On Time

While my Mom is assembled of Irish and Croatian parts, my Dad is 100% German engineered. Precision, detail, and absolute timeliness are synonymous with the way he runs.

While my Mom's internal clock is more variable, surprising us at early dismissals on one hand and leaving us waiting to sit down to dinner as she cruised along the Boulevard of the Allies on the other; my Dad's timing is scientific. The numbers that dictated certain practices and procedures growing up are still implanted in my mind.

1 minute,10 seconds: exactly how long a cold cup of coffee should be in the microwave to return to its optimal temperature.
7 minutes: how far ahead all my Dad's clocks are. His philosophy is that if he is 'running late' he's actually on time.
9 minutes: precisely how long it took my Dad to get from Children's Hospital to Extended Day if he went through the Park ...
Which meant he could leave work at exactly 5:51 PM and arrive to pick us up just as after school care was closing at 6:00.
45 minutes: the boast worthy time between getting home and getting a quality dinner on the table.

I'd like to say that I inherited a combination of my parents' genetic make-up, but I feel that I was born with my own, unique strain of tardiness. I'm chronically guilty of finding one more thing to do, arriving ten minutes late, and planning only to break said plans.

On Sunday, I had built untimeliness into my marathon equation. Running a little behind wouldn't matter - I would make it when I made it.

That is, until I lined up; until Rahm Emanuel stepped up, the Star Spangled Banner waved, Born to Run blared, and the Kenyans started (and basically finished) the race. One foot in front of the other, I willed myself to be on time. I had told Peter and Mary that I would see them at 9:45 AM on Taylor Street and I wasn't going to keep them waiting.

So I ran fast. And then faster. I ran past the men peeing and puking; the women who had applied make-up for today's race (really?); and my teammates as they eased up.

I ran past the Lincoln Park lawn picnics, the drag queens of Boys Town, drums, cow bells, and kazoos; past the barbecue pits near the United Center, the garlic roasting in Greek Town, and the spaghetti bolognese bubbling in Little Italy.

I reached mile 17.5 and with it my biggest and littlest fans at 9:50 AM. If only I had set my clock seven minutes ahead.

By far - this was the best visual I have seen on any course to date.

After that moment, my eight minute miles got harder, then nearly impossible. When I reached mile 20, then 21, 22, 23, and 24 I considered walking and kept the temptation circling through my head, but one foot in front of the other I ran on.

I ran past the tacos in Pilsen, the General Tsao's chicken in China Town, and the beer man as I turned down Michigan Avenue. I ran past the people passing out, the nurses running to their rescue and the stretchers taking them off the course.

I ran to get to the finish line on time because I had promised my baby girl I'd be there for brunch (and my homemade brunch was ready an hour ago.)

I made it. And in a new time to add to my list: - 3:41:37 - Precisely how long it took this mommy to run 26.2 miles so she should be with her family again; to hug her baby and thank her husband for making a marathon, seven months out, a possibility.

Lo.

F is for Food

With the exception of Oma's signature pound cake that arrived at our door last weekend and my husband telling me that I had made the best grilled cheese ever on Wednesday night, my kitchen has left me little to write about over the past couple weeks. The stories range from bland to downright bad. (So bad that I actually took one bite and threw my pasta away on Friday.)

The overtired working mom in me can produce countless excuses why our dinner table doesn't have the same look and feel and taste as it used to. I've been sick on and off for a month. There's not enough time. We have a new little diner on a solid food regimen. And now there's even less time.

But the fact remains, I feel like a slacker.

I used to get a big kick out of Peter bragging to his friends about how he ate like a king every night. And I loved adding my culinary tales to the Coke cooler chatter at my office. I kind of wondered why some of the other women seemed less interested, but nonetheless, I loved sharing stories of seared duck breasts, cherry compotes, roasted fingerlings, and spinach gratins whipped up on a Monday night. (Ah, I sense why the other moms were annoyed at my gourmet diatribes.) The commoner cuisine we've been having lately is far less novel and I guarantee Peter's been focusing his food boasts on the bacon wrapped corn he grilled the other day, not my dinners.

