Christmiss

As an American leading a British business, one of the most popular questions I get is, 'are there things that you miss?' 

My short answer. 

Yes. 

My long answer. 

- Peanut M&Ms with the right color of artificial red and orange dye. 

- The availability and price of LIFE cereal for my kids

- American convenience 

- American electricity  

- American workmen 

- Tennis. 

- Tennis. 

- Oh yeah, tennis. 

- Parking spaces with more room. 

- Streets with more room.

- Being able to take pictures of my kids in their school events 

- My American work family. 

- My SEA family. 

- My PGC family. 

- My family family. 

As we enter the Christmas Season, the list takes on a more sentimental toll. I've caught myself thinking, where are the real red and green M&Ms?, hustling and bustling is merrier when you aren't in gridlock London traffic, I wish the Pittsburgh Golf Club would stop sending me invites to things I can't possibly attend (but really really want to), will I ever get invited to a Christmas party here, and I guess I'll just be dreaming of a white Christmas. 

Last week, while on the road with my team from Leeds, to Manchester, to Birmingham to London, I got another question quite frequently, will you be going home for the holidays? 

My short answer. 

No, we are staying here. 

The long answer. 

- Home is an interesting term right now. Yes, I'm a U.S. citizen, but we don't have a house in the states anymore. So, I am home.  

- I've also been traveling since January, and I need time to not right now. 

 

- Besides, despite the rain, London is wonderful at Christmas time, and I was gifted a British Christmas cookbook, and we got a tree from the Highlands of Scotland this weekend, and my parents are coming to visit next week, so, I'm ready to go full Brit at Christmas. 

- To summarize, I am home for the holidays. 

The first and last points are the ones where my technology officer lingered a bit. He had taken an assignment in Japan before coming to do the role in the UK. He said, it's good for you to embrace that. When my wife and I were in Tokyo, we often found ourselves dwelling on the temporary definition of the assignment, and saying, 'when we get back we'll do this, when we get back we'll do that.' Instead of living in the moment. Instead of calling Tokyo home. 

He caught the little tear in my eye. I caught his. 

These moves are big. There is always loss and always excitement that comes from there. And there is emotion between the two. Actually taking a second to reflect on what we as leaders have done and continue to sacrifice for the company might draw a wet eye. 

Despite a roof over our head, home has a deeper meaning. It's a feeling of comfort in your surroundings, your support network, and your sense of safety. And in London, it's taken a little longer to create those because of the distance and differences here.   

But we are getting there. And this lead up to Christmas has helped. There's something about the decorations (which thankfully didn't break on the ship across the Atlantic), the kids plays and concerts, the carols on the piano next to the glow of the Christmas tree, and the relationships we are forming across school, work, and church becoming a little warmer, all making you feel that our sense of home is taking hold. 

Yes, we will miss Christmas in America. But we are embracing what Christmas in our new home will bring. 

Lo. 

Over the Pond and Through the Heath

There are several images as we said goodbye to Pittsburgh that still haunt me. 

When the kids walked out of Chapel for the last time and I knew I wouldn't get to experience them as students in that special school anymore.  

My last game on the tennis courts that had built friendships, rivalries and the best relief to my stress.  

The last time I tied up my shoes and ran around the East End of the city, by our house on Bayard that was now empty, all of our stuff packed and on a ship headed across the ocean. 

The last night at the Golf Club, driving home under the Schenley Park sycamores while Peter played Werewolves of London in the car, tears welling in my eyes. 'We'll be back,' he said. 

The last hugs between siblings and cousins, after a last family dinner, not really anticipating that it would be far too long until the next ones. 

The photo of my kids with Nana and Opa at the airport – pure smiles on their faces representing all the joy they shared across the generational divide, during the three years we called Pittsburgh home.

And finally, the plane's ascent above the city, the golden triangle fading into the distance. It was when my emotions truly got the best of me. Seeing my city, my hometown, fade into memories yet again.

I honestly never thought I would call Pittsburgh my home again after I left in 2007. We were lucky that my negotiation tactics worked, and that we got to further my career while moving back to the neighborhood, school, and club that defined my childhood and early adulthood. Once back and once fully attuned, it felt like destiny to stay. But it wasn't to be. My company had other plans and the next adventure was waiting. I told my parents, don't be sad that it's over, be glad that it happened. I told myself that as well. 

Now, we live in London. We have been here for more than three months. And we will be celebrating Thanksgiving today over the pond, through the Heath, in our fourth home address of the year.

I've always said it takes two weeks to acclimate. When coming back from maternity leave, when taking on a new job, when moving to a new city, when matriculating at a new school, I've told myself, and our family to give it the obligatory two weeks. Two weeks is the time it takes to uncover new patterns, find comfort, and build confidence in the path forward.

After two weeks, Mary told me it still wasn’t easier. She wanted a refund on that advice.

Fair. Maybe international adjustments take longer. 

And as I reflect over the past three months …

We lived in a temporary house in Knightsbridge with mice in the kitchen, a leak in the dining room, five flights of stairs between my bedroom and the kitchen, a broken refrigerator, and spotty electricity.

     We then moved to a different temporary flat in Maide Vale, which was smaller, but much improved.

     We finally moved to our permanent house in Hampstead, and after several weeks of trying to fit an American household full of stuff into an English townhouse without a garage, we discarded a lot, found new methods of storage, and got relatively organized. 

