A Better Mom

A couple weeks ago ... er ... I think it's been months now ... so, let's call it a while ago ... the homily at Mass was about Godparents and what God calls us to do when we accept that role. The priest then let the congregation know the myriad of ways you can fail in this calling. He left the podium, asking us in so many British words to marinate on that. 

So as prescribed, I reflected. And it didn't take long. Yep, I am a bad godparent. Full stop. I posed for pictures during baptism, but have since been largely absent spiritually - haven't been a coach, haven't prayed enough, haven't even sprinkled fairy dust. Sorry, Ellie. Sorry Joey. I'm going to do better.   

That same day was the American version of Mother's Day, so my reflections quickly meandered from God motherhood to plain old motherhood.

I made a mental list of things I do well as I mom. 

- I braid hair or rather do plaits. 

- I take the kids on outings, to the park, to Zed S L. 

- I do a lot of laundry. Not well, but I'm a master at playing catch up on the weekends. 

- I've been there for the majority of their signature events.

- I work hard to provide for them. 

- I read them stories at night with emotion and animation. And I can sing a lullaby or six on pitch. 

- I vigorously give out hugs, kisses and snuggles. Especially when I walk in the door after being away.

- And I love them all, uniquely and individually, to a million pieces, to the moon and back, to infinity and beyond.  

But I also do a lot that is bad. 

- I get impatient. Especially, when I get feedback on my braids or plaits. 

- My expectations are too high and so is my disappointment when they aren't met.  

- I yell because of the first two things. 

- I'm not as present as I should be. 

- And I don't listen as well as I could. 

And I'm pretty certain the combination of a high stress job, my still bothersome knee, the corresponding need to take everything a little slower, and the heatwaves in an unairconditioned European city are making me a little worse as a mom. 

I certainly haven't felt like a great mom recently. Which has made me a little more observant of the good mums around me.  

It really only seems to be the ones who are one on one with a kid that have it all together. The kid has all her attention, there is a skip in their shared steps, she brought the water bottle and the snack, there is good hair and a bow, new clothes that haven't been handed down three times, and only a mild anxiety as she processes the gravity of getting her job right not just today but every day. Because she already feels on top of it. One with her calling.  

I was that mom once. Actually twice. Heck, maybe even three times. I could do three and a full time job pretty elegantly. Sure, there were harried moments, but no one saw. 

Not any more though. 

Everyone is mismatched. Someone is always misbehaving. I'm typically about to lose my patience. There is laundry to do, beds to make, homework to help with, baths that always take too long, children up in the middle of the night with bad dreams, there's someone coming, there's someone going, a babysitter that we desperately need, a meal that no one liked, a job that is calling me in another direction, and hair, nails, and skincare that I haven't found time to do in the past three years. And it's hot. SO damn hot. No choreography included.

People look up to me at work, and wonder all too often, 'how do I do it?' 

My most frequent response right now is, 'not well.' 

And according to society's ultra high standard, that's probably true.  

But as much as that priest quickly made me realize I was a bad godmother, I wouldn't, couldn't conclude that I was a bad mom. A mom who is having some bad days. Sure. A mom who's jobs just keep getting harder? With a teen now, and a couple tweens, and twins. Sure. A mom who is still learning and adjusting. Absolutely.

But good moms are the ones that don't let bad days stand in their way of waking up and giving it another go in the morning. They are the ones who can affirmatively say ....   

Yes, I love them to pieces. 

Yes, I try as hard as I can. 

Yes, I care. 

Yes, I'm sorry I wasn't there. 

Yes, I'll keep doing better everyday.

Yes, I was just as imperfect as you once, and I'm probably even more imperfect now. 

So if you feel like a bad mom, realize it's disguise - a costume you can remove at any time. And us other imperfect moms will be there to see you for how great you are. 

Lo.

Mouse About Town

A couple months ago, early one morning, I was reading in our living room. The house was the kind of peaceful and total quiet that I love, and sip by sip of coffee, page by page of book, I was starting the day in the most invoking way. 

But then I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I tilted my head slowly to look but I already knew what it was. Black, no grey maybe. I didn't sit long enough to answer my own question. Oh no no no! I jumped up, simultaneously grabbing my book and coffee mug, and resituated myself upstairs. 