Over a high point of the week - crab cakes on Sunday night, I apologized to Peter for a week of more mediocre meals. Peter poo poo'd my comment and told me that we eat very well.

My next bite tasted a little better. 

Yes, my bar is set sky high and my expectations are unreasonable. I'm working harder than ever, training for a Marathon, managing a household, reading and writing (okay, just writing), breastfeeding, pureeing my own baby foods, and (trying) to put a decent homemade meal on the table every night. Something has to give, right?

In my type A world, the answer would be 'wrong.'

I'll continue to try to do it all. I might get sick along the way; people may spit out their peas; and I might have to stop and walk the last mile. But by looking at smiles as my new qualifier - my own and my family's - and by leaving the other rats out of the ranking system, I'll win every time.

My advice is to focus on your little cheering section - their applause is what you are fighting for. And likely, they'll keep smiling no matter how bad the shrimp scampi is.

Lo.

Crab Cakes with Avocado Salsa 

Adapted from Plumpjack's Cookbook 

(Makes four - six) 

Ingredients: 

2 scallops 

1/4 cream 

1/2 pound jumbo lump crab meat (it's expensive, but so worth it) 

1/2 cup panko crumbs 

1 tablespoon cilantro, roughly choped  

1 small plum tomato, finely chopped

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 tablespoon olive oil 

Avocado Salsa 

1/2 avocado 

1/2 cup water

1 teaspoon champagne or white wine vinegar 

1 tablespoon cilantro 

Juice of half of a lemon

Salt, pepper 

Directions: 

In a blender, puree scallops and cream. (I thought these were incredibly strange instructions, until I saw the result. Basically you get this scallop whipped cream that acts as an emulsifier for the cakes. I didn't even use an egg.) Set aside and clean blender. 

In a large bowl, combine scallop cream with crab meat, panko crumbs, cilantro, tomato, mustard and olive oil. Stir carefully to combine, careful not to do too much damage to the lump crab meat. Make four (entree size) cakes or six (appetizer size) cakes. 

To make the avocado salsa, puree avocado, water, vinegar, cilantro, lemon, salt and pepper until smooth. Set aside. 

In a large skillet, heat 1-2 tablespoons olive oil over medium to medium high heat, depending on how hot your stove get. You want the cakes to sizzle and brown, but not burn. Cook about seven minutes per side. I put the lid over my skillet for about six minutes per side to make sure the middle was heated through as well. 

Serve hot with avocado salsa. 

Care

Last Friday, I was wrapping up a planning meeting with my team when I got a call from Day Care. Mary had a fever. Could I come get her? I dished off the flip chart and Mr. Sketch markers, got in my car, and motored as fast as I could to be by her side. 

When I arrived she was sitting at the table with her friends, Matthias and Finn. All three of them were watching Miss Eva color the artwork she had made from their foot and hand prints. They were mesmerized, happy as could be. I imagined that she would be fussing, unhappy, and in dire need of mommy. But she was playing it cool, well feverish, but calm and collected. 

I gave her a squeeze and got the low down from the teachers. Apparently a 24-hour fever was going around. Mary was the latest victim. 

Three months ago, I would have approached Day Care's diagnosis very differently. I would have questioned the cleanliness of the room. I would have interrogated the teachers. I would have glared at the other babies, asking why they got my little girl sick? I would have tried to pin down the carrier. Aha, it was you, the one with snot permanently dripping down your face. No, it was you, the one who doesn't wear pants. Oh no. YOU! The one who is always licking everything. How could your mother bring you in the way you are? Now you've made the whole class sick!

Three months ago, I would have cursed Day Care, paid the SitterCity.com dues, and found Ms. Poppins to keep my precious baby germ free and atop an untouchable pedestal. 

But since Mary's first week at Day Care - a week filled with tears, skepticism, and stress - after watching and getting to know Mary's classmates and teachers, after seeing the same sort of working mom anxieties in the morning and sweet end of day joy in my counterparts, and after seeing how happy Mary is day after day, there is no question in my mind that she is getting a really good dose of TLC at her little school.

