All In The Family

Last weekend, around 4:30 Saturday morning, the kids were out of their beds, and in mine. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't have been allowed ... but we were in South Bend for the weekend, Daddy was in Colorado for a wedding, loud revelers screaming 'Go Irish' had been clamoring outside of the thin walls of my parents condo all night, I figured I had no choice but to open the door to my bed and let the kids in.

When I woke up (and I use the term loosely as I never really fell asleep that night), Mary was curled up on one side of the bed, Bobby was nestled in the middle, and I found myself trying not to fall off. As dawn shed its soft light on my slumbering little angels, I gushed. Man, did they look cute.

A couple minutes later, Bobby started stretching his little body out, opened his eyes, rolled over and popped up into a plump sitting position. He looked a little confused. Where was he? Out of his house, out of his bed. He looked at me, smiled, now reassured in a sense, and said perfectly clearly, 'Mama.' 

I gave him a big cuddle and my heart melted.

This whole week, he's been saying my name more and more. It's mostly when I put him down, and he wants to get back up in my arms. It's the one word he needs to know; that has all his needs wrapped up in it. He says 'Mama,' and I can't help but scoop him up.  

***

Last weekend, while Bobby was learning his first lesson in genealogy, Mary was getting a broader education. On Friday night, as we read through our collection of Halloween books from Aunt Dee Dee, Aunt Joyce, and Aunt Amy, I told Mary that we were going to meet lots of people from our family over the weekend.

Mary knows the word family well. And will frequently say that Mommy, Daddy, and Bobby are her family; that she wants to go back home to her family; and that she's loves her family. Kills me. It's when we start to extend the definition of our nuclear family unit that things get a little confusing.

Our family is also ... Nana, Opa, Erin and Joe. And Aunt Dee. They're all here with us. Uncle Adam and Aunt Laura and your cousins couldn't make it; Mimi and Opa are back in Chicago, so are Ellie and Joe. 
Aunt Claire and Uncle Trent too. 

So far, so good. Saturday morning. We enter the Log Cabin on Notre Dame's campus.
Who's that?
That's Cousin Chris - Daddy's cousin. And that's his wife, Kassen who is also one of my best friends from college. A Shamrock Sister let's say.

Who's that?
Well that's Great Uncle John. He's our neighbor remember?
Who's that?
That's cousin Meghan, and Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Tim. Or are they your cousins too? 

Who's that?
That's Mia, another Shamrock Sister. And those are her babies. 

And that's Lam, one more sister, and those are her babies. 

And who's that?
That's Father Mark. He's Aunt Laura's Uncle. He's the one who loves Mickey Mouse!

Who are those peoples?
That's Opa's Brother, your Great Uncle Jim, and his wife and some of their kids. And their kids. They're all cousins.

And who's that baby?
Oh ... that's a very special, new part of our family. That's your very special third cousin, Everett. 
Oh. I like him. 

Back home, Mary might have remembered a couple of the names I told her. Uncle John, cause he lives a couple blocks away. Baby Everett because it was his party. Aunt Joyce, Aunt Amy, and Aunt Dee Dee because their names are on Mary's favorite books. But based on the knowing smile she shared with each new family member she met last weekend, I think she gets that there are a whole of people out there, connected to her by branches, vines and leaves on an ever-growing family tree. And that those people will be there to love, care, and cuddle with her. For me, it's an incredibly comforting fact.

For now though, Bobby. Mama (and we'll work on Dada) is the only name you need to know.

God Bless all of the people that I call family.

And God Bless little baby Everett. 

Lo.  

Fashion Forward

I just got an email from Saks Fifth Avenue. Subject line, 'Just for you.' Aw, how sweet. I opened it. Scrolled down. Revealed that the items pre-selected for me by retail's creepy algorithm were canvas mules. (no.) dopey rain boots (no.) and white converse high tops with a heart on them (what are those? no!) 

I imagined the virtual Saks personal shopper cringing when she hit send. Or perhaps she was hopeful. Could these low performing items stuck somewhere in between 1996 and 2000 lure her in? If only we could get her in the store; what we could offer. 

