A Five Year Old

On Tuesday night, I told Mary it was her last bath as a four year old ... then after that. the last story, the last hug and kiss, and the last bedtime song. I got a little choked up saying it. She looked like such a big girl, sitting beside me, American Girl clutched tightly.

She couldn't wait till the morning though; to announce her special day and get her birthday present, to celebrate with her friends at school and then at dance class, for a special birthday dinner, to be a hair taller, more mature, less of my baby, more of my big girl.

I'm sitting at her dance class now, watching her learn new choreography for her Spring recital. She is wearing black tights and a hand me down leotard from her older cousin. Not the prescribed uniform, but as always, she had to do things her own way. Her long blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her face is alight with a signature grin, dotted by the little birth mark on her cheek. She confidently twirls, saches, and leaps, and I have to brag, better than the rest of her class.

If I could freeze time ... (I would have finished this entry while we were still at dance class not four days later) ... this is you at five, Miss Mary.

You are filled with love for others; for everyone who has touched your life in a meaningful way. Your teachers are always telling me how kind and thoughtful you are; always making sure everyone is included. You love making projects, writing letters, or drawing pictures for the person you miss most on any given day. And you hate saying goodbye when people leave.

There are times when your sweet face hides too; when her little brother has gotten the best of you; when you're tired, hungry, or just plain fed up with not getting your way. You whine, or worse cry. And then you get even more upset because you know how good you usually are. It takes my stern words and a warning or two, but within minutes you bounce right back.

You are very smart. Born on Pi day, I continue to envision your future as an engineer. You put two and two together every day; you have a passion for geography and genealogy; you are starting to read and write, and you carry around a scientific calculator to help you figure out life's more difficult equations.

You are an entertainer. And it's not just the way you dance and sing for any audience who will watch. This past weekend, I witnessed you hold court at your fairy tea party. You sat in the middle, told Siri to turn off the 'fairy music' and play Shut Up and Dance With Me. You clapped along as you sipped your lemonade and got all your pals hopping with you. You told jokes, passed cookies, and made sure everyone felt included. You have a maturity about you that I find incredible at times.

You are truly an original.  Yesterday morning before school, you were cozied up, on the floor with all your blankets, stuffed animals and sleeping bag. Sitting in the dark, you were listening to your American Girl jukebox, an illuminated miniature that plays 1950s songs. You were tapping your toes and 'doing work.' You were living in your own world as you so often do, and it was adorable.

You are creative and artistic, always looking for another opportunity to do another art project. You can swim, ride a balance bike, and run with me. You desperately want to win a trophy for doing something, so I encourage you to keep at these activities.

You love Happy Meals. But your favorite treat is Mint Mentos, and you ask for them every time we go to the grocery store.

You love Piggie and Elephant books and your favorite show right now is the Magic School Bus.

You make me laugh out loud at least once a day. And above all, you are loved. So loved.

Happy belated birthday my beautiful little five year old.

Mommy / Lo.

Curve Balls

When you are working mom, married to a working dad, raising three small children, life is a hustle each and every day.

I'm not complaining - I like a good hustle. And most days, most weeks, I'm pretty good it at it (minus the fact that I'm generally 5-10 minutes late to everything.)

The problem is, the hustle isn't just about pace, it's about precision. To get through any day, you depend on the dependable; things going as planned. But life is never that generous; error free execution is unlikely; when one kid poops all over me, there's bound to be more. 

This past week, my experience was anything but dependable or error free. Each day instead of the typical, I got dealt the a-typical. I had to change gears, make up for lost time and stay optimistic. But by the time I pulled into my driveway on Friday evening, I was nearly ready to give up.

It all started with good news that happened a while ago. In December, I was promoted. Big deal. Awesome. (Finally.) But on the flip side, I was used to the day to day as a Manager. Executing as a Director, with the increased responsibility, hours and stress is a little more tricky.

Then you add traveling for work. I was in Charlotte this week, pumping and flying yet again. Missing my babies, praying that Peter could do it all, trying to get home as soon as possible.