My kids have started new schools. Yes schools, plural. Because in the 45 days between finding out about my assignment and moving, we were pressed to find good schools and placements for the kids. We were fortunate to land where we did, but with some inevitable logistical challenges. 

My kids started sports and dance. They have made friends, been invited to playdates and birthday parties, and are building a social life far better than mine. They have been pushed to work harder and learn more at school, particularly the three in the British school system which is ahead of the American one. They have each found their unique strides in a new urban environment, and I'm nothing but proud. 

 
Peter learned how to drive on the left side of the road, grocery shops on foot, cooked in kitchens with limited supplies, finalized selling our house in Pittsburgh and leasing our house here, processed the overwhelming amount of communication and paperwork from both schools, navigated the national health system, moved us in and out of three houses, and found a network of landscapers, cleaning support, and workmen to get our house into working order.  

I started a new job overseeing a big brand across an entire market spanning two countries. I learned how to stay confident with my American accent and approach. I've put the team through a bootcamp of sorts, level setting on business performance, evolving our plan, setting higher expectations and clarifying roles and responsibilities. I met peers running other countries across Europe, developing a new international network of colleagues. I presented in front of 1,000 people at our Summit. I've visited 35 restaurants across three of four devolved nations and the Republic of Ireland. I presented in front of and then had dinner with our CEO. I have built strong partnerships, gained followership, and started my brand ambassadorship, meeting politicians and even the Princess of Wales. 

We’ve explored London. We've seen shows in the West End, Bobby and Peter went to a cricket match, the kids have all experienced London as a classroom in school, I've run all the parks and all the miles, we went to museums, restaurants, markets, and stores. And more stores. And we overspent. We did it all. ALL. To make it feel more like home faster, easier, more completely. 

     But homemaking, comfort making, confidence building isn't something that can be rushed. Mary was right. Two weeks wasn't enough. But I think we've arrived at a place where we feel okay. Dare I say, good. With a turkey in the oven after a turkey bowl in Regent's Park, Bluey on the TV and paintings on the walls, Opa and Margaret playing cards while Mary plays the piano, Bobby's remote control car racing around the basement, flowers in the vases, and my attention where it should be, I think we can all say it feels like home.  

      And while I'll miss that image of my Dad taking his turkey out of the oven - the one that Peter has captured just about every year since we've been an item - the memories we are forming in London are the images I'm grateful for. I am forever thankful for the globally mobile home that Peter and I have created together. 

     

      Lo.

London Mum

A couple weeks ago, we went on vacation. 11 days in total, two locations, enough time and distance to recoup from 45 days plus three years of very hard work. 

A couple days in though, I had already logged 12 hours of work, I hadn't had time to read, I didn't have a puzzle going, and I needed to be on the phone again in an hour. Mary was asking to go off with a friend. Bobby was pleading to go fishing with Dad. Margaret had a tick bite, ear infection, and pink eye. The twins were fussing and desperately in need of a nap. Peter was at the grocery store. And I lost it. 

'Who do you think this vacation is for?' I yelled. 'It's for me and Dad. It's not for you!' 

They were shocked. No, appalled. I was shocked and appalled too. Oh my God, did I just say that? 

Bobby being the wit he is, in words dripping with sarcasm said, 'seriously? This is not our vacation?' 

I rethought my words (and tone) and immediately apologized. 

'Okay, yes, it's all of our vacation, but I need ALL of you to give me some grace right now.' 

I was forgiven in minutes, or maybe seconds. And the kids pulled back on their persistent pleas. But I've been guiltily processing this moment of becoming the mom of a horror film for a couple of weeks. Yes, my career and its implications have been stressful. Yes, it triggered an outburst. But I have to remember that life is happening to all of us, not just me. In fact, I'm the creator of our dismantled and displaced existence. I should be the one holding it together. Or at least holding myself together.    

I'll back up. 

About two months ago, I was pulled into a drive thru of one of my restaurants to discuss the trend line of a recent promotion ... and my career. I had answers to the trend line, I waited for responses on my career path. There were some developments on that front. They wanted me to move abroad as early as July. Would I be open to it? 

I called Peter. He confirmed that yes, we would. So we opened the door. 

A week later I was told we needed to start the immigration process, look at International Schools and assess places to live. We might want to dabble in learning the language as a family, time permitting. Ik eet de botterham. Still got it. They also wanted me to take a leadership assessment. So in no shorter than 9 hours, I took it.  

Each week, while still managing my old job, I asked for a status or confirmation of next steps, and got nothing. 'Things are still fluid' they said. 

When my assessment came back, the company pivoted. From one country to a different one. From a lateral move to a promotion. From one language to another. Yes, clearly fluid.

At that moment, after calls from the biggest of bosses, we had 45 days to get passports in Pittsburgh, a visa in Boston, an e-visa somewhere in between the UKIV website and hell, landscape, window wash, patch up, and clean up a house, fly to London to find a new home, navigate the odd and highly ineffective world of educational consulting to find a school, get the kids into the school(s), pack our house, learn a new and floundering business, finish off an old, but booming business, train my successor, and say goodbye to an incredible network of relationships I've built at work and in my community over the past three years. Plus go on a vacation. 

Said vacation was a non-negotiable, because I hadn't been on one since spring break. While corporate America agreed on paper, it's reality as well as motherhood had other plans. There would be a last minute fire drill at work, there would be anxiety about the move, there would be kids who didn't want to cooperate, and there would be a general inability for me to relax. I will say though, the last day in Cape Cod was perfection. I achieved harmony: an 11 mile shining sea trail run, Peter's joy of fishing for and catching Benito, a great book on the beach, oysters and lobster for dinner, getting to hang out with friends, incredible champagne, and kids on their best behavior. I vowed over Cristal and the most beautiful sunset to return to this place, mentally and physically again. Hopefully in the nearer future. 

