On Leave

Margaret has the most perfect little hands. She is grasping things now and when she reaches out to hold one of my fingers I catch myself just staring at her soft white nails, the wrinkles on her fingers, dimples on her knuckles, and little rolls around her wrists. There is not a mark on them, not a worry that has whittled down her nails. The contrast between her hands and mine after two nail biting Jodi Picoult books is striking. 

I've been on maternity leave for eight weeks, nearly two months. And by now, everyone is sleeping at night, napping concurrently, and relatively predictable. Mary is back in school, Bobby basks in the extra attention, Margaret is full of rolls and contentment, and I'm well ... a seasoned mom at this point. Life with three has gotten pretty manageable. So manageable in fact, that there are days when I come home after dropping Mary at school and think, now what are we going to do all day?

Oh yeah ... just about the same thing we did yesterday.

I go to the park for the twelfth time this week. I read a Chapter of my latest book as Margaret sucks down her morning snack. I line up Bobby's cars by color and make his prized stuffed owls talk. I change a baby poop and coax a big boy to make his on the potty. Ten attempts later, it's out and I'm cleaning up the areas where he missed. I argue the pros of putting shoes on and the cons of walking through the drug store with bare feet. I bike over to school to pick up Mary, lingering with the Moms in the pick up line; please don't get into your car yet, please don't let the adult interaction end. We have chicken tenders and baby carrots for lunch. Again. I try to take a nap, but I'm not tired anymore. So I read. And think. And worry. I have a little book club conversation with myself. And I worry again. I attempt to make something a little more complicated for dinner, but it looks mediocre by my once high standards. I write two or three emails that correspond rather than produce. I dish out snacks, turn on the hose, stay clear of getting soaked, then get reprimanded by the neighbor as Bobby drenches his house. I pour myself a glass of wine. And we wait for Daddy to get home.

There are times when I want to stray from the routine, but I'm not that good yet. The full time moms who have honed their craft tell me about other things to do. They also manage to chair leagues and boards, play tennis with their friends in the morning and organize new comer events in the evening; they volunteer and coach, carry on eloquent conversations while bouncing toddlers on their hips, are dressed and done up and smiling; they know you and everyone knows them. My stab at full time motherhood pales in comparison to their expertise. 

So I find myself looking forward to the weekends more the usual. Partly because there has been fun stuff going on; but also because I need the days that aren't time bound by pick ups, drop offs, and naps to try a new adventure; ideally one that ends with Mommy and Daddy getting to have drinks with people our own age. 

         

It's not that I don't love this time with my kids. I cherish it. It's just that I've been feeling a little sluggish and unproductive recently. And yesterday didn't help.

I took the kids to visit my coworkers at the office. It was the obligatory show off the baby trip. They all gushed for a minute or two and then zipped off. They were literally running to focus groups, product showings, high profile presentations and tense meetings. Holding my infant carrier, in no hurry other than getting Bobby to a potty if need be, I felt like an outsider. And I missed it all. The frenzy, the crisis resolution, and the sense of purpose you get as you catapult a project forward. I know I'll be back soon, but I got discouraged.

That is, until I started thinking a little more about my current job as a full time mom.

Am I being productive? Absolutely. I just produced the most amazing little person eight weeks ago. And I continue to produce milk for her, adding to her collection of rolls every day.

Am I creating? Sure. I create content that will help shape my children. I play and color, teach and discipline, laugh vigorously and love tirelessly. I create character and characters. After all, in light of recent events, isn't instilling love over hate, action over rhetoric, and inclusiveness over intolerance in the next generation the best thing to create?

Am I learning something new every day? You bet.

Am I driven to succeed? It's mostly intrinsic, but without a doubt.

Do I love what I'm doing. So much.

So for the next five or six weeks, till I can no longer hemorrhage cash, I will be totally satisfied just staring. Or rather marveling at the little miracles in my life; their big blue eyes, their button noses, their soft squishy skin. I'll listen as attentively as possible to the things they say and respond patiently. I'll soak up the way they run and dance and jump all over the house. And I'll hold on to the way they hug me and tell me I'm the best Mommy ever, even though they have no point of comparison. If only ... there was a way to get compensated for the hardest, messiest, and best full time job ever.