Then you add security screening. I got stopped for my stash of breast milk in my carry on. Instead of letting me pass, I got questioned about the whereabouts of my baby. I kid you not. Then I got tested for the vapors coming off my milk. Then I had to get a second opinion from the head of security. Then they tried to return my baby's milk to the wrong mom. Again I kid you not. Finally, my milk and I were released, just in time to line up and board.

Then you add car complications. I arrived home and found that my tire had a hole in it. Like literally a hole with air pouring on out of it. The friendly service man at O'Hare couldn't do anything for me. So I drove all the way from O'Hare to Oak Brook to make it to my 12:30 creative brief review on a run flat / very flat tire while 18 wheelers honked at me to move aside. Life in the slow lane doesn't work.

Then you go to sleep at the end of a long day, only to wake up a couple hours later because someone is having mommy went away anxiety or an ear infection or teething or who knows just please go back to sleep.

Then you finally remember your kids doctor appointment, and arrive relatively on time, only to find out that your son might have a lazy eye. So you get the ophthalmologist referral and plan accordingly.

Then dinner is sub par. Then when everything's cleaned up, you hear Lincoln Logs being spilled all over the floor again. A glass breaks, you get a paper cut, the spit up on your newly dry cleaned jacket turns rancid, the box of wipes and the bottle of wine are both empty. And there's still another day in the week. A day where your equipment team drops a bomb. And everyone leaves for the weekend with a sinking feeling in their stomachs.

Blah.

After complaining to my Mom, Dad, Aunt Dee Dee and husband about the week I had experienced, I decided to find the humor in it and celebrate the weekend. Because it wasn't any typical weekend, it was my daughter's fifth birthday party weekend. We had guests in town, places to be, Mimi's chicken pot pies to eat, and a fairy tea party to throw.

       

It was all wonderful. And exactly what I needed to put life into perspective once again.

It's Monday, things are going as planned (so far), and it's going to be a great week. Even if more bombs go off at work, at the end of the day, I'll have these three smiling faces welcoming me through the door. And as long as their smiling, I'll be laughing right along with them. 

Lo.

That Kind of Love

Yesterday, my newly married co-worker told me he was making tacos for his wife for dinner. He asked if he could leave a little early because he still needed to get groceries. 'No problem,' I said. It reminded me of what I would have done seven, eight years ago. I knew that energy. I knew that kind of love.

This past weekend, I watched my friend Tricia walk uncharacteristically slowly down the aisle, arm in arm with her adoring father to marry her soul mate in a perfect display of Pittsburgh pageantry.

Dressed mostly in black and grey, the congregants filled just about every pew in Heinz Chapel, snapping pictures of I dos and the first kiss, wiping away a tear or two, offering a prayer, and holding back the desire to erupt in thunderous applause as Colin, senior at Catholic Catholic High School, belted out the Our Father, Barbara Streisand style.

The crowd dusted off the drizzle as they migrated to the Duquesne Club for cocktails, dinner and dancing.

The twinkle lights, St. Germaine laced Margaritas, Bluegrass band followed by Big Band, Tattinger Champagne, three course dinner, mountainous cake with figurines of Tricia and Kenny skiing on down, and of course tables full of the Club's signature Macaroons, were all delicious. The speeches were personal and meaningful; interwoven stories of good people with too much humility to ever admit they were some of the best of our boastful generation. It was an evening of happily ever after; a fairy tale of true love proportions. Big, proud smiles. Glowing, generous laughter. I knew that bliss. I knew that kind of love

The next day, I crept into my friend Rebecca's postpartum room at West Penn Hospital to see a new mom holding her beautiful new baby. She was tired and nervous, but also so excited. Her husband Tom doted on her and the little blond babe. He was concerned and cautious, but also so proud. This was foreign territory, but backed by a brave new love. I knew those emotions. I knew that kind of love.

Six and a half years into my marriage, I've come to know another kind of love. The one where time, bliss, and energy are never on your side.

This kind of love is strong and persistent. It's patient (so patient) and kind. It lasts through all the sicknesses that have been circulating through our house. It's a hug when you need it most. And a kiss on yet another boo boo.