On the next segment of our vacation, I remembered that it was for them. I did work a couple of days, but mostly, I just played with my kids, and let them play and play and play with their cousins. I would still like my vacation though. 

Today, we made it through 45 days of crazy, onto the next stage of adjustment and refining our definition of life. We are in central London and everything is different: The way people talk. The way people drive, bike and run. The way you look to the right then left. The toilets and how they flush. The smells, sounds, flickering lights, broken refrigerator, weak internet, and many flights of stairs in our temporary house. The number of languages spoken in the streets. The cereal made without all the fabulous tasting yet banned ingredients in the UK. And the very orange yolk of the eggs and how they discolor the scrambled version. 

Despite what we've considered a challenge, despite what's been stressful, I am incredibly proud of how everyone has adjusted and embraced the excitement of a newfound life.  

Mary has adapted to the styles and designer tastes of Sloane street, has leaned in to what the West End has to offer, and even went for a run with me in Hyde Park.  

Bobby has bravely navigated the Tubes and found new taste treats in Peri Peri wings at the local Pub and Spicy Chicken McNuggets at the local McDonald's.  

Margaret is over her pink eye and ear infection and is enjoying sleeping with me every night while Peter protects us on the first floor of our five floor, awkwardly designed temporary townhouse. She also loved the museum of transportation and reading the Underground map.  

Caroline and Jacqueline love Hyde Park and the playground near our house, the swans in Long Pond, being carried through the streets of London when their legs get too tired, and watching Bluey while eating Goldfish bought at the American store.  

I am most impressed with Peter though. He has navigated all of this brilliantly, to coin a British phrase. He has performed the role of household COO flawlessly, navigating a perverse 45 day check list, displaying a can do attitude at every turn. As an example, today, he navigated our seven seat Euro minivan to the Catholic School uniform shop in East Finchley, trying on and purchasing a plethora of uniform variations for forest, rain, sports, chapel, spring, summer, fall and winter for the twins and Margaret. He then entertained the youngest rascals until Mary and Bobby were done at school, picked them up and navigated his way back through the congested streets of London on the wrong side of the road to our place. He's been incredible. And I'm so thankful for him. 

There is no doubt, I will only be successful in my new role, if my family is successful. And my family couldn't achieve success without Peter's patience and attention to our day to day operations.  

With all this said, it's about three and a half months till our first vacation. I will need it. We all will need it. And I pray every morning to be the best mom I can be, given all that's going on. 

Lo. 

Amper Scamper Little Camper

About fifteen minutes after consuming a cinnamon and sugar cake donut in Linesville, Ohio, came the turn onto Lake Road. My parents would announce our proximity to Sheldon Calvary Camp with weighted importance. And in the backseat, my tummy would turn, fried dough and nerves suddenly not settling well. The possibilities of Camp gone right and on the flip side of my indigestion, Camp gone wrong ping ponged through my mind. 

Camp gone right was the vision where I would accumulate a bunch of green eights, our team would win the banner, I would become best friends with my cabin mates, and most importantly my annual camp crush would finally figure out that it was me he was searching for under the big tree in the middle of camp. We would watch the fourth of July fireworks together, eat M&Ms and drink Cokes as we watched the sunset over Lake Erie every night, we would perform in the Sunday Chapel skit together, he would ask me to the banquet, we would part ways with tears, and the promise to write to each other until we were reunited at Camp next year. And as we pulled onto the gravel road in our Transport Van, I willed this vision to be my reality and my stomach to stop doing flips. 

Camp gone wrong was everything the alternate version wasn't. It was losing. Losing morning and evening competitions, losing the electives that I wanted, losing the good people in my cabin, and every year, year after year after year, losing my crush to a Shadyside girl. It was always a Shadyside girl. They were built with longer, skinnier legs, hair and skin that seemed to look better after a KYBO spa, and a cooler calmer indifference to the world. 

The story of 9 years going to Calvary Camp was a mix of these two scenarios. I loved the camp-wide competitions, especially the one hosted by the forest, I loved learning and growing at electives, I loved the songs we would sing, the peaceful environment around the Chapel, I loved the laughter at rest time and devotion, and I loved the forever friendships I made at camp. I never found love. In total, I probably had 6 camp crushes - half campers, half counselors. All unrequited. 

This year, I made the turn onto Lake Road from the other side of town. Google had mapped an alternative route from Pittsburgh to Conneaut, Ohio, so we missed Linesville. And we missed the donut shop. The turn didn't carry the same familiarity or teen fantasies, so I imparted my nerves onto my kids who would be first time campers this year. Amper scamper little campers that is.

Bobby didn't seem to have any of those tummy twisting anxieties and when we arrived he was immediately ready to release himself from my affection and desire for him to need me. He had his cousin, his friends, and his charisma, which true to form, helped him glide through his first year. 

Mary took on a double dose of nerves. She entered a brave new world without a friend in her cabin, without knowing what the week would bring, and with an introversion polar to Bobby's personality. After a couple tears, she said goodbye, stoic and resolute as ever. She has always been a fearless leader - and her camp experience was no exception. 