Lo.

Dinnertime ... 6 Years Later

The Early Riser is more than nine years old. Which is hard for me to believe for a couple of reasons. First, that nine years has gone by since Kim from business school inspired me to start blogging; and second, that the person writing nine years ago was in fact me.

I've gone through an evolution - from b school to corporate American, from my apartment to our house, from dating, to engaged, to married, to being a parent. With it, I'd like to say I've matured both in character and writing style. I traded in flowery language for the straight forward, hyperbole for realism, boasting for complaining, inexpert advice for unanswered questions. I've become a little less 'Lo' and a lot more me. 

If you track my approach to the subject of dinnertime over the years, the evolution is particularly noticeable. I started writing about dinner as an elegant affair every evening. (And it was - gloriously so.) Nine years later, I'll call our evening meal more ... down to earth.  

About a month before we were married (two years into Lo's view on life) I wrote about our approach to dinner for the first time. And although the writing is a little fluffy, the sentiments are real. Peter and I used to plan, plot, and look forward to a beautifully prepared dinner every night. We cherished that time together and lingered over it. As a present day reader, I am downright envious of it.

In the fall of 2012, a year later and about five months before we became parents for the first time, I expressed fears that our 'special time' would face some sacrifices. Nothing dire. Nothing that would take away the integrity of what Peter and I had built. But I was a realist - I'd be prepared (or so I thought.) That evening I had made potato crusted halibut and a french apple tart. Seriously? 

Then I got jolted. Mary came along. I was juggling work, day care pick ups, marathon training, and the fact that I still wanted to get a great dinner on the table every night. I started to find patterns in the menu planning. There were repeats now. Our timing moved from a couple hours to perhaps thirty or forty five minutes. We didn't sit down to debate, laugh, and plan our life ahead. Rather, one of us was seated while the other got a bite after every lap around the house, walking the baby from fussy to sleepy. Five laps later, dinner was usually cold.  

Fast forward to 2017. Another test of dinnertime. Three babies and while I'm not back at work yet, the day to day is crazy enough. I grocery shop as quickly as possible once a week. I have a rehearsed repertoire and a memorized list that goes with it. Fruits, veges, snacks, cereal, and THREE gallons of milk. Pork and chicken (the easy lean cuts which Peter discriminates against for their lack of flavor), bacon (BLTs - fan favorite), more bacon (what about two nights of BLTs?), brats or even hot dogs work, steaks for Sunday night (because they're his favorite), and then how many nights this week can I eek by on scrambled eggs and wine? And what night do I get to go out? Note to self, text Camille.

Cooking is quick. Dinner is quicker. The conversation is a highlight and so necessary, but it's interrupted every two minutes with, 'Mommy, I need more milk.'

Last week though, I experienced something that I hadn't in a while. Dinnertime - the way we used to share it, or at least as close as I've been in a while. 

While my sitter was still here in the morning, I made some dough. While the kids were napping, I mixed up the filling. Peter texted that he was going to be late; I could tell it was a long day for him. That evening, with Mary and Bobby watching TV in the basement and Margaret wrapped like a marsupial against my body, I started rolling out dough, cutting it and stuffing pork dumplings one by one. I fried them in a little peanut oil, adding a flour and water mixture to the bottom of the pan which creates this pancake like bottom to each pot sticker. I made a soy and wasabi dipping sauce and then stir fried green beans. I got out a Pinot Gris we had tasted and loved when we toured the wineries of northern Michigan last fall. And I set the table. In the dining room.

Peter got home, opened the lid to the pot, and said, 'this looks amazing!' His excitement and gratitude, and with it mine, were exactly what dinnertime was all about. It was something that I did for him, but that we both ended up loving more and more. And at this juncture of our life, it makes me a little sad that I can't provide the magic that I used to on a nightly basis. 