So I just want to say a big thank you to Mary's Day Care and the wonderful teachers who have given her so much love over the past three months.

Thank you for being there when I can't be.
Thank you for giving Mary her first little friends.
Thank you for playing, singing, and dancing with my girl.
Thank you for pushing Mary to get up and go a little earlier than expected.
Thank you for cuddling and caring so much.
Thank you for helping me to realize that there is a world of wonderful babies out there and while Mary is so special, she is no better than her friends. They are all in this together.   

Recently, I had a discussion with a girl around my same age. We were talking about working motherhood, the drawbacks, the benefits, the stress. She posed the question, "I mean really, who is raising our children?" 

My response: My husband and I are, with the generous support of a Village. And I truly believe she will be better, stronger, kinder, happier and healthier because of it. 

Lo.  

Golden Girls

While Notre Dame sloppily added a W to their schedule this weekend, their victory over Michigan State wasn't the headline. Bigger news was clamoring through campus, starting early Saturday morning.

First, there was a rainbow. Scratch that. A perfect rainbow, stretched all the way over Carroll Hall's massive, 'GO IRISH' sign. It was gorgeous.

Soon after, my cousin got down on one knee near the Grotto, adding some beautiful bling to Katrina's left hand. About eight hours later, a friend and fellow blogger got a, 'yes' to his big question too.   

Aunt Connie's fried chicken took home the blue ribbon in the tailgate cook-off. A couple bridesmaids had an overdue reunion. And a couple others totally missed each other. Finally, the real grabber of a headline: Mary met a cheerleader (...while her Mom glowed at the starlet in front of her, gushing about how she had always dreamed of being thrown up in the air by a burly cheer man in the middle of Notre Dame stadium.) Mary stuck her tongue out. 

This weekend, Mary also got mistaken for a 'buddy' several times. Girls wear jean jackets too, people. She partied at her first tailgates. And saw her first sporting event. There were some suspicious eyes as I carried a six-month old through the Frank Lehry Gate and up to our seats, but there was never a better fan. She smiled and cheered with the best of them. And likely would have lasted the whole game, but we left short of a melt down. 

This weekend, Irish eyes were definitely smiling. 

Lo. 

Two Fish, One Fish

We were not pet people.

My parents likely made a conscious decision early in their relationship to be a no-pet household. And it was likely both rational and emotional. Rational: My Dad thinks pets were too much work. Emotional: My Mom has a general fear of anything non-human.

While 'a puppy' was regularly scratched on to my sister's Christmas list, I embraced my parents' logic and trepidation. 

When I went over to a friend's house, I could hear the call to 'Quick! Put Princess in the basement,' over the 'do do do do do do do' as I emerged from our Transport Van's sliding door.

I hated picking my sister up from her friend Mary's house because it perpetually smelled like cats and hermit crabs.

And the whole notion of dog's being able to smell my fear, freaked me out. I would will myself to be cool, but fell victim to relatively harmless dog attacks time and time again.  

Growing up, we did have a stint with a fresh water aquarium. In it, a couple Black Malis mated and bred dozens of baby Black Malis, which the parents proceeded to eat. Soon after they perished too and the aquarium was emptied and left idle for years. Besides that, we were a bark, scratch, hair and odor-free household. And I appreciated it.

***

If Peter had been packaged with Fido, his accessory dog, there could have been some issues. Instead, he came complete with a living, breathing salt water aquarium, several corals, a shrimp, a clam, some snails, and a little fish named Omega Supreme. He reigned over it. And it was the center piece of his stark apartment in Oak Hill. 

I thought it was cute; the fact that he had transported it in buckets from Cape Cod to Chicagoland and from there to South Bend; the pride he showed in it; and above all, his relationship with and love for his little clown fish.

Later on, I learned that having a salt water aquarium wasn't just a pet project, it was as much science as art - an intricate hobby that took time, dedication, and the utmost care. There were days dedicated to water creation, filtration, and change-out. There were gadgets that read temperatures and chemical levels. There were field trips to illusive salt water aquarium stores. And there were logs with countless entries. All in the service of bringing a little bit of the beloved Ocean into our home.