***

I used to wonder how so many of my teachers from grade school all the way through grad school could get stuck in a certain era. They all seemed to possess a revolving wardrobe of outfits that had been purchased in between 1984 and 1991. Following their particular beloved fashion forward year, they had never gone shopping again.

I have vivid memories of lectures given in shoulder pads and roostered bangs; Laura Ashley dresses, over-sized knit sweaters, stirrup pants. And my English teacher in high school, God love her, who outfitted herself in ensembles circa Moby Dick.

And the funny thing was - they were the good teachers. It was the trendy teachers, that were always kind of sub par.

I now know how they got lost in a given decade. They had kids. They had a career. They looked good in the 80s. (or 90s.) Why not just stay there. 

And this past week, I had a realization. I have become that person. Except I'm stuck in 2005 or 6. When my income went to clothes, shoes, handbags, and specialty cocktails. When life was wrinkle free, slim, trendy, and fleeting. The wake up call I got from Saks was the last straw.  

Recently, I've been noticing, ogling, longing, drooling over ankle boots; glorious black leather booties with fringe, brown ones with buckles, tan ones with trim. The soft leather bags, over-sized blazers, long comfy cardigans, puffy vests, oxfords and knee socks seem almost edible. The good hair, trained makeup, and manicured nails. If only.

If only what? I had more time. More income. I thought about my teachers ... and I thought about the fashionable women I work with. Intellects versus marketers. Do I slip further down the rabbit hole? Or make a dramatic surge toward relevance. I just signed on to Nordstoms.com. I ended up buying a new pair of party shoes for Mary, and some walkers for Bobby. Maybe tomorrow.  

But in my defense. I find so much more joy in dedicating my off hours to other stuff. Stuff that won't ultimately end up in the Goodwill bin. Besides, I'm generally the one behind the camera. 

Lo.

At 36,000 Feet

The chartered bus ride home from Conneaut, Ohio to Pittsburgh marked the last two hours of camp. Two final hours to sing campfire songs in unison, exchange back rubs, laugh about the girl with stinky feet, drool over the dreamy counselor of cabin 7, envy the girl who went to the Banquet with Rory, and exchange phone numbers.

As the bus veered off of I-79, and onto the branch of the winding interstate bound for my hometown, I started to remove myself from the banter and laughter associated with camp’s honored memories, and transitioned out of my role as camper and into that of my parents' daughter.

Every year, I felt like I had changed after spending two weeks away from my mom and dad. I had new skills, songs, jokes; I had gotten a little leaner, a little faster; I had learned a new summer style, adding to my wish list; I was less awkward, more confident in who I was and what I had to offer.

As the skyline came into view, I found myself preparing to capture my mom and dad's welcome home hugs, wondering if they would notice I had changed while locked within their embrace. I envisioned how the back row of my dad’s Transport Van would feel, how my room would look after two weeks spent uninhabited, how goulash, salad, French bread, and a tall glass of milk would taste, how my bed would feel that night. I wondered if everyone, everything was ready to receive the new me.

Undoubtedly, my parents would always comment, giving me a once over. Thinner. From too many lunches and dinners left untouched, relegated to slop buckets at meals end. Tanner, rosier. From forgetting to apply sunscreen on too many occasions. Bigger. Older. Wiser. And somehow altered in a way that my parents probably couldn’t quite identify.

While it was a moment of pride for me, looking back on it, I bet the realization of their daughter's continual maturation year after year was bittersweet for my parents.

***

As I left home yesterday morning, bound for Oklahoma City, I nursed Bobby one last time, and put him down for his morning nap. I hugged Mary mid-motion as she ran from one side of our front porch to the next, pretending she was a lion cub in her cage. I caught her kisses as I backed out of the driveway and replayed her farewell message in my head as I drove to the airport. It was a 24 hour trip, but I knew by the time I got home they would have changed just a bit.

Mary will add a couple more words to her arsenal of vocabulary and moves to her interpretative choreography. And she’ll be a little more aware of the distance between today and tomorrow night. Bobby will be taller, rounder, hungrier. And likely, as he teeters on the edge of another milestone, he will be over it by the time I walk through the door this evening.