Two weeks went by. We got some letters. Mary contributed four. Bobby one, thanks to his cousin for mailing it. The camp administration posted pictures. I could glimpse Bobby fishing, shooting a bow and arrow, and goofing off, and I could see Mary painting, making bracelets, and finding her way in a campfire circle. 

Yesterday, we picked them up - dying to hear their stories and revelations. Eager to feed them real food and welcome them back to civilization.  

Bobby had had the camp experience that one of my crushes might have. Carefree, central command for attention, went to the banquet with someone - despite him saying it was a group thing, won an archery award. He also came home tanner. And I didn't think that possible.  

Mary wanted to portray her experience as negative - that she couldn't break into a cabin of friends who came together from Alexandria, VA. But when you dug into it, she loved much of what I did about camp. The songs Hiding Place and Day is Done from Chapel, eating treats at Canteen and watching the sunset, getting two green eights and apparently two elusive black tens, learning how to paddle board and do Yoga, bringing home painted rocks, and laughing about secrets stored at camp, between campers, maybe about a crush or two. 

I wanted them to guest blog - to write out their experiences - but they declined. I thought it might help them process the ups and down and in betweens. That yes, Shadyside girls always get the guy. That Cabin 10 boys have a way of getting in trouble. That the food will always be bad and the slop bucket will stimulate vomit. That there is a secret language of songs, rhymes, and sayings that only Calvary kids can know. That even though you didn't love everything, you come home unable to stop talking about all of it. I've committed what they've told me - the rest, will be theirs to keep and hold. And whatever lives on Bobby's disposable camera, well ... I can't wait to see.  

Camp will always be something that we do. Because finding a place where kids can cut out electronics and explore a deeper sense of who they are, how they show up, and what they are capable of, is an experience they need to keep coming back to.  

And as an Easter Egg, camp was certainly something that built character - character that will be necessary for my next blog entry ... 

Lo.   

Groundhog Day

A month or more ago, I put on a maroon blazer and took on the most prestigious speaking opportunity in my career thus far: guest speaker at my kids' Chapel service. 

I took a timeout from power point slides and my typical leadership remarks, to craft words, analogies, and reflections around my elementary school's uniform that after all these years, hasn't changed. The blazer, the tie, the crisp white shirt, gray pants or kilt, knee socks, chapel shoes, and shiny pins celebrating the individual achievements of the kids, all virtually the same. In my prose, I likened each of these dressy elements to the core values of the school: Respect, Integrity, Responsibility, Service, and High Standards. And I begged the kids not to roll out of bed on Chapel days in wrinkled, messy, unkempt uniforms. Instead, wear them with staunch pride because once in that chapel uniform, you are part of an amazing community, extending to the alumnae that have gone before you - a community that will always have your back. 

I almost cried, swallowing my final words as I stepped down from the podium, back into a congregation that felt like the hug I needed on that morning. 

I had already cried once earlier in the service. There would be another time after that during the Alma Mater. And yet another time a week or so later during Moving Up Day, when the kids processed in, marching to the song All Things Bright and Beautiful. 

All creatures great and small. 

All things wise and wonderful. 

The Lord God Made them all. 

Each little flower that opens. 

Each little bird that sings. 

He made their glowing colors. 

He made their tiny wings.  

I'm tearing up again, just reciting it in my head. 

I love my kids' school so very much, and I love what it promises - a world where people care about each other, the planet, all creatures great and small, critical thinking, and exploration. The credos and mission are lived as a community, and it's the safety of that world that brings a tear to my eye at times because it's such a such a stark contrast to all the bad news you see and hear in this world.

... Or that you run right into.  

The other day, I was driving back from the grocery store with my twins. There was a big white pick-up truck in front of us. And in front of the truck, I spotted a groundhog running across the street as fast as it could, suddenly realizing it was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had seen that neighborhood groundhog before. Or it's brother, sister, mom or dad. 

As soon as I told the girls to look out the window at the groundhog, the white truck in front of me sped up, and hit it. It just HIT IT. I screamed, OH NO! OH NO! 

Luckily, the groundhog made it out of the situation alive, finishing across the street while limping a bit. But the truck had definitely hit him, at least partially. 

I couldn't believe it. All creatures great and small, cute and cuddly, rodent or not do not deserve to be blatantly targeted by big white pick-up trucks. That should be in the song too. 

The twins must have talked about that bad truck and the groundhog for two days straight. Remember that cute groundhog. Remember that mean truck. 

Yes. Yes. Such a bad truck. 

I was surprised, but then again not surprised at all at the impression that a truck hurting a groundhog made in their young minds. And from it, the concern about it being a mom missing her babies. Or a dad. Or a baby missing her mom. I told them the groundhog family was okay. The groundhog was okay. You'll be okay too. So will I. 

I like to think the level of kindness and care my kids have is a product of their schooling. Back in Chicago. Now in Pittsburgh. And word is that the kids might not be returning to their incredibly special school in the fall. (Which, by the way, might explain the extra tears I shed during the last two Chapel services of the year.) 

But the character they've built in both of the schools and their uniform of respect for the dignity of all people and all things will be worn every day wherever they go to school. Because in this big, beautiful world, we need more responsible citizens that care deeply about the world and all its creatures, including groundhogs. 

Lo. 

Not So Random Acts

I'm taking a new round of leadership assessments. In the past four years, I've taken three versions of similar tests, each one promising a more acute outcome, deeper self-awareness, and more targeted professional development plans. Ok. Let's go.  