***

On Sunday, Peter and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. After a challenging day at home, we thanked Eva a million times over for coming to our rescue so we could go out to dinner. 

I had written a card to Peter that morning and handed it to him after we ordered our cocktails. On the front were Cinderella and Prince Charming; inside was something about life being a fairy tale. I added these words to it: 

Despite ... 

Lots of tears over a sore tongue (Bobby suffered from hand foot and mouth disease all weekend)
Accidents and wet undies 
Stinky poops and spit up  
Sassy pants
Time outs  
Little sleep and littler naps  
Not enough time to sip a glass of wine and enjoy every bite
Not enough time to just be together  
... It's still a fairy tale and I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Life, even at a stage I didn't anticipate nine years ago, is a dream come too. Dinnertime will certainly return. And likely I'll try to make it even better. But I have a feeling at that stage, we'll long for the little kids and chaos around our table. 

Peter, thank you for six amazing years together. You will always be my prince charming.  

And to our newest little princess, happy one month birthday! 

Lo. 

... And The Weeks That Follow

While I would characterize the first week as a mom of three as a little too easy, I'd like to contrast weeks two and three as a brush with reality. After many months getting plenty of sleep, I was ready to battle sleep deprivation for six or seven days. But when you hit night 15 or 16 of sleeplessness, you get tired and what's worse cranky. The truth: being a newly minted mom of three young children is tough. And to illustrate, here is a little recap of how this week went, written with about as much clarity as my third cup of coffee for the day will allow.

***

At 4:00 AM the baby wanted to eat again then spent the next two hours grunting from gas or a two hour attempt to make a bowl movement. Needless to say, she didn't let me go back to sleep. At 6:00 AM, Mary and Bobby called me out of my bed to take them downstairs for breakfast.

Ok. I can do this. Naptime is only ... ugh ... seven hours from now.

I made breakfast. No one ate it. I downed a cup of coffee and made the kids ride their bikes up and down the street, despite the fact that their outside voices were likely waking up the neighborhood.

That activity didn't last long enough. They were back inside running around the house, chasing each other by 7:00 AM.

The baby looked up at me as if to say, 'please save me from all this noise.' But I couldn't save her.

The desired state of synchronized napping didn't pan out the way I wanted it to. I slept for about fifteen minutes - enough to have a nightmare that my kids would go blind from watching the solar eclipse.

I read two pages in my book and had to put it down again. I swear I have already fed the baby ten times today.

On Monday night, I got ready for Mary's parent information night at school. I noticed my hair was shedding more than usual - one of those lovely postpartum symptoms that always seems to attack me a little earlier than the rest of the maternal population.

I finished getting ready, putting on a little make-up for the first time in about ten days. I opted for a 'summer sweater' thinking that the classroom and auditorium would be air conditioned. Peter said, 'you look nice, but isn't it a little hot for a sweater?'

'It's what fits.'

I brushed it off ... until I sat down in a miniature chair in the classroom, trying to listen to Mary's Pre-K teacher go through her policies while dabbing at the sweat dripping down my forehead. So much for that make-up. As if the comment was only addressed at me the teacher said they didn't have air conditioning - just this (very little and very ineffective) fan. I couldn't take it anymore, I ripped off my sweater and sat there in an ill fitting camisole. Still sweating. When I stood up, I noticed my zipper was down. What an awesome first appearance. Who goes to a parent night two weeks after giving birth anyway? I was going stir crazy though - I needed to see people, do something, get out.

On Wednesday night I literally set the table with i-Pads next to the kids' plates. I knew they would be tired after coming home from dance class. Or was I just tired? I rationalized that the devices would teach them more than I could in the next thirty minutes.

The kids fought over the new train game Daddy installed on the iPad. They fought over a little chicken that was part of my Fisher Price barn growing up. Somehow it ended up at our house and for about ten minutes became the hottest commodity in our basement. They fought over who was getting in the car first, who was holding the baby first, who was getting in the bath first, everything but who was going to bed first. They fought over one piece of chalk when 63 others were laying all around them, a rolly polly which ultimately ended up squashed in Bobby's hand, the last of the lemonade and the color of their snack bowl, the sequence of stories at bedtime and who was going to get the last hug goodnight.