The other night as I was nursing Bobby to bed, he turned his head as if to tell me that he’d had enough. Okay, little one. Then night night. When he woke up at midnight upset from hunger pangs, I turned to my natural taming device to lull him back to sleep. He turned his head and cried harder. I offered again, but he seemed more frustrated, inconsolable. Finally, I pulled an emergency bottle out of the refrigerator and soothed him back to sleep with it.

Without a back-up bottle in the morning, I coaxed him into nursing, but I could tell he was losing interest. He wanted his bottle. Not me.

I remembered when Mary turned her head to me as well, cried harder, demanded her bottle. She signaled to me that she had grown up, asserting a pearl of independence that I wasn't ready for. She was my little baby, and I wanted her to stay that way. So if like Mary, Bobby figured out how to wean himself prematurely, I at least know that I got to cherish the last moment we spent in our chair, cow to calf.

Everyone more senior tells me that they grow up too fast. I'm too aware. In fact, I'd say the second seems faster than the first. But while I know each day, whether I'm there or not, my babies will grow and change and find a way that is all their own, they will always be my babies. And my love, warmth, and desire to nourish them will always be there. They will never outgrow my embrace.

Lo.

Call On Me

In a world before mobile devices, there were pay phones. Large, clunky machines, jacked into a wall or booth were standard in any public building or facility. A mere 35 cents (the last time I used one) earned you a 10 digit call for a set amount of time, but if you didn't have change, you could always call collect.

At my dance studio, the pay phone was located on a wall to the right of the door, tucked behind a staircase that led up to the gymnasium where the early 90s versions of Chatham College students would work out and shoot hoops in unflattering gray sweat pants. My class though, was straight ahead through the double doors and down three steps.

Within my hour long tap class, I would float away to a world where I was triple ball changing with Shirley Temple and Gene Kelly. It was the highlight of any given week. Surrounded by mirrors reflecting my best self, pumped with the rhythms of Paula Abdul, removed from the judgement of my schoolmates, I passionately danced in leotards that proudly exposed my 6X tummy.

An hour later, as the 6:00 PM adult jazz students started arriving and putting their shoes on, I would return to reality, and the pending worry that accompanied it. Would I have a case to take the pay phone off the receiver tonight? Please say no.

After changing, my classmates and I waited outside, looking for our rides to come around the bend. Divya went first. Then Meghan, Nuka, Ozzie, and Devon. Sarah and Jackie were next. It was down to me and Mandy. It was always okay with one other person sharing my burden. Five minutes went by. Six. 'Ah, there she is,' Mandy sighed. 'See you next week.' One left. Me left. Seven minutes, eight. No tears. No crying. Nine minutes. Ten. Eleven. I dug around in my dance bag, no change. The tears started coming.

I walked back inside and picked up the phone.
1-800-C.O.L.L.E.C.T. Ding!
Please enter the number you would like to call.
412-Home.
Please say your name.
A quivery Loooaaaaa.
Please hold while we connect your call.
My mom would answer as if totally surprised to hear from me. I could hear Evening Magazine and my brother and sister in the background. She said Dad was on his way.
Okay. Pull yourself together. Don't let the collegiates see you with red eyes. Inevitably, a minute later my Dad would be there. Phew. Let's get out of here and eat some Linguine with clam sauce.

***

Comparatively, picking up my Mom last weekend in our ever connected world was a lot less dire. On Friday night, we heard that she was stuck in New Orleans. On Saturday morning she was stranded at Midway, in need of getting to her golden destination. I knew that feeling well, so we packed up the car, kids and all, and came to her rescue.

Where are we going (clap, clap, clap) 
Save Nana! 

We didn't have definitive weekend plans, so it was no sweat off our backs; rather a chance to dress the kids in their Irish ware ...

... hang out with Nana and Opa, run into old friends, take some Domerific photos (pardon the pout), and further indoctrinate our children into Notre Dame's cultish culture.

My parents were very appreciative (Peter even got to go to the game as a thank you.) I figured how many times had my parents driven out of their way to pick me up, see me play or perform, or show me something new? I was happy to be the in case of emergency number, and when we were running fifteen minutes late, relieved that I could text my mom and say we were on our way. She showed no signs of teary eyes when we pulled up at entrance 2.

Looking back on it, I don't know why I used to get so nervous about my parents being a couple minutes late to pick me up. It's ridiculous, but I think with each passing minute, I feared that I would never seem them again. Yes, dramatic, but a possibility in my young mind.