I'm through 4 of 5 tests - the only remaining is an advanced matrix test. It's the one I know I will bomb. The first time I took this type of test I pretended I was in a Beautiful Mind and could see all the patterns, lighting up the room, my brilliance shining forth. I imagined wrong. And I'm pretty sure I didn't get the majority of it right. So, in fear of retribution, I will postpone that test until the morning.  

The other ones were easy. You just have to select your preferences, default leadership style, values and motives in random order over and over and over again. To the point where you start to question, am I really that competitive. Yes, yes, I am. 

But one series of question that kept coming up in test v4, had me pondering how anyone could answer anything but yes. The queries were around optimism and with it, your view of humanity. In essence, do you have a rosy outlook on the world and do you believe that the people in it are good? 

I answered yes. Over and over and over again. 

Yesterday evening, as I was checking into my hotel in Chicago, I confirmed that my answers to optimism and altruism were correct. 

I had gotten out of an Uber and walked into my hotel. I suddenly realized I didn't have my phone - it wasn't in my purse or backpack or my pockets. It was ... oh no ... oh no no no no no no ... gone. I have never lost a phone. It's gone. The Uber was gone. My iWatch wasn't connected. I can't get in touch with my Uber or my phone. My phone is silent, even if I had the hotel call Peter to call my phone, it won't ring. Oh no no no no. Answer #110 to my leadership questionnaire, am I calm? Yes. Yes, I am. So I proceeded. Willing myself to figure it out. I went to the front desk, started to check in. And then walked over to the window, as the Hyatt host typed in my name. I couldn't see anything on the street. I didn't drop it. But wait, the Uber was still there. Oh thank God. I needed to run down to ask him. I told the Hyatt host that I'd be right back, I needed to find my phone. 

She said, is this yours? 

Oh my gosh ... yes ... yes, it is. 

This guy brought it in ... the guy that rode up on the elevator with you. 

What? Oh my gosh ... I turned to the guy, thank you ...... no, THANK YOU! 

The guy looked disheveled. He smelled like marijuana. He might have been a homeless person. I didn't care, I walked up to him and gave him a big hug. He hugged me in return. It was the smelliest, but most satisfying hug. Embracing a complete stranger, who had done a not so random act of kindness was perhaps the most impactful gesture of appreciation and care I have felt in a while. 

In retrospect, I probably should have given him $20, but the thought didn't cross my mind at the time. Only the hug. 

The Hyatt host looked on almost lovingly. She said, we don't always see these kinds of kindness, but man, that was great. It was like she was watching a movie in slow mo. Leadership assessment questions #25. Did I ever want to be an actress? Yes, yes I did. 

So with that, and just about every person that I look a little deeper at in life, I see it. I do believe that our outlook is bright. I do believe that people are good. And I do believe if we all practice not so random acts of kindness, we have the power to make other people answer yes on their leadership assessments. To be the type of leaders that favor the collective over the individual. 

Lo.  

Let Me Look Up

I was recently introduced to best-selling author, podcaster, and hero to the mental fragility of America, Mel Robbins. But one person's protagonist is another's antagonist. Namely, mine. Within the first five pages of the book, I was an immediate skeptic. 

Here's why. 

A woman with no business credentials, without a degree in psychology or social science, without even a compelling survival story reached the bestseller list because one day while in bed, depressed because her husband's business was failing, she told herself to act like a rocket ship, and count down ... 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 ... to launch out of bed. She did just that. Count and launch. And with it, she launched a multimillion-dollar brand. Americans and likely some sad Europeans found it so simple, so compelling that she gave herself license to create another theory. This one was called Let Them. 

In this self-proclaimed theory (in the most butchered, layman’s explanation) if someone or something is bothering you, you should say ‘Let them …’ Because you can’t control it. And you should say ‘Let me …’ because the only thing you can really control are your emotions and reactions.

She goes on to explain it further in 300 pages of examples ... about her neighbor's social media account, about Thanksgiving dinners, about prom plans, about the friends you can make at the mid-point of your life. It took me about ten pages to think of my own personal example. 

Exhibit 1: My neighbor installed a sports bar in his yard. A two TV, massive hot tub, enough seating for 30 guests sports bar. After getting so frustrated and stressed out by this neighbor's intrusion into our pastoral Pittsburgh setting, Peter and I have learned to say Let Him. And Let Us move our furniture to the front porch where he is out of site and out of mind. I didn't have to read all 300 pages to arrive at this conclusion, but I did.   

It was in the middle of the book, when I had reached the highest level of cynicism, that I had my own eureka moment. When my own two-word theory came shining down on me. Look. Up. Two words. Each worth a million perhaps. Yes, that's it. LOOK UP! 

I thought about it because the dogwood outside of my window was blooming and the massive Oak Trees were budding. And I looked up, instead of down at the neighbor that bugs me. Wow, Look Up. Remarkable.   

I will spare researching it, labeling it a theory, or writing a book where I repeat it over and over and over again. But there is something there for me ... and as I've learned, for my team at work as well. And it extends well beyond foliage and bad neighbors. 

It showed up in the Easter Mass readings. "Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on Earth." 

I wrote my team a message about my 'Look Up' theory - to put aside how hard the past 16 months have been, how many headwinds exist in our industry, but instead to lead with optimism. To look up because our baseline was moving in the right direction, our stakeholders were leading with an offensive, growth mindset, and our team was on the move, getting promoted right and left. 

At Margaret's First Communion last week, I cried as I slowed down, breathed deep and looked up at her walking down the aisle that I had walked down to meet Peter almost fourteen years ago.