It's letting the other person get one more hour of sleep in the morning. It's bringing in the paper for him and starting the car for her. It’s taking the time to renew your spouse’s drivers license because you know she will drop the ball, drive around with an expired license and get ticketed. It's an attempt to make a decent dinner every night and offering a 'thank you' even though it doesn't compare to the feasts of yesteryear. It's asking Siri to play a song you hate, because she likes it. It’s doing the dishes while the other one gives the kids baths.

It's the reflection of your spouse in each one of your darling kids' faces. And it's taking a second to remember that. It’s finding the last little bit of energy for the day to say, I love you, before closing your eyes and going to sleep.

The love of busy, working parents is oftentimes without showmanship or glamour. But it's known and it's generous and it's precious.

I'm so thankful for all the little (and big) ways that my husband shares his love with me each and every day.

Yes, I'll forever and always be your Valentine.

Lo. 

My Big Boy

On Saturday, we hosted a little birthday party for Bobby. The activity / theme / thing you are supposed to do to hang a kid's party together was sled riding. Completely weather dependent, completely risky, no determined back up plan, totally my style.

Miraculously, all went as planned, perfectly disguising the fact that I had allocated so little time to executing the whole thing. We still had some snow, it was 40 degrees and sunny, everyone remembered to bring a sled, and most importantly the birthday boy was happy as can be, rolling around and savoring the last of the slushy white stuff.

For an hour or so, I ran up and down the small manufactured Midwestern sled hill, pulling kids whose smiles spread from rosy cheek to rosy cheek. When they'd had their fill, I welcomed them back to our house for pizza, cake, and the entertainment of watching an infectiously enthusiastic boy open several more vehicles to add to his ever expanding collection.

An excavator!! That's cool, huh?
Oooooh, look at this dozer, Daddy. That's cool, right?
Oh wow, a CAR WASH! Put it togeder, Daddy. Let's do it, Daddy. Now, Daddy! Pleeeeease, Daddy!

   

   

Yesterday, as Bobby officially turned three years old, he ran downstairs ready and raring to go as he always does. Only this morning, there was something even better to do. A new ramp stretched almost the whole length of the sun room and then climbed halfway up the window. His response: 'WHAT THE HECK?! .... WOW .... WHOA ... WOW ... Is this for me?!'  
Yeah, honey. Daddy picked that out for you.
WOW. Let's do it, Mary!   

At three years old, Bobby is such a happy little boy. He flocks to anything with a motor: cars, trucks, planes, trains, boats, and particularly construction vehicles. He is in constant motion, until he crashes (hard) at nap time or bed time. He adores his baby sister, and is simultaneously best friend and fierce foe to his big sister. He is almost too cute: with big blue eyes and a mischievous smile that makes you wonder (and pray) about what he's going to try next. And ever the chatterbox, he says something hysterical just about every day.

When he smells something a little off, he asks, 'hey, what's that smell look like?'
When he assesses the damage he's done to the potty, he often comments on his findings, 'oh there's a broder and sister poop.'
In the middle of the night, you can hear him talk through a nightmare, 'no Mary, don't do that, Mary!'
He constantly assures me, 'I gonna touch her face gently, Mama.' 
He confides in me, 'that's dangerous, right Mama?'
He pleads to me, 'I wanna go to Mariano's and get a new car. Yes. Yes. Yes.' 
No. no. no. Buddy.

And then there's everything else about him:
How he calls for his Mommy and Daddy during a thunderstorm, wanting nothing more than a good cuddle.
How he clings to his baby owl, daddy owl and beloved blue blanket.
How he likes to show off his muscles, and boy does he have them.
How he gives the best hugs ever.
How after he's tucked into his bed and all the lights are out, he walks back into the bathroom, turns on the light, and tells me that he needs to brush his teeth again.
How he's always thinking and trying an alternate, more challenging way.
How he's such a simple little guy. Generally, as long as he has enough milk in his cup and a couple cars and trucks in his hands, he's completely content.
How he loves life. Loves his family. Loves all that every day brings. Especially when that day is his birthday.

It's not everyday that I get to reflect on how special my big boy is, but today, it's all I wanted to do. Because just as the snow melted all too quickly on Saturday afternoon, I know Bobby will grow and melt away from me as well. So for now, I'm holding my big boy, my newly minted three year old, as close as I can.