They fought just to fight, verbal bickering was followed by a pinch, a push, a pull of the hair, then escalated into Mary hitting a tee-ball right at Bobby's face.

I raised my voice, then I yelled, then I woke up the baby, then everyone cried, then I got a splitting headache, then I dished out hugs and pleaded for everyone just to listen to Mommy, get along, and stop hurting each other. Please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeeeease.

... And the kicker of all of this, I have help just about every day of the week. So who am I to even complain when so many mothers and fathers are doing this by themselves?

***

When you are the opposite of overjoyed: over-stressed, over-anxious, over-sad, or in my case over-tired, the negatives can occasionally overwhelm the positives; a day of good can be darkened by an episode in the evening when you come this close to losing it.

If you let it. And I refuse to.

I haven't gone to sleep once in the past three weeks regretting the controlled chaos we welcomed into our house. Instead I've gone to sleep thankful for it, embracing the moments when everything just clicked, instead of those when things got messy.

I remembered when Mary and Bobby came downstairs hand in hand in the morning to greet me and the baby. I reflected on the sweet way they talk to each other, coach each other and make each other laugh everyday. I thanked my sister-in-law again for the Moby wrap and the extra mobility it allows. I cherished when the house was quiet, when I felt rested, and when I spent an extra thirty minutes with my book.

I remembered when dinner was simmering on the stove and I had some extra time to make one more trip to the park for the day. When the summer nights were just too pretty for words. When the kids snuggled around me at night to hear stories until it was time for the lights to go out. When the hugs, butterfly kisses, and nose rubs warmed me inside and out. And perhaps my favorite moment this past week; when Margaret had her first bath, Mary and Bobby looking in asking if they could help. Mary touched the baby's hand and said, 'I will love you forever.'

Getting through the sleep deprivation and fatigue is about just that; putting love first everyday.

Lo.

A Week and a Day

On Sunday I cried leaving the hospital. With each kid it's been the same thing. It starts when I say goodbye to the nurses at their station and continues as I walk back through the hallways that led me into birth and delivery initially. I hugged the heavy set nurse that accompanied us to the exit to ensure the baby got out safe and sound, and I expressed how thankful I was for three amazing experiences at her hospital.  

On Monday I cried watching my parents drive away; it would be another month before we'd see them again. My mom loves calling that kind of thing out and then lamenting that things go too fast. Which they do. Which only makes me more emotional.

On Tuesday we ate the last of the leftovers from our Davanti take-out and a Sunday 'family dinner' that made up for the ones I so frequently miss by not living in Pittsburgh.

On Wednesday I ate the last piece of cake; an almond hazelnut flourless chocolate cake that I had made my Dad for his birthday. It was so good.

On Thursday I threw away the gladiolas which had browned around the edges. A whole bunch of them, grown in Michigan, were $4 at the grocery store. I had bought them to decorate the house in anticipation of Margaret's arrival. The rest of the house had browned with dust as well. I cleaned and cleaned all morning until everything shined once again.

On Friday evening I opened a celebratory bottle of champagne. Margaret was one week old; the bags under my eyes showed it. By 7:00 PM it was gone. Luckily the cellar is stocked with more.

Today I went for a run, packed up my maternity clothes, vowed to put on something other than sweat pants, showered, put on a little make up, and zipped up a pair of jeans with enough slack in the waist. I was no longer a pregnant mom or a newly evicted hospital patient mom. I was just a mom again.

Tomorrow I'll take the balloons down. Mimi had brought them to the hospital. The kids were running around my hospital room carrying them. We tied them around the railing leading into our house when we got home. The helium has run its course though. They seem less and less lively each morning.

One week in the life of a newborn is nothing but firsts. A first day and night in your new home. A first dinner party complete with a ceremonial trumpet salute. A first swing and then nap in the Mamaroo, followed by a first spin around the play mat, big brother and sister looking on, begging you to do more than your tiny body will allow. First hand me downs and laundry piles dedicated just to you. First sponge baths in the sink and explosive poops all over Mommy right after you've finished. First bedtimes in the bassinet and first slumbers that last longer than four hours (thank heavens).

