Vacation Time

The days are getting a little longer in Chicago, which means I'm more and more able to squeeze in a walk with my kids after work. On Monday, we did just that. I walked, Mary rode her trike, and Bobby drove his car close behind.

'Where we goin, Mary?' Bobby asked. 

'To Ryan's house.' 

'Okay. To Ryan's house,' he replied.

They made it as far as the playground up the street from our house. They ran around while I soaked up the last sunlight of the day, thankful that spring had nearly arrived. 

As it got darker, I coaxed them onto their preferred modes of transportation and toward our house once again. As Mary looked up from the handlebars of her trike, she saw a car with a sign on its roof. It was a student driver, but without being able to read you could mistake it for a taxi cab or a delivery vehicle. 

Mary turned back to me and said, 'hey Mom, how about let's do a pizza tonight, okay?' 

I chuckled, hating to disappoint her with my answer too: 'We're having leftovers.' 

In reality, a pizza sounded great. And easier than a myriad of trips to the microwave. 

***

Peter and I used to consider dinner time our "special time." There was something nearly sacred about it. During work, I would find a new recipe, something we hadn't tried yet. I would make a list of groceries for Peter to pick up on the way home. We would call each other on the commute, ensuring we hadn't forgotten anything. Say a bottle of wine. 

It was just the two of us. We would change out of coats, ties, dresses, and nylons, listen to a record, chop, saute, and simmer together, while sipping the stress of another day at the office away. We might sit down to dinner at 7:30 or 8:00. If the meal was particularly plate worthy, I would photograph it, potentially adding its noteworthiness to my blog the following morning. We were foodies, culinarians, and snobs seven days a week and it was glorious. 

Nowadays, I shop with the masses every Sunday after church, trying to plan five or six meals for the week. They are all recipes that I know by heart and by habit. All executable in 30 minutes or less. Even if the dinner turns out better than usual, even if the glass of wine that accompanies it is perfectly paired, there is no photography and no boasting, because there is never anything long, luxurious, or leisurely about dinner. 

I get up at least ten times during any one sitting. Most nights, Mary and Bobby don't even like what I cook. I occasionally screw up these days, to the dismay of Peter. I've resorted to BLTs and tuna salad sandwiches too frequently. And Lou Malnatti is sometimes my best friend. There's a reason Mary knew what that type of car typically means. 

"Special time" is more like survival time lately ... that is until everyone is silenced with an ice cream cone.

So ... with that said, I've discovered the other special time that Peter and I need to set aside in our lives as frequently as possible. It's called vacation time. Yesterday afternoon, we flew the friendly skies all the way to a beautiful, historic resort in Phoenix. Everyone was excited and for the most part on their best behavior. 

Here, poolside, while our kids are splashing and staying afloat in the water, Peter and I will have a drink and dinner, and relax like we used to. And I guarantee as we are flying home, back to the chaos of our every day, I will be planning our next vacation. 

Lo. 

Today and To Maui

Growing up, I occasionally accompanied my Mom to her office on Saturday mornings. The 38th floor of the Oxford Center Building was quiet on the weekends, nearly empty save a few other over achieving name partners racking up extra billable hours. In the privacy of her office, my mom would check her mail, add a couple more 'period and paragraph' commands to her dictation, top the leaning tower of tiny tapes awaiting her secretary, and pack up a couple heavy brown files to export home. She used to joke that lawyers never needed to lift weights. 

In the meantime, I would venture to the firm's supply closet. Past the library, around the corner from the mini basketball hoop, across from the break room which was always stocked with hot chocolate packets, were the double doors to heaven. Shelves and shelves lined with the office manager's finest handiwork. I would sift through manila folders, transparency sheets, legal pads, paper clips, highlighters and Bic pens, gathering must haves to complete my imaginary, entrepreneurial line of work. 

Back in my mom's office, I would transcribe my own notes while my Mom dictated hers. I would punch holes, index, and file while my Mom reassembled the parts of her latest case. I would envision my path to a corner office just as my Mom had paved her own.

*** 

On Monday morning, I was packing my bag to head out of town for the week. First stop Charlotte, then on to L.A. Mary came upstairs to let me know she had just 'finished her work too.' She told me she had needed to do a couple things. I chuckled. 

Her 'work' is encapsulated in the little freebie notebooks I bring home from the office; volumes of them at this point. She will scribble incomprehensible notes, filling up every line of a single page while narrating all kinds of stuff: messages to her classmates and cousins, tips on dancing, art projects, and making pancakes, her schedule over the next month, and anything else that is at the top of her inquisitive mind. 