 

I love you more than words can say, Bobby. And I hope three is your best year yet.

Mommy.

It's Colder in Kohler

When I was pregnant with Mary, my department threw me a beautiful baby shower. Along with presents, cake, and sparkling lemonade, there were toasts which featured words of wisdom. Most of them went something like this, "enjoy every minute ... it all goes too fast."

My VP at the time said something very different though. While he echoed the sentiment that (his three teenage) kids are special, the most important person in his life is his wife. In 18 years, your kids will leave you, he said, but your spouse stays. You have to honor that partnership first.

Given my infatuation with my baby, I thought it was odd at the time.   

***

A month or so later, Peter and I were staring at our new born baby with awe, trying out the labels of Daddy and Mommy, and starting down a road of cherishing every second with our little peanut.

We apparently liked the experience so much that we welcomed two more kids into our house in a relatively short period of time. For the past five years, I've either been pregnant or nursing, fearing that it will all go too fast, soaking up every moment, and most recently slowly realizing what my VP was talking about.

That is, before we were Mommy and Daddy, Peter and I were just man and wife. And with all we have going on, it's hard to get back to being just us.

So this Christmas, Peter and I decided to give each other the gift of a getaway. And on the 27th, away we went ... two and a half hours north, to Kohler, Wisconsin, where we checked into the American Club as carolers sang in the library and ravenous onlookers scavenged the cheese table while slurping down hot chocolate. 

We spent the majority of our time in Kohler soaking up the historic hotel and sheltering ourselves from the frosty temperatures. We had some great dinners among cheese heads who knew their cheese curds, we got to work out without pushing a jogging stroller, we bowled on ice, used our Kohler clad bathroom to its full potential, and tried to take a tour of the Kohler Design Center which promptly closed as we walked through the doors. All of Friday morning was dedicated to the posh, award winning spa; a destination where I realized just how Mommy had become.  

Susie B. with the look and voice of an elementary school librarian, checked us in and reviewed our billing. I immediately got sticker shock. Seriously? I hadn't spent that much on myself in I don't know how long. Ok. Fine. Signed. 

We went downstairs to get robed like the rest of the guests and then waited in a tranquil room eating raw almonds until our massages began. At 8:00 AM on the nose, a suite of technicians came out and found their respective massage buddies. I had Jerry. Jerry was likely a cheese head, but rang Pittsburgh through and through. I could totally see this guy swinging a Terrible Towel at a Steelers game while guzzling an IC Light. I was just waiting for him to say, 'yinz wanna roll over?' 

He told me to relax though, so I stopped over analyzing him and the fact that I had somehow ended up with a male masseuse. I listened as he told me, 'with deep breaths in and out, in and out, I could return to this place at any time, in any place.' Right. Do you know my current lifestyle?  

Jerry revealed that he specialized in reflexology at the end of the massage. He told me that certain parts of the feet are directly connected to certain parts of the body. Like if you rub right in the middle of your foot, you can stimulate the digestive system. I was caught in the middle of hoping the foot rub would rapidly digest all the Christmas cookies I'd been eating and fearing that his technique would spontaneously prompt a Christmas cookie fart.  

After my massage was over, I was supposed to go through a variety of aqua therapies. I sat in the whirlpool, plunged into cold water, took a neutral temped shower, and then officially turned into a prune in the rooftop hot tub. 

Next stop on my itinerary was a facial. Ingrid, an absolutely beautiful woman with the softest hands known to womankind, led me into my treatment room. I let her in on my secrets early; it was like pulling off a Bandaid. I had never had a facial. I had picked a pimple to oblivion and back in the past week; it was slowly healing. I wash my face with Neutrogena soap and apply Ponds cold cream in the morning. I have no ritual. I could feel the icy judgment through my cucumber covered eyes.  

An hour later, my skin was revitalized by a laundry list of products that I was supposed to purchase in the spa's general store at the end of my visit. (I did nothing of the sort). I was also supposed to schedule monthly facials. At these prices, never. And I was at the VERY LEAST (she warned in almost a scolding tone) supposed to exfoliate twice a week. Okay. I just might do that.