Over the six years we have been together, I have grown to love Peter's aquarium. Every week, I pray for the fishes at Church. I gladly give Peter the time and space to do aquarium maintenance whenever its inhabitants need a refreshed ecosystem. I love feeding the fish when Peter is out of town. And I love saying good morning and good night to Omega, who has been like the little third wheel in our relationship.

Oh geez, I'm going to start crying again. 

After putting Mary to bed on Tuesday night, I went down to the Man Cave to say goodnight to Peter. Passing by the aquarium, I looked to see Aquaman and Omega swimming in their own fashionable styles through the water. I saw the masked red fish, but couldn't see my little orange and black striped friend. Then I spotted him on the sand. As I had prayed that he one day would, his fish soul had gone on to fish heaven. I was crushed. But not as much as Omega's best friend.

Omega lived for eight and a half years. To give you some perspective, a clown fish in captivity has an average lifespan of three years. In the wild, it's roughly eight. That's how much Peter loved this fish and how much Omega loved his proud owner. He boasted a life that exceeded the Ocean's expectations.

There will be more fish, more crabs, and clams, and corals, but there will never be a salty swimmer like Omega. And little buddy, you will forever be missed.

Lo.

When You're Having Fun

While my class mates were taunted with sweet dreams and bed heads, there was always a carrot dangling on the other side of my covers - a golden opportunity begging me to get out bed around the same time the sun was starting her day.

Getting up early meant having enough time to make myself scrambled eggs and toast every morning before school. It meant getting to see the snow covered ground in pristine perfection - before even a squirrel could indent the white blanket with its prints. It meant finding a Conch on Sanibel's beach; catching sun fish in Spring Lake with my Grandpa; and getting in six runs before the slopes opened to the general public, proudly sporting my Hidden Valley Season Pass.

Getting up before my brother and sister meant the first choice in a bag full of Schwartz' bagels and eating mine while it was still warm. It meant being my Dad's helper in the kitchen on Thanksgiving morning while watching the family of wild turkeys parade through our yard. And it meant a couple of strategic stops on Walnut Street because I had agreed to go to Talbot's with my Mom before the crowds showed up.

Today, the prize for an early rise is Mary and getting to spend as much time with her as possible. My 5:00 AM wake-up call affords me an hour in the morning to check a couple Lo items off my list so by the time the rest of the house says, 'Good morning Mommy,' they have my full attention. Despite how far forward I've adjusted my alarm and despite how much I try to stretch my days, there is never enough time. And recently, it just seems to go by faster and faster.

Yesterday Mary turned six months. How is that possible? She's sitting up straight, babbling, laughing, playing, eating rice cereal, nearly crawling, and using her thighs to cross percentiles at an alarming rate.

When Mary was very little, people kept telling me to enjoy it, because it goes too fast. There was almost a regretful, lamenting tone to their forewarning as if that person hadn't savored it. As we went on a family hike to mark Mary's half year milestone yesterday, I felt a bit of the sadness that so many had prescribed. Time had inevitably gone too fast.

While I know that I can't stop the cycle - that months and then years will come and go; milestones will be reached and passed - I can savor and celebrate every minute of togetherness. And when someday I'm called upon to reflect on those wonderful days when Mary fit in my arms, I will say that I loved every second of those years. And that it in my heart, she will always be my little baby.

Lo.

Better with Age

I had a couple whopper pimples on my wedding day: like one on my chin, one on my cheek, and one that was subterranean, nesting until it could properly grace me with its presence when we stepped off the plane in Nice to start our honeymoon.

The photos that I carefully selected to be displayed in my house and in others don't capture the whole story - a great make-up artist, good lighting, and a killer photographer helped the situation too - so I had all but forgotten about the blemishes. That is until Peter and I in a moment of nostalgia this week went through the complete wedding reel to reminisce about a perfect day (minus a pimple or two.)

