and hay, it smelled, it was uncomfortable, it was surrounded by shepherds and sheep. That's where Mary gave birth after riding on a donkey for days. But in this unlikely place, one of the most holy miracles in Christianity occurred. Over the years, it's lost context - the images look sweet and beautiful - just like my Christmas photos. But in that deeper reflection, you can witness the power of imperfection. How grace abounds in even the lowliest of places. That challenges and even moments of defeat will surface, but it's what you do through those tough times, that can strengthen a family, a friendship and one's faith.  

And looking back, the hilarity of life frequently lives in the messy parts. My mom told me that my Grandma always took and cherished the goofy pictures - that they were the best ones. As a mom of eight, she was quick to find laughter in all that life challenged her with. May I have the same courage and that same sense of humor.     

Lo.