I left the place, walked down the sub zero degree street to our hotel room, feeling almost guilty for purchasing the lap of luxury. But back in our room, the two of us told stories about our experiences and agreed it was something we needed. Even if it had to be coached out of us, we both needed to unwind and bond over something uniquely designed for parents with a lot on their shoulders. 

On the way home, we stopped at Kohler's market where Peter stocked up on all things Nueski and several high profile Wisconsin cheeses. It was still distant from the French markets where we shopped on our honeymoon. But despite the cold, it got us closer.

It's 2018 somehow. And I made a resolution. To do a lot more of what Peter and I did last week. Because just as JC said, we're in this together till the end.

Lo. 

Believe

This year, Mimi and Opa treated the whole family to a ride on the Polar Express.

On December 20, we shuttled our pajama clad children down to Union Station where we checked in, received golden tickets and then boarded a train bound for the North Pole.



Leading up to this highly anticipated event, we all became versed in what this experience might entail. We read the book over and over at bedtime, we watched the movie, and we sang along with Josh Groban. 360 degrees of indoctrination.

I hadn't read the book since I was a little girl, and I remembered the Caldecott winning pictures more than the story itself. So I read it to Mary with fresh eyes one early December evening. Snuggled together, I found myself starting to cry at the end. The last line, 'the bell still rings for all those who truly believe' killed me. Crushed my heart. How dearly I still wanted that bell to ring for me.

A couple nights later, I read the exquisite author's note on the back cover. It talked about childhood, the glorious progression of growing up, and all the gains that come with it. But then comes that one moment carrying an abrupt reveal of information that is shielded from the most innocent. At this point he concludes there is no gain, only loss. A loss of the profound and wonderful fairy tale that graces every young mind. He said that on the Polar Express though, it doesn't have to be that way. He ends by begging the reader to climb aboard.

The kids and I were more than ready.

We climbed aboard and let the cast of characters transport us as they sang songs, danced down the aisle, acted out significant parts of the movie, and in general kept us focused on the interior rather than the industrial Chicago landscape that slowly moved past us on the outside.
   
We all left with hot chocolate mustaches, specially punched golden tickets, little silver bells from Santa's sleigh, many memories, and the mantra, 'believe.'
 
On the 21st though, I started to panic. Between work, the baby, her Baptism, activities, events, illnesses, and a general lack of sleep, I was dreadfully behind on getting Christmas ready for the family. I found myself caught between wanting to believe and just putting on the red pants again. I ended up succumbing and with it finding my inner frazzle. Schlepping, wrapping, baking, cooking, running, caroling, stressing, and then stressing some more.

But as Christmas Eve came, I realized that there were certain things that took a leap of faith. And by truly believing ... believing in family, friends, the spirit of St. Nicholas, and most importantly the majestic reason for the universal celebration, things just kind of magically happened the way they were supposed to.

I believed that three batches of cookies would be enough for one year.

I believed that the kids would behave at the Penisula and have enough energy at the end of our five star brunch with our five star friend, C., to take a spin around the Sky Rink.

I believed that the giant bruise I got after falling on the ice wouldn't prevent me from kneeling to say my prayers at Church.

I believed that everyone would very quickly get dressed in their Christmas best and that we would be on time for Mass.


I believed that Mary wouldn't ruin the Christmas pageant.
   
I believed that after a late night at Mimi's, I could stay up till midnight wrapping presents and making the house look as magical as possible.

  

I believed that everything would come together and the party would be even better than last year.
        

I believed that an exceptional Manhattan would magically make its way into my hand. Thank you Opa Jan.

I believed that the meat would turn out perfectly, the horseradish creme delightful, the potatoes little salty balls of deliciousness, and the fennel salad reviewed with highest praise.

I believed that the kids would be so well behaved that we all could actually sit down and enjoy the delicious dinner from start to finish. And then why not, have dessert and Port seated as well.

I believed the dishes would do themselves. Nice try.

I believed that across the world, families were having the kind of joyous day that entered my home. One that went smoothly, lovingly, blessedly. And from all the social sharing, I could see that I was spot on.

It was a Christmas that begged us all to believe. And that's just what we did.

Merry,

Merry,

Merry Christmas.
   
Lo.