But with all the joyous firsts, I can't help but reflect on the fleeting nature of them. How fast it has already gone and how fast it will continue to go. I look at my four year, my two year old, and now baby, and wonder how we got this far so quickly.

Tomorrow, along with throwing away pretty pink balloons that I continue to mistake for solicitors at the door as I walk Margaret to sleep around our living room, we'll go to church and I'll likely find myself getting teary eyed. Sure, there are quite a few hormones involved, but ultimately my emotions stem from something else. It's an extreme sense of gratitude I feel every second of every day for the moments in my life and the family that contributes to them. It's been a wonderful week; a week gone too fast; and there's a large part of me hoping it won't be the last of its kind.

Lo.

Meet Margaret

So Margaret.

You've met many of the key players at this point. 

Your Mommy and Daddy. 

Your big brother and sister. 

Four grandparents and two great grandmothers. 

 

Even one of your aunts and uncles and a pair of cousins. 

You probably picked up that we're loud. That things might get a little crowded and chaotic at times. That dinner is a very important decision in our household and cocktail hour starts anytime after 5:00. That we love each other and we are so in love with you. And that we are storytellers in our own right; comedians, musicians, dancers, and artists with a passion for the dramatic (or is that just your Mom?)

Regardless, after the more dramatic birth stories of your sister and brother, I was thinking your tale would rival theirs. But in essence, it was unnaturally uncomplicated. Short, sweet, pain and drama free. You've hardly even cried over the past day and a half. I'll give it some time, but in my initial diagnosis you have me wondering where are the dramatics? 

However, as a storyteller and in the tradition of what I wrote for Mary and Bobby when they were born, I will elaborate on your birth story with one of their and my favorite bedtimes stories. 

Margaret. 

Loosely adapted from Madeleine 

In a white house in Mayberry 

with boxes of red flowers.

Woke a family of four

At a very early hour.  

Mom and Dad left home at half past six

On a chilly August day that Mommy had picked.

At half past six, with pants that didn't fit. 

Mommy went to the hospital, nervous a bit.

To meet her youngest, named Margaret. 

She was big, Mommy could tell. 

Strong too, her kicks firmly felt. 

Mommy was dilated to four

But she needed a little more

To get Margaret out the door. 

So Mommy robed up and got into bed

Got fluids, medicine, and giant legs that turned dead

Dr. Lin kept me calm, Nurse Chris made me laugh.

I was thankful for everyone on the hospital's friendly staff.

A couple hours later, Nana and Opa came on down  

Apparently Nana wanted to be here just as you crowned. 

It was an easy, pain free labor. Completely drama free. 

Then I pushed and pushed till dark hair we could see.

Daddy held one heavy leg, Nurse Chris held the other. 

I pushed three more times, and you were cuddling on your mother.  

I felt a little queezy, so I drank apple juice.
Five minutes later, I sent that juice loose.

At 3:37 PM on August 4, you were born into this world. 

7 pounds, 10 ounces and dark hair with a little swirl. 

No scratches or scars
The easiest birth by far.
Just balloons, presents and flowers

Sushi and champagne at dinner hour.

Mary wanted to hold you, Bobby played with trucks.

Bedtime came too soon, and Mommy said, 'aw shucks.' 

Run off with Daddy, go home and get some sleep

I'll see you soon in the morning, so please don't weep.
They were a sad little crew. 

Mary and Bobby cried, 'boo hoo'

But we want our Mommy too. 

***

Now it's morning little Margaret. 

And we welcome you home today. 

Mary and Bobby love you. 

Everyone will settle in okay.

I'm turning out the light.

And walking out the hospital door. 

I'd say that's the end

But there's going to be a whole lot more.  

I love you and feel so blessed. 

Mommy.

Big Belly. Big Bum.