Yesterday, running the Pittsburgh half marathon with my 6'3 friend JP, who I literally have to look up to, he made me look up at the signs, look up at the views, look ahead at the runners to beat, and laugh on and off the whole time, instead of looking down at my feet pounding the pavement and how hard it felt at times.  

And at Mass, once again today, I was reminded of my post-Easter message, to look upward, and to get out and tell the Gospel. Because ... you might be the only Gospel that someone hears in a day. Man, I loved that one. 

While my aha! moment isn't theory, or Gospel, or worth putting in print, it's been helpful to reflect on. Because in a world that can look so backward right now, that can make you feel so down, the best thing I can to do, the best thing we all can do, is to Look Up. Because there's a lot of beauty and lot of goodness up there.  

Lo. 

Ski Instructor

I was an enterprising youth. Before I was gainfully employed, I found other ways to make money: I made greeting cards, filed documents for the most disorganized secretary at my mom's law firm, set up a carnival in my backyard where I charged kids to ride the runaway wagon down our street or swing from a laundry basket attached to a tree, and I babysat. Not the kids whose parents expressed uncontrolled danger in my carnival's thrill ride assortment.  

But when I turned 16, I officially went to work. In the summer as a Prosciutto slicer, chicken salad distributor, cheese wrapper and certified cashier at La Charcuterie. And in the winter, as a Hidden Valley Ski Instructor. 

The former I consider the sourcing of my career in hospitality and food service. The latter, felt like a true calling. Skiing, education, fashion in the form of a coveted teal jacket worn by only the coolest people on the slopes, and of course, cute boys.  

Being a ski instructor in my teens was an assertion that I had reached peak maturity. I had a job earning about $200-$300 every weekend. With the instruction of Eric and Karen Cabe, successors to the ski resort dynasty, I had become a better skier. And in the proximity of people way cooler than me, I assumed I was that cool too.

Above all, there was something immensely gratifying about teaching people to ski. Getting a four-year old to balance, snowplow and then turn down a hill with their mother looking on with pride got me glowing. (And a pretty hefty tip.) Getting a group of 10-year olds who came up every Friday evening to go from awkward, wobbly skiers, to smooth swishers of the mountain, felt like I had given them status and confidence for their bus ride back to the South Hills. And one day helping a fuller middle-aged woman up after she'd fallen, a couple tears in her eyes, and convincing her that she could indeed do this felt like outsized impact for my 16-year old self. That woman did do it - and then was able to ski with her kids throughout the season.

I hung up my jacket when I graduated from high school. Like when I moved on from the ad hoc odd jobs of my youth, I knew it was time to reach higher. 

As perhaps fate would have it, I married someone who could have been the cutest ski instructor in the group. And five kids later, no jacket or re-certification included, we have taught all of them to ski. During Spring Break this year, we broke through in a big way. All seven of us were skiing together from the top to the bottom of the mountain, and it was so fun.      

It's been a lot of work for almost a decade teaching them to ski, and each year better and better. It also now takes 13 checked bags and 2 rental cars for us to get to our house in Pennsylvania to our rental out west to ski. But it's so worth it. Spring Break in Breckenridge brought five days of great skiing and snow, where Bobby and Mary (and Peter and I) conquered the highest chairlift in North America and the Imperial Bowl. Where Margaret found her confidence and stamina to ski the blacks off of Falcon Super Chair. And where the twins started stopping, turning, and then fearlessly skiing through the trees and down blue squares. The apres ski moments and the hot tub that turned a little green toward the end of the trip never felt so rewarding.

As an ex-pro, current improviser, I've collected some tips that tend to lead to success. At least, if you don't get too frustrated or tired 6 or 7 steps in. Take 'em or leave 'em ... but they worked for me. 

1- Add another layer. The last thing you want is to work incredibly hard to get them dressed, put their boots on, get them up on their skis, watch them inevitably fall down and then say they are too cold, they need to go inside. Hell no.  

2- Take breaks. Lots of them. Like all the time. But on the boots and skis, and then just have them sit down and play in the snow with you. Then get them up, scoot them to the magic carpet, get to the top and take a break again. The more you can make this about just being together and having fun, the better. 

3- French fries to go, pizza to stop, hands on your knees for extra balance. In honesty, the pizza is the hardest part for little legs to figure out. PUSH OUT YOUR HEELS!!! But once they get it, you are golden. 

4- Push them just until you and the kid reach your mutual limit. At the beginning of this ski season, one of my friends heard me screaming at Caroline or Jacqueline to try harder. I've done it to all of them - I can remember pushing 6-year old Mary to the brink in Park City. The same for Margaret a couple years later. Come to think of it though, I never had to push Bobby - the kid is fearless. 

5- 'Drive your little car down the hill' - I've had no luck teaching kids or adults the mechanics of turning, so instead I tell them to pretend they are steering a little race car. It literally gets them turning in no time. 

6- Treats pay dividends. Self-explanatory.  

7- Over celebrate the small wins. I have also been heard on the slopes cheering and praising my kids for a job well done, however big or small. Especially after pushing them to dig deeper. It's the instant acknowledgement that they are on the right track, that keeps them on it. 

8- Booking a house with a hot tub cements the concept that skiing is the best thing to do.  

9- Train. Prior to ski season and your first time teaching a small one, you need to get your quads in shape. The leg work necessary to push your french-frying tot on the flat parts of the mountain and ski with them between your legs when it gets too hard, is not for the weak of heart, mind or thigh. 

10- If all of this fails, put them in ski school.