She is clearly mimicking me. And recently, as I've found myself opening my laptop more at home, Mary and I will do early morning work together in the dim light of the living room. The process takes me back to the Saturdays I spent with my mom downtown. 

I can't find anything negative about it. In fact, when I was young I found the mother / daughter time enjoyable and even motivating. But similar to me, Mary will finish her 'work' before I do. I'll ask her for one more second, one more finishing touch, one more 'save', 'hit send', 'okay shutting down,' 'patience, please.' I can remember my Mom saying, 'one more thing' as well.  

But at the close of last week, my VP reminded me to not only have a weekend, but to enjoy it. 

I responded, 'these days, it's hard to do that.' 

His reply, '...but important to try.' 

So I did. I closed my computer on Saturday morning, once and for all, got down on the ground and just played with my kids. We went bike riding, made Valentines, and hung out at the playground. I focused on my husband's line of work instead of my own at his bank dinner followed by several games of Bocce on Saturday night. And the icing on the cake, I helped Peter's family celebrate his Oma's 90th birthday party on Sunday. 

As I fly from point A to point B this morning, I've been reflecting on the people around the table on Sunday. Oma's sons, grand kids, and great grand babies. Her close friends; the people who have always relieved the stress of life, instead of applied it.  

I've been thinking about the words summarized in a champagne toast dedicated to her. It was about the cookies and cakes she made to sweeten a day, the socks and blankets she knitted to warm a heart, the offshore adventures documented in photo albums, the laughter contrasted with the straight German practicality she was raised with, the people and animals, here and in heaven, who have been touched by her kindness and generosity.  

And I've been thinking about getting to 90, about weekends, vacations and practicing aloha on the weekdays that can become overwhelming. About closing my computer a little more often to find the sun, blue skies, sandy beaches, and peaceful mantra that attracted Peter's grandma to the shores of Hawaii over the years. 

About how mother / daughter time should be grounded most in a love of life and those in it, which in my case, just happens to include a love of my job at times. 

Lo. 

The Birthday Boy and His Mom

Last week, I had lunch with a senior manager of marketing and consumer engagement for one of our largest chicken suppliers. She was dressed in a knit jacket, dark pants, and wrap around coat to keep out the northern cold. Her hair was blown out, nails done, make-up perfect, the part of a seasoned marketer.

The restaurant was packed, so we grabbed a high boy table in the bar area. We talked about our careers to date and our paths going forward. She was about twenty years my senior and had an experience set and confidence level that was admirable. We talked about our families, and ironically, shared hometown. I wouldn't have guessed through her slight southern drawl that she was born and raised in Carrick, PA.

Midway through the conversation as we related over the occasional struggles of being working moms, she told me something that I didn't take lightly. In so many words she said we put too much pressure on ourselves; we're going to give ourselves heart attacks.Yikes. But I related.

This week, I found too much truth in that statement.

The world, and particularly our nation, spun out of control. Walls, bans, orders, lists, alternate facts. Are you kidding me? Did this all just happen?

As I walked the hallways and staircases of my office, my head ached with less critical debates about the size of a chicken tender, the price of it, and how much variability to expect. I got legal heartburn over citric acid, materiality, and glutamates. I brought the nightmares of bigger birds, holding times, oil life expectancy, and food safety to bed with me.

I opened the door greeted by the best, most nourishing hugs in the world. But shortly after someone was screaming, the other was crying, and Peter and I commenced the three ring circus to keep them happy and at peace until dinner was on the table, baths were drawn, and lights were out for the night. Then I tried to figure out who could take the place of my sick nanny tomorrow.

On Monday, I 'woke up' after trying to get Bobby back to sleep since 3:00 AM. My tone at a big meeting was less cheery, more threatening than I had ever been before. My computer crashed midday, and I almost cried to my old boss about it. I felt like I was crashing myself. I closed my broken computer, went home, and moved on to stacking the layers of Bobby's birthday cake. Mary tinted the icing a teal blue, which clashed horrendously with the red velvet layers underneath. The cake looked shoddy. Ugh. Fail.

Somewhere in between the pizza, salad, and singing of 'Happy Birthday,' I looked around and started to realize that these were the people and the moments that mattered though. And the cutie pie right in front of me, trying again and again to blow out the pair of candles on his cake had just turned two. And what a two year old he is.