A couple weeks ago, I got very sick. For about 36 hours, I couldn't keep a thing down and was basically bound to my bed, minus the all too frequent trips to the bathroom.  

The 36 hours spanned two nights or two bed time regimens; a calculated, drawn out affair in our household despite having been consolidated to one bedroom in the recent months.  

From my bed though, I could hear Peter delivering story time, songs, and bedtime snuggles to the kids, reassuring them that I would be back in commission soon. At one point, I heard Mary ask for a braid - part of a new ritual I've instituted to prevent morning bed head and the ensuing screams Mary produces from getting her hair brushed. Unlike the way I wimp out on helping the kids with their Legos, Peter didn't pass up the challenge. He quickly read a chapter out of the Braids and More book, settled on a ribbon laced design, and started weaving Mary's hair around a red bow that likely tied up a Christmas present last year.  

Before going to bed, she came into my room to show me her Dad's craftsmanship. It was honestly the highlight of my day. The part was stark and straight in the center of her head, there was more ribbon than hair showing, and there was nothing French about it, but it was adorable, beautiful, and absolute perfection. Another one of those moments as a Dad that Peter didn't hesitate to take a step out of his comfort zone to bestow an extra dose of love on his kids. Mary was beaming.  

***

For the third time in five years, I'm really pregnant. Waiting ... and waiting for the sign that baby is ready to make her debut. It's that phase that's just about as uncomfortable, physically and emotionally, as this whole maternity thing gets. 

First, the physical. Bending down to put my shoes on in the morning is nearly impossible. I have lost my balance and fallen over more times that I'd like to admit. Keeping up with my team as they fly up two flights of stairs to a meeting literally takes my breath away. And trying to lean in at work is frequently inhibited by a belly that won't let me pull my chair all the way up to the table. Sleep is ridden with anxiety, I pop Tums all day to curb the indigestion, my clothes are tight and itchy, and I have literally said, 'ouch' in the middle of conference calls when the baby kicks me a little too hard. 

Another physical challenge ... having a baby in the middle of the summer means you get to experience the utter joy of putting on a swimsuit to take your kids to the pool every weekend. The act of suiting up alone is complicated, but the opportunity to strut my largess in front of the svelte moms of Mayberry can be plain embarrassing, exacerbated by the fact that they all feel the need to comment on how 'cute' I look as they smugly look down at their flat abdomens. The thing is, buoyancy with a 40 pound heavier frame is awesome. Totally worth sucking up my pride. 

 

Then there's the emotional. The stress that labor is going to come on any day, any night now, that things might not be okay, that three, ages four and under, is going to be too big of a challenge for us to handle, and that just as I thought I was winning, I might lose again. 

On Friday, I walked away from my desk for the last time until my leave is up around the midpoint of November. With Mary, and even with Bobby, it was a welcome exit. But this time around, it was bittersweet. All my work over the past year was turned over; I had to trust that my colleagues would execute the plan, and that upon my return I could pick up where I left off. I opened my calendar this morning; big meetings tomorrow and Friday. Everyone was surely prepping while I mapped out a day of park hopping, library surfing, and house cleaning. I didn't like the distance I already felt. 

... But midway through the day, I loved how close as I was to my kids.    

That's the thing about parenting. Just when you think you've got it down, things change, and you are thrown out of your comfort zone once again. It gets messy, there are days that tough, and it continues to challenge you physically and emotionally. When Bobby saw me get out of the shower the other night, he said, "Mommy that's a really big bum." At first, I cringed in horror, but then I looked at how filled with love his little smile was. Big bum and all, the little boy adores me, and that's the most comforting feeling of all. 

Lo. 

Wish Lists

A couple weeks ago, I told my kids that the baby would bring them a present when she arrived. They now make a plea to my belly almost daily.