Until next season ...  

Lo.  

The First 45 Days

It's been 45 days in the year 2025. And in many ways, it feels like an eternity. Even the past seven days feels like a year. I looked back this morning at the events of January and February trying to recall, what exactly just happened? 

Here goes ... 

Day 1. Made the New Years Pretzel. Must have burned the yeast because it didn't rise properly. Played tennis badly. Went to the Oyster Bar. Drank my last glass of wine for a while. 

Day 2-4. Relished time with the kids. Skied with them. Played tennis better. Really wanted a glass of wine but stuck to my word. 

Days 5-17. After making a New Years resolution to travel less, I went to Chicago, Knoxville and Greenville TN, Cincinatti and Columbus, OH and Orlando in the period of 12 days.  

Day 10 - 21. A slow roll of norovirus descended upon our house. Peter moved garbage cans around and around and washed sheets over and over again until the Norovirus finally caught him. Because of my aforementioned travel schedule, I avoided the January cleanse. 

Day 11. I made a nice dinner. Nice dinners are situated in the dining room. The kids finished and went upstairs with explicit instructions to stay away from the kid du jour with the virus. With relative silence at our nice dinner table, Peter's ears perked up and he asked me what that sound was? The fire crackling, I don't know, I responded. Oh, there's no fire going. I get up and start walking into the living room. Sounds like a drip, said Peter. Oh ... oh .... no .... it is a drip. Lots of drips, Peter! Cue the ceiling to start raining and then pouring water into the living room. Fear, unrest, and Caroline in panic mode commences. We find the culprit - a broken toilet, running and running without the ability to drain. Broken by a twin who must have been frustrated flushing her norovirus. Peter turns off the water and fixes it. He explains to me how to do it in the future. I don't recall what he's said because I'm calculating what fixing the living room will cost.  

Dawn of Day 12. Peter falls asleep in the living room still cleaning up the mess. 

Day 13. Peter gets bids on fixing everything. 

Day 20. Notre Dame plays Ohio State in the National Championship. I cheer. The kids cheer. A fly buzzes around the screen, then another one. The flies are cheering for the Irish too, huh? I go to the bathroom and there are one, no two, no three more flies. Or maybe the ones from the office followed me into the bathroom. Bobby says, nope there are flies in my bathroom too. What? Were you going to tell anyone that? I run upstairs and see more flies. I nudge Peter, halfway through getting the twins to sleep. We have a problem. Third floor bathroom. His ears perk up. What, you're kidding me ... another bathroom issue? Not the same as the last one - this one is flies. Flies? Yes, flies. He investigates after another nudge. I close the door to the office and resume watching the Irish, while swatting flies. Peter comes back down. I got him. What ... Got the flies? No, the flying squirrel. What? Yes, critter control couldn't get it. But I did. He's dead. The flies were attracted to the smell. It smelled awful. He's gone now. Flies will follow. 

Day 21. Kill flies. Trump takes office. Caroline won't go to sleep.   

Day 22. Kill less flies. Trump. Caroline won't go to sleep again. 

Day 23. Kill the last fly. Already too much Trump. Bobby's birthday. Kind of feels like an afterthought and I feel bad about that.  

Day 24. Bobby's National Parks Play at school. I cried. It was perfect.  

Day 25- 45. Deep Trump anxiety sets in, set off by a bad habit of bathing myself in NPR and the Daily every morning. 

Day 28. Peter decides to add a lighting renovation to the scope of the living room reconstruction. 

Day 30 - 37. Back to Chicago. Back and forth. Back and forth.   

Day 32. Construction starts on living room. Wine. Yum. 

Day 34. RSV hits home. 

Day 37. I get home, Jacqueline has a high fever. 

Day 38. RSV complications for Jacqueline. Peter and I don't sleep. 

Day 39. No sleep again. 

Day 40. RSV complications get even more complicated. Peter takes Jacqueline to the Children's Hospital clinic. I fill in for Peter as the kids' squash coach, telling Bobby to focus mid match. Post match, I get a call from Peter saying Jacqueline was sent to the emergency room. I'm crying. Our friends keep the kids and feed them at the club. I run home and pack stuff for Peter and Jacqueline. I run to the hospital. And start crying. But Dr. Cramer is there. Dr. Cramer from Canada is amazing. Like seriously amazing. He rescues Jacqueline with oxygen, an IV, antibiotics and her pneumonia diagnosis. I breathe easier too. Peter stays the night and I go home to provide normalcy to the kids. I make myself a homemade Egg McMuffin for dinner. It's as good as the ones my restaurants make. 

Day 41. Healthy kids go to school. I relieve Peter from the hospital to stay with Jacqueline. She is doing much better and by midday is stable, without oxygen. That evening we go home. 

Day 42. Caroline gets RSV. Margaret gets an ear infection. No sleep again. 

Day 43. Caroline is better from RSV. She's always been the bulkier one. Paid off for her. 

Day 44. I get 8 hours of sleep and wake up a new woman. 

Day 45. Still Trump. And my period. 

It was on Day 39 though, where time stood still. Further drawing out just how long the past 45 days has felt. I was in the emergency room looking at Peter, Jacqueline on his lap, saying goodbye for the night, not totally sure if she would be okay. And I said to Peter, 'thank you for being such a good dad.' We both teared up. Maybe because of how painful it was to see Jacqueline in such torment. But maybe more because it took me 39 days of crazy to say that. 