He's cute as a button and as curious as can be. He adores his Daddy, and I'm pretty sure his Mommy too. He looks up to and loves his big sister. He also spats about this and that with her: the coveted book, toy, ball, show du jour. When things turn to punching and pulling hair, he's very good at saying 'sorry, Mary' and hanging out in his crib as a timeout. He loves Thomas and all of his train friends, as well as cars, ambulances, fire trucks, dozers (as he calls them), cranes, buses, planes, and any other motoring mode of transportation. He loves exploring outside, coloring inside, reading a stack of books at a time, running around and jumping up and down in his bare feet, his little owl and his big owl, and his precious blue blanket. He speaks like a grown up at times, and I'm shocked every day at the new words and phrases he spouts out. I love him to death, and can't hug him enough each day.

This weekend, I made Bobby a better birthday cake. I took the extra time, added all my love, and looked up to Chef Olga for her baker's blessing. We hosted a small birthday party; Aunt Dee Dee, Aunt Erin, my Mom and Dad even made the trip in. It was very special and Bobby couldn't have been happier with all the fun that the weekend held.

I'm thankful every day for the blessings that I've been given. One of which is of course my little Bobby. And I'm finding more and more that I need to pause and reflect on them as much as I can; I need to let the hugs when I leave in the morning and when I return last a little longer; I need to put work away, and bring my best, most patient self into my home; And I need to demonstrate through words, and especially actions, how to love your brother, sister and neighbor.

I have high hopes for this next generation, all the adorable babies, toddlers and children that fill my Facebook feed every day.  But so much is riding on our ability to be great parents. And the world is challenging us more than ever to step up to the plate.

Lo.

 

Happily Ever After

During the first year and a half of raising Mary, I vowed to steer clear of princesses. There were little girls in our neighborhood running around in princess dresses on a day to day basis, and I said, no way was that happening in this house. Instead I bought her Legos, trains, blocks, and introduced her to the great outdoors; I wanted to lay the foundation for math, engineering, science, and adventure. I didn't want to believe what everyone told me; that it was only a matter of time before the lure of Disney's fair maidens got to her.

Naturally, it was of my own doing. Or undoing. The first movie I let her watch was Cinderella. I was on maternity leave, I needed a break, and it was one of my favorites growing up. Mary fell in love with everything about it: the mice and the dress they make Cinderella, the Fairy Godmother's appearance, Cinderella's ball gown, the prince, the glass slipper, and the couple's happily ever after. She asked for Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo to be added to her nightly lullaby repertoire, Her second birthday carried a Cinderella theme. When we went to Disney World last year she almost cried when she met her princess heroine, giving her the biggest hug she could muster. She was a goner.

After Cinderella came a host of others: Little Mermaid, Tangled, Frozen, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Alladin and just recently Beauty and the Beast. She fell deeper under Disney's spell. But after all the vetoes, I found myself not minding. (After all, I'm still entranced by the magic of these movies.) There was something else too - a different angle to these fairy tales that I suddenly saw as an adult.

It was Cinderella and her opening song that made me have a change of heart. I started to really listen to the lyrics, and they revealed something that I never knew was in the film.

At the beginning, after the clock on the castle sounds her daily alarm, she sings from her tower:
A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you're fast asleep.
In dreams you will lose your heartache, whatever you wish for you keep.
Have faith in your dreams and someday, a rainbow will come shining through.
No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing,
The dream that you wish, will come true.

Brilliant. Suddenly, the idea of a Cinderella story took on a new meaning. It's not so much about a girl going from rags to riches, being saved by a prince. It's all about faith. It's about a girl who never gives up, who keeps joy and love in her heart despite all the cruelty that descends upon her. It's about grace and a happy ending despite what the world might tell us is too hard to come by.

Wait. That is something I want Mary to emulate. As a future engineer of course. After watching the movie and some its predecessors for the seemingly hundredth time, I tried to explain this point of view. She still liked when the mice were making Cinderella's dress the best. Point taken, that's a cute part.

But just about a week ago, I didn't need to look to the movies anymore to show her how faith and hope can lead to a happily ever after.

My sister has always believed in hers. She stayed full of love, joy and grace throughout the period of time when her heart was aching. She never needed a make-over, she had lots of great dresses to choose from, she just needed to keep the faith. Which is no easy task when life looks a little scary.

She put herself out there, and on a beautiful summer day on the Allegheny River, she met her prince, an engineer at that. It was love at first paddle. A thousand adventures and corresponding selfies later, they got engaged, and are now planning their happily ever after.