Seeing a couple shots where my skin looked a little like Jessica Simpson's before pictures in her Proactiv commercial, I remembered something I said on my wedding day. I shrugged and told myself, 'well it's probably better this way. So many brides look back and think that's the best they've ever looked and they're never going to look like that again. I on the other hand am glad there is room for improvement.'

***

Something about having a baby, the invasion of weird hormones, and a general lack of time leading to a make-up free existence has done wonders for my skin. And last night, as I looked in the mirror and threw my hair into a ponytail, getting reading to go to Grandma Shirley's birthday party, I had a little revelation. Maybe, despite all that we're told, women do get better with age.

A couple hours later, my theory became a conviction. Last night, I hung out with one of the most beautiful people I know. Her hair and nails are always done, she's always dressed to impress, and although she's just about 5 foot 1, there's no one that stands taller. Mostly though, the thing that makes her so radiant is her smile - a grin that captures 87 years of happiness each time it's shared with another person.

In that smile are the plains of Nebraska, the sun of Florida, and the snowfalls of Chicago; there are boat rides, and swims, and namastes; there are 24 trips to Paris and a world tour; there is an irreplaceable husband, three wonderful children, five grandchildren, and five more great grandchildren; there are thousands of loads of perfectly laundered laundry and hundreds of batches of cookies; there are all the patients and all her kids, nursed back to health; there is loss and there is pain, but there is the courage to always persevere; there is faith and an undying love for her family, friends, and life.  

That is beauty. And I guarantee next year, SGS's radiance will shine even brighter. A couple pimples down and I'm hoping I'm on my way to be the same kind of 87-year old when I grow up.

Happy birthday Super Grandma Shirley.

Lo.

Annivirusy

While I mentally prepared myself for the arrival of Mary, I planned for sleepless nights and fussy days; I calculated the approximate number of hours dedicated to eating and pooping; I said goodbye to my skinny jeans and hello to a whole new world of underwear; I failed to prepare for one thing. That is, the plethora of viruses and bacteria that would be entering my house, through the cutest little carrier of course. And I forgot to plan for death by day-care born disease becoming Mommy. And Daddy.

***

The other day, my mother-in-law asked me what a second anniversary was associated with. Like the first was paper ... what is the second? I had no clue and told her I would get back to her once I figured it out myself.

On Friday, around 2:30 PM, I got the answer. Our second anniversary, was that of the Rotavirus. It would be our annivirusy to put a pithy spin on it. And no amount of cotton balls could swab up the mess that was about to ensue.

Our big Labor Day weekend plans - a weekend we've always done so well: from first dates, to our engagement, to our wedding - were sidelined, just like Johnny Football, for a weekend of house arrest, alternating naps, and a very intense, highly discouraged cleansing diet called attack of the Rotavirus.  

I've got to say though, you don't know true love until you've been through it all together; through the noises and smells, aches and the pains, moans and groans. And you don't know true romance until you can cuddle up next to your partner in pestilence and ask, 'it is over yet?'

While we will likely be having yet another slice of toast with peanut butter for our celebratory dinner tonight, the true champion of our second anniversary, is our little carrier. Who beat the bug with one awesome immunization and all weekend long, landed on top.

Happy anniversary to the love of my life, who I will always love in sickness and in health.

Lo.

Daddy's Little Girl

This week, I ran the Chicago lakefront with a personal trainer to the NYC elite one day and a dairy farmer the next, I taught four classes in marketing and learned how to say stuffed animal in at least five different languages (my favorite is in Dutch - say 'knuffel' with me); I was the first one out on the dance floor at the House of Blues, I shopped at Nordstrom's, sang Karaoke in a mock Tokyo Bar, ate a whole lot of hummus, heard the Chicago Symphony perform, welled up as three tenors sang Nessun Dorma, shook hands and exchanged business cards with a lot of people from a lot of countries, poured pints of Guinness with Irish, French and Germans, and I Salsa danced with Miss Ecuador. I pumped and pumped and pumped, did twilight dairy dealings, got a little misty eyed on occasion, and then caught whatever plague is going around. I'm exhausted recounting it.