Peter and I run a unique operation. It's a lot. And during flu season, it can become too much. So much, that I reached a breaking point this week. I told the President of my business that I couldn't be there for his visit to my region. Instead, he was in good hands with my team. And he was. My team killed it. And with it, I showed up as a leader who has her priorities straight, who has a well-trained team, and who has confidence in her people. It was the most leaderly decision I've made in this position. 

On Day 44 we celebrated Valentine's Day. I got Peter some really good shoes. Because sometimes, I'm sure he gets tired of walking in the shoes of a stay-at-home Dad. But my man, there is no one that can clean up puke, swat flies, fix plumbing, trap critters, find the best workman for the job, pack lunches and snacks, administer antibiotics, ease my Trump anxiety, read bedtime stories, navigate a hospital system and drive a minivan like you. 

I'll say it again, thank you for being such a good Dad, Peter. 

Lo. 

Art Therapy

In a well-timed, therapy-like conversation last week, an executive coach asked me to rank the most important things in my life. I hardly hesitated. 

- My faith 

- My family 

- My work 

- Athletics (which is very different from exercise)

I don't think I got to the fifth one before the coach jumped in with a damning question, 'so, which one are serving most right now?' 

I hardly hesitated. 

#3. 

Work. 

Hmm. 

That, right there, has been the pull on my heart and mind for months. The conflict between ambition and everything else I hold dear. But the more I have these conversations, the more I can verbalize not only the imbalance but how to right the ship.

After therapy (coaching) and equipped with my 2025 resolutions to do and be better, I felt like my compass was heading in the right direction. Every month I would mature into a different, more emboldening leader, who was able to keep her world order in order. Maybe I'd even be on time.  

Although ... I kept thinking about #5. 

What was my #5? 

This morning, while running in the dark, while staring at the start of a pink morning, it came to me. 

#5 is Art. 

I snapped a photo of the color in the sky and sent it to my brother in law, knowing he would be photographing the light in all its glory. I see you, I said. 

#5 is Art! 

It's creativity and creation in all of its unique forms. Visual, written, dramatic, melodic, culinary, performing and expressive art. I was getting more and more excited. My pace was picking up. 

That's why I majored in art history. It wasn't a degree without worth - one that I should belittle as I tell my leadership story to mentees. It was a degree baked in passion. MY passion. For years, Art was my work. Art was my #3. 

As I turned the corner to head home, this aha! explained something that's been happening over the past couple months. Art has quite literally been making me cry. Examples: 

- In the theater watching Wicked with my kids, I bawled. (Come to think of it, I cried watching it on Broadway with my girls last year as well.) 

- Meandering through the Carnegie Museum of Art to show my kids the Principio after Christmas, my eyes started tearing. 

- Bobby's curiosity lighting up in the Hall of Architecture, prompted a couple more tears. 

- Exposing the kids to With One Look from Sunset Boulevard as we made the quick drive home, many more tears. 

'You're crying Mom,' they say. They stare because it never. ever. happens. 

It's as if my brain is deprived of artistry, so anything - any little glimmer of beauty upsets my emotional stability. One prompt, and I'm mush.  

A couple weeks ago, after three weeks of travel around the country, colds and flus and norovirus, a flying squirrel dying in our house, the fly fiasco that followed, the toilet that overflowed on the second floor into the first floor, the corresponding construction, and a bout of 4-year old constipation, I found myself sitting in an auditorium where I grew up. This was the space where I discovered my love of the performing arts. Center stage was my home. But on this day, it was Bobby's and his fourth grade classmates.  

Together, they read poetry and sang songs that begged the audience / me and the other parents to get outdoors and visit our National Parks. 'We're going to the park to the park to the park,' they sang as Bobby held up a big sign for Yellowstone. 

About mid-way through the production, Bobby introduced the song Fireless with composure and confidence. He talked about a sense of optimism and stress release and how the song invited you to look deeper at the magic around us. As he finished up, the lights went down and the kids popped out and sparked up their glow sticks. The boys ran up the aisles, and into the audience so the auditorium was blanketed in light. They swung their glow sticks in the air, danced, sang, and yes, made me cry. It was the music - the musical effect that lightened the burden of one thing after the next at the start of the year. It was the perspective of magic making right here at school. It was the simplicity of all of these wonderful kids carefreely belting their hearts out. It was beautiful. 

It was a textbook example of why I needed more Art in my life. Doing #1-#4 on my priority list demands a ton of focus. Onlookers might argue, there isn't a second of downtime in my day. But when I let my mind go, escape, and empathize, I find a release that's clearly need. 

Bobby turned 10 the week of his play. Ten means he's bigger, stronger, tougher, more calculated in how he presents himself. But he is absolutely an artist. He is always looking deeper under the surface. He spends hours sketching at his desk, trying to represent how he experiences the world. He's watched old black and white movies with me, debating who is the better dancer - Fred or Gene? And when I write, he listens to the words I choose, storing them for a time he might need to pen them himself. 

Seeing Bobby mature into a well-rounded young man is a good reflection for me. I've gotten too pragmatic in my priorities, and I'm not making time or finding the channels to honor something that was always at my core. Studying the ways of a fourth grader is a lesson in how to infuse creativity into my faith, family, and work life. With Art, Faith becomes less of a routine, family becomes less of a schedule, work becomes less of a chore. And each priority can embody more beauty, joy and emotion (which I will always argue is just fine to show at work.) 

So coach, Art is #5. And I wish more of it on myself. And more of it on a nation that could use a little softening. 

Lo.