When Erin told us her news, Mary shared a look of astonishment and excitement. A ball gown, a prince, a kiss, maybe even a couple glass slippers went swirling through her mind. Pure magic. Okay, maybe she didn't get all the other stuff, but she knows how wonderful Aunt Erin is and how she deserves the happiness that came her way because she always believed in it.

So this is my redefinition of Cinderella's story. And it's one I think every girl should know.

Happy Engagement Erin and Joe!

Lo.

Christmas Past and Present

As my grandparents aged, my Mom and Dad took over the role of hosting dinner and present palooza on Christmas Day. My Grandpa Barry would still insist on purchasing the turkey, but my Dad would prepare his mom's dinner complete with all the trimmings. It was the grand finale in a line-up of three holiday feasts that my parents would graciously serve over 48 hours.

Aunt Dee Dee, Meghan, Ryan and Evan were always the first to arrive on the afternoon of Christmas Day. My Mom had told everyone 4:00 PM, but the Cumpstons came around 3:30, just as my Mom was finishing the tables. Following closely behind were my Grandma and Grandpa Barry. Uncle Mike would arrive with an extra bottle of Jim Beam to replenish the Manhattan supply. Aunt Chrissy would bring her signature spinach dip. Their kids, Anna, Ellen and Grace were the baby cousins, cute as can be. Aunt Kay would arrive in seasonal leather pants, magnums of Gloria Ferrer in tow, 'Heeeey!!' Aunt Amy was a contrast in leopard print, carrying a giant plate of competing cookies to the ones my brother, sister and I had made. Beth was home from Japan, 'konichiwa!' and Aunt Meg, from Virginia Beach, 'hola guapas!' Aunt Joyce rounded out the cookie table with her handmade creations. There were significant others and foreign friends that added some extra oomph to the dynamic over the years. There were three tables, each more crowded than the next. My parents house got loud, then louder.

Everyone had arrived with bags and boxes that filled more than half of my parents spacious living room. Chaos always ensued after the multi pronged attempts to get everyone to try the cookies they had made. After presents, there was a Christmas Play, produced and directed by me naturally. 'YEAH!!!!" rang through the basement rafters as the troop of cousins took their bows. My Dad playing carols on the piano, my Grandpa bellowing them above everyone else, always ended the evening. The snow was just starting again and my Mom would tell everyone they were welcome to stay over. 'There are bunks for everyone,' she would announce. Her false hope never coming true. Grandpa wanted his own pillow after all. 

During these years, while I was in middle and high school, my cousins and I thought we ruled the roost; that we were so funny, so smart. We would watch and make note of what bottle of champagne the adults were, waiting for the conversation to shift into a more slurred state. We irreverently would laugh and laugh at the aunts and uncles, our parents included, as everyone reached bubbly bliss. We gathered ammo for years on the quotes and actions that would emerge by the end of the night. 

'Yes, we have a lot to carry' ... (Well, they did.) 

'I'm so glad you are friends and that you play together.' ... (that was actually a really nice sentiment.)
'Maybe it's because of the reason ...' (my cousin was home from Iraq - makes total sense.)

We repeated these lines over and over again. They never got old. To us. The next Christmas we would wait and hope for more fodder to emerge by the end of the night.

***

Thinking back on these years, and the ten or so before them, I realized they carry many of the memories that defined the feeling of Christmas for me.

Now, with the passing of my Grandparents, with my displacement from the Pittsburgh arena over the holidays, with a marriage and kids of my own, with new relations, and ones that have become more distant, I've found Christmas to have a new mood to it. One that I'm more or less responsible for creating, instead of passively receiving. I'm the scheduler, coordinator, host and magic maker, looking for the sparks of pure joy on the faces of those under Christmas' spell.

It's a lot more work, a lot more tiring, and it takes me back to those things that we used to laugh at my aunts about.

First champagne is the best thing ever. So the fact you all went through multiple magnums is awesome.
Also yes, Aunt Kay, there is a hell of a lot to wrap, bake, schlep, and carry around.
Aunt Dee Dee, I too am so thankful for those moments when everyone gets along and plays together nicely.
And it's true, certain things just seem to magically come together, click, and taste better because of the reason. Carolers showing up at your doorstep, maple twists that turn out just right, a timely nutcracker tutorial, a class party that I actually got to attend, two greats, four generations, an uncanny prayer said before dinner, great food paired with great wine, and no middle schoolers to make fun of you.

Though exhausting, these are wonderful years, a new generation of Christmas memories for me. And I'm so thankful to my fellow magic makers at home, school, and Church, for making the season so special for my family.

Lo.