Bobby tends to ask about his gift when we are walking in the morning, which prompts Mary to pop in with her request as well. He will around in the double stroller to face me, and say Mommy, I want to ask the baby something. The other day it went something like this:

"I want to ask the baby for a present."
"Go ahead."
"Baby, I want a big. Toy. Race. Car."
"How about a little one, buddy?"
"No, a big one."
"Well, that's something for Santa to bring. The baby will probably bring a little one because she's going to be very little."
"Okay."
Mary jumps in next. "I want to ask her for something too, Mama."
"Alright."
"I want a doll that can sing ... and dance ... and grant me wishes."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Mary, that doesn't exist."
"Why not?"
"Because, nothing can just grant you a wish."
"But that's what I want."
"What would you wish for anyway?"
"To be a grown up."
"Oh ... and why would you want to be a grown up?"
She then started spouting off the things she could do as a grown up: be a lifeguard, a garbage collector (they love our guy and his truck ... "but that would be smelly, huh, Mommy? Yeah, very smelly"), the person in the restaurant that takes you to your table, a teacher just like Mrs. Demuth, a ballerina, someone that sings at our church, married, and a mommy.

I let her know that being a four year old was pretty special. There was plenty of time to be a grown up.

***

I run, and at this point of my pregnancy, walk with my kids just about every day. Thanks to the BOB double stroller, I have my own little running group and I love the company, conversation and fresh perspective it allows as I pound the pavement each morning.

Bobby is particularly observant these days, pointing things out and asking me about them as we go, primarily focused on all modes of transportation.

We say thank you to the garbage man as he lifts Bobby's stinky diapers into his truck. He waves back with a smile.

We count the number of trains we see - those heading further west and those heading downtown, remarking on how Mommy will have to do that next year.

We watch the construction workers pour the cement out of the truck, into the bulldozer, and onto the smoothed gravel.

He asks what's that as landscapers unload tools of the trade from their branded trailers.

We wave to the police men and firemen vigorously as they zoom past with their sirens blaring, on to their first mission of the day.

Bobby comments on the noise of the motorcycles, race cars, and monster trucks we occasionally see on the road.

I explain the contents of the various trucks that we run into: sodas, fruits and vegetables, furniture deliveries, a catered breakfast spread from Labriola.

We guess where the planes flying South are headed and start to plan our next vacation.

As we come around the corner on our way back home, we say hi to mailman Jeff and Bobby asks again and again if he can ride in his truck.

Four miles later, we have simulated a Richard Scary book. I like to think everyone has learned a little something; and recently, I think it's been me more than them.

That is, as I watch Bobby and Mary enthusiastically wave to the police teams in their cars, lawn service men sitting three in a row in their pick up trucks, the mailman on his route and various truckers making their rounds, I see the way they smile back, proud of their roles and the rigs that they drive. And it reinforces why Mary called out some of these jobs in her grown up wish list.

Between Mary's role models and Bobby's favorite truck drivers, these are people that touch our lives every day. They make our communities, our cities, and our country work. They also drive the cool cars, have their own Halloween costumes, and smile as they take you to your table, put your backpack on, wave you through the construction zone, and rev up their lawnmower.

You can't always say that as a brander ... an aspiring executive ... a CEO someday. My wish list, that never quite made it onto Mary's.

As I get ready to say goodbye to 'work' as I know it for the next three months, I'm reminded that what Mary most wanted to be as a grown up was a Mommy: a caretaker and a cake baker, a hostess and a laundress, a distributor of hugs and kisses and a granter of perpetual wishes.

And I intend to be the best full time Mommy I can be during the time I get to be it.
Lo.

Crushed Ice

We grew up looking forward to a beach vacation nearly every year. And many times, it was an extended family event. Aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, sometimes even a random co-worker of my Mom or Dad would show up. They were trips destined to accumulate stories, memories, and laughs; the highlight of any given summer.

Back when there was a Dodge Caravan, Ford Taurus, and Pontiac Transport in the family, we would drive (and drive and drive) from Pittsburgh to a southeastern shore. The ride down meant stops at historic markers, touring a fort or battlefield, a picnic lunch somewhere in West Virginia, the license plate game, an Aunt Meg sighting, my Dad's collection of Broadway cassette tapes, hundreds of games of Tetris, punches and jabs from my brother and sister, dinner at a local institution, a motel stop, and the morning after, renewed optimism that we would reach the shore in just five short hours. Or in the case of our trip to Bald Head Island, five short hours plus another hour on a wavy, water soaked ferry.