This week, I lived in a high-paced, flurried world that was largely confined to four levels within Chicago's Sheraton Hotel, playing host, professor, and pestilence carrier at International Conference. Capital I. Capital C. My organization's bi-annual, big deal, non-stop, high energy affair.

But despite the entertainment, enrichment, and excitement, there was a big gap in this week's agenda. Mary. And five days without her was pretty tough at times.

Every night and every morning I worried about how Mary was faring without her Mom. It was the first time that I couldn't put her to bed and kiss her goodnight. It was the first time she didn't wake up to 'Gooooood Morning' Singing in the Rain style. And it was the first time her midnight snack came in a bottle. It wasn't just her I was nervous about though - it was me. I was scared she would resent my absence, or worse, forget who I was after a week. Above all, I was scared that Peter wouldn't be able to do it all, all alone.

***

When I got home late last night, the house was in perfect order, evidence of Tuesday's blowout had been wiped clean, and Mary was sound asleep in her 'I love Daddy' onesie. It was more than a strategic fashion statement, it was visual confirmation that Daddy did do it. And he did it very well.

He didn't just manage the house, Mary's schedule, and his own job, he nursed Mary through her first cold, made sure she had the freshest milk, and kept a very big smile on her face.

With all that I learned this week, my greatest lesson was waiting for me at home. While it's never going to be easy leaving my family behind when I have to travel for work, I learned that Dads, especially Mary's Dad, when given the space and encouragement from Moms, are some of the most amazing care givers. I learned that babies still love their working moms when they return home. I learned just how much Mary loves her Daddy. And I learned that whenever I do travel for work, I need to remember to bring back a souvenir.

Mary just loves her Knuffel. 

Lo.

(My) Red Sauce

As promised, on Thursday night, I made spaghetti and meatballs for Peter and I. Mary stuck with milk though. Below is the recipe for my version of the Italian classic, but know that the red sauce can stand alone or be used as a base for other sauces. Add a little cream, it's creamy tomato sauce. Add more red pepper flakes, it's arrabiata sauce. Add a little more sugar, it's excellent pizza sauce. Add shrimp it's a perfect Lenten Friday meal. Regardless, this sauce is a staple in my kitchen and like the grill, has saved its share of dinners. 

As another note, I have a feeling that this carb-loving queen is going to raise a carb-loving princess.

Lo.

Spaghetti and Meatballs 
Serves Four 

Ingredients:
Meatballs 
1/2 ground pork
1/2 ground beef
1/2 ground veal
1/2 cup onion, minced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 cup parmesano reggiano cheese
1/2 cup course homemade breadcrumbs (I use day-old sliced French bread, buttered and toasted in the oven, then pulsed in a blender until course crumbs form.)
1 egg
1/4 cup whole milk
Handful of parsley, basil and oregano (combined), chopped
Salt, pepper

Sauce
Olive oil (roughly 2 tablespoons) 
1 shallot, minced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 teaspoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
Dash of red pepper flakes
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/2 cup red wine - I recommend Barolo or Chianti 
24 ounce can whole plum tomatoes, crushed with your hand

Directions:
In a large mixing bowl, combine all meatball ingredients. Roll into 1 inch balls on a cookie sheet. Cover, then refrigerate for 30 minutes - an hour.

In a large dutch oven, heat olive oil. In a single layer, brown meatballs in oil, about two minutes per side. If you have to work in batches, do. Set aside, but keep the oil heating. 

Add shallot and garlic, saute for 2-3 minutes, until aromatic. Add wine, scraping up browned bits of meat. Cook for a couple minutes, then add tomatoes, sugar, salt, pepper flakes, and dried oregano. Stir and bring to a boil. Let it roll for about a minute, then reduce heat to low. Let simmer for 30-45 minutes, until liquid is reduced by 25% or so.

In a blender, puree the sauce ingredients, until smooth. Return to pot and fold the meatballs into the sauce. Simmer on low heat for 30-45 minutes.

Serve on top of spaghetti or cappellini, with Parmesan cheese and basil.