This week, as I was flying higher and higher above the Midwestern landscape and south into Arkansas, the same fears I had as a kid started creeping up. I got nervous that something would happen, that I wouldn't make it home in one piece and that I wouldn't be there to pick up my kids when they were waiting for me.

I reasoned my way out of the paranoia and into my book, and lucky for me there was cell phone reception on the other end of my flight. With it, pictures and texts relaying news about Bobby crawling up stairs and cruising, Mary wearing undies all day, and Daddy surviving the night without me. Better than that, there was Facetime in the morning and more photos throughout the day. Finally, there was ultimate reassurance when I texted, 'landed' late Wednesday night.

I think that's the hardest part about being a working mom, and in particular traveling for work; the gap that exists each day between you and your family. It's challenging and a little scary at times and there's always that possibility that you are going to be late. But knowing you have an amazing partner and extended family at home, making the wait fun (as well as a cell phone with a charger) makes all the difference.

Lo. 

Only A Number

On Saturday Night, the extended family gathered around a big table at the Grille to celebrate Grandma Shirley's birthday. As she blew out the candle on her gold brick sundae, she offered some sage advice to the chatty group surrounding her.

She said, 'there's no use lying about your age. When I graduated from high school in 1944, I knew people could look me up. So then and there I owned up to being 18 and I wasn't going back. Regardless, age is only a number. [She paused.] You and you and you can all get older, but I won't.'

God, I love her.

For this elite member of the Greatest Generation, age truly is a mere figure. Earlier that morning she had been evaluating the wind, rain and waves coming into Belmont Harbor, ultimately concluding that her crew should take the Peggy O out for a soggy Harbor cruise. Reflecting on the outing, she told me 'it was great; it showed that we don't just boat on perfect summer days.' (I do.)

At 89, she does Yoga every day and can handle my 22 pound 7-month old. She always has the hair and nails to match her perfectly polished ensemble. She texts and I swear is just short of tweeting. She'll raise you a book recommendation and match you opinion for opinion in a political debate. She tried and ruled out your next health craze 60 years ago; if you ask she'll tell you what works. No matter what life hands her, she survives with a radiant smile. And the only thing she loves more than a great party are the family members that saved the date to be there.

While according to Shirley, the definition of age is relative at best, there is something about the years of life experience racked up that should be taken into account when celebrating another of milestone. 

Take the number of branches and leaves that now stem from the Nebraskan soil that sprouted a sweet little Irish girl in 1926. 

Which roughly translates into the number of people who RSVP yes to your party. 

Or that you can't just serve any old thing at dinner; a seasoned veteran knows what to order and how to eat well ...  

... all while managing that trim figure. 

When the next generation of frenzied explorers needs to settle down, 89 years translates into an evolved grace and care that has an undeniable calming effect on the room.  

   
A lifetime of practice means not sweating, but rather appreciating the small stuff. And knowing which battles to pick, while laughing off the others.
 
After nearly nine decades, everyone knows and respects your name. They can't help adding the words super, great and grand to it.

And one party isn't enough. You need two, three and sometimes four of them.

After a weekend dedicated to celebrating this legendary lady, I headed back to work on Monday. Several fast paced days and too many restless nights followed. When I looked into the mirror yesterday morning, I noticed several lines around my eyes growing more pronounced. After counting up the number of years I've racked up and the number of leaves on my tree, I figured I had earned these stripes. But in thinking about SGS's wise words last weekend, I found myself questioning if I was aging as gracefully. Was I the you, getting older while SGS refuses?

There's no doubt, I'm no longer the 20-something girl with the 20-something perspective that I was. And I'm certainly in a stage of life that can gray hairs and etch lines. But I'm okay with it. And I think according to Shirley, that's the first step.

Hey world, I'm 33! But with a house full of babies, most days I'm 33 going on three. The days are long, the nights are short, and I'm doing more than I ever did as a teen, or collegiate or young professional. (Honestly, I question what I was doing with all my time back then?) But these are great years and ultimately I believe the scars from them will just be reminders of how sweet they were.

Happy birthday Gigi! Thank you for helping to make life so super for all of us.

Lo.