Once we pulled across the marshy waterways into our resort destination, the salty sea air, the sound of the ocean, and the keys to our house were more excitement than we could contain. Slowly we would navigate the themed street names to our residence, park the Pontiac, and open the door to our palace for the week. Every year the house seemed to top the year prior.

We would run around exploring the novelties; the double dining room tables, the screened in porch, the alligator beached in our backyard, the DVDs and collection of games in the family room, the sun kissed kitchen equipped with an over sized refrigerator with built-in ice dispenser, the master suite complete with Jacuzzi, and finally, the room we would claim as our own.

Many years, I roomed with my sister or in some cases my sister and cousin Meghan. But they were night owls. They would keep the light on to read before bed. Then talk, and get hushed, then whisper, and get hushed again, then laugh and laugh, keeping me up when all I wanted to do was get eight hours of sleep, starting promptly at 9:00 PM.

So on one of our trips to Kiawah Island, when my Mom suggested I room with Aunt Dee Dee, I jumped at the opportunity. It was ideal. She was neat and tidy, retired when I did, woke up with the sun like me, and was (still is) the best. The first night though, I discovered the short fall. Evening after evening, she would fill up a cup with crushed ice from the magical dispenser, then sit in bed for 10-15 minutes, chewing it. At least the lights were out and the activity was short lived; it was a minor set back in my charmed rooming situation.

***

Last week, I sat in bed night after night, chewing ice and thinking about my family. Late in my pregnancies, the habit I learned from Aunt Dee Dee while on vacation, kicks in. Around month 7 or 8, I get a craving for ice water, than more ice than water, than just ice. I don't know what it is - the cooling effect or perhaps some sort of stress release - regardless, I now appreciate the beauty of crushed ice and feel even more akin to my storied roomie as I chomp through meetings, dinner, and a renewed bedtime ritual.

Last week was my family's annual beach vacation. There was a road trip down, ocean breezes and white sand, bike paths, an impressive house, and a dining room table that seated twenty, missing four.

At 34 weeks pregnant, I wasn't in the state to go, which meant neither was the rest of my unit. Traveling with the kids would have been particularly challenging, the hot sandy beach wouldn't have been as welcoming, and the possibility that I would go into labor in Pensacola, Florida scared me. I felt particularly bad though that my kids couldn't go. But our vacation would have to wait till later in the year.

It wasn't just my family though. Over the past two weeks, it seems like everyone has been on an amazing vacation. My Instagram feed detailed sunsets over St. Simon's Island, the boats in Bohicket Marina, the Nantucket lighthouse, s'mores with a view of Lake Tahoe, the National Mall, snow topped mountains in Glacier National Park, Mickey and Minnie, ball parks and concert halls, and your skiff ... it all looked like summer perfection. On the other hand, my big belly stuffed into a swimming suit, not so much.

As I walked with my kids in the morning, more and more planes seemed to fill the sky, heading south, north, anywhere but here. Co-workers took off test markets while I sat at my desk anxiously. Then I received their out of office (destined for the Caribbean, France and Greece) replies jealously. I held down the fort at home and at work, because at this point, I'm grounded until baby #3 comes.

It's all very 'wun wun' until you put things into perspective. It's summer and it's been a beautiful one in Chicagoland. My company had a big party downtown, we've been enjoying our local pool, bike rides around the neighborhood and along the Lakeshore, the Peggy O has provided several relaxing mornings and afternoons, the kids continue to do swim lessons, making great progress in the water, Mary went to a Moana themed dance camp this past week, we've been cooking out, catching fireflies, and perhaps this weekend, we will finally start to get our house ready for the arrival of an infant.

   

 

The final weeks of pregnancy with a summer baby are hot and uncomfortable, and it's a bummer missing out on certain things, but I'm almost there. And on the flip side, summer birthday parties should be really fun.

Lo.