I had been waiting for this moment. There was no way, living in central London, amid millions of people, we wouldn't find a mouse in our house. I was just hopeful I wouldn't be the one who found it. Hopeful that I wouldn't be the one to deal with it. And hopeful it was just one. 

So I turned over the problem to Peter as he woke up, describing the gross intruder so he could sketch it and hang up a most wanted sign. 

Peter started with a little trap here and there, asserting confidence that he had it under control. So I resumed my position in the living room each morning, but always with a watchful, suspicious eye. I would hear a noise and jump. I would stretch my ear to discern if I really heard a squeak. And then seek clarity from Peter on whether or not the mouse was truly gone. 

It played out like that for months, but then a couple weeks ago, my friend showed up in the kitchen. Scurrying across the floor while the kids were playing hide and seek. Margaret squealed and it became the squeal heard round the world that erupted in panic across the household.  

The squeaks that I had been hearing started to become more audible, especially to Caroline, who quickly turned a slight fear of the mouse into mass hysteria. Any mention of the black or maybe grey rodent, and Caroline would scream. 

So, Peter and I huddled again. We had solved mouse problems in La Grange, he had even solved one in Pittsburgh, so he shipped in some additional solutions from Amazon. 

Peter speculated that the mouse would come to our house and then leave for several weeks - perhaps vacationing at the neighbor's house or the one a couple doors down. Peter postulated that the mouse was mature, smart to have navigated through his web of traps and bait. Peter called him a mouse about town. And it made me laugh. 

Over the course of a week, the mouse became more visible. Mary saw it. Caroline screamed and ran up stairs in hysterics. I saw it. Caroline screamed and ran up the stairs in hysterics. Margaret saw it again, Caroline FLIPPED OUT! And every night around 11:15 PM, Caroline would come down to our bed unable to sleep. She was afraid of the mouse she would say. She heard squeaking. She was not going to sleep alone. And Peter and I would do the zombie dance up and down the stairs trying to get her to sleep. 

On a particularly terrible night, Jacqueline had a fever, Caroline screamed about the mouse, Peter and I walked up and down and up and down the stairs putting them back to bed. And I woke up in the morning, groggy, bags under my eyes, and in need of more makeup than usual as I went into a final media training dress rehearsal. 

We also woke up to an indication that our mouse was mice. And those mice had been having quite a party in our house all. night. long. Same as us. The mouse catcher showed up at 2:00 PM, sealed off all the entrances to the house, and started a poison program. No more mouse ... or mice ... about town. We slept better that evening than we have in a long time. And didn't have mouse droppings in the morning. 

But in honesty, Caroline is still not sleeping well. She's still disturbed by the potential of a night visitor and there is something that is expanding her sense of fear that I can't quite get to the bottom of. 

When I was little the Witches, the movie with Anjelica Houston, gave me nightmares. And I let that one scary part that I have never actually opened my eyes to see get the better of my imagination. I avoided the basement. The attic. Even my bed on nights that felt particularly scary, when the Witches seemed a breath away. The peaks of fear came and went, but I remember when we moved summer after fifth grade, our new house rattled my nerves. 

It took time for the hallways to look less long and dark and mysterious. It took time for the smells of past residents to waft away. It took time for being alone in my room to feel safe. And it took a refurb, better lighting, furniture, and a ping pong table to make the basement less of a hiding place for ghosts. The back storage area, I just avoided though - still do. 

Which makes me wonder, with the mouse now out of town, or at least out of house, how much of Caroline's anxiety is about a mouse and how much of it is about being unsettled. That question that everyone's been asking me for months. Are you settled? Yes. Yes. Yes. I've said over and over and over again. But maybe not everyone is. Maybe Caroline isn't.    

I've been telling her to be brave at night. To get comfortable and stay comfortable. To please not wake me up or anyone else up, because if she does, I might just be too tired to work and then get fired. Doesn't matter. She still isn't sleeping. 

Maybe it will just take time. Maybe it will take many sequential days for the mouse to be a mouse out of town. Or enough time to build her courage to live a floor above her mum and dad, for the city noises to feel familiar, or for the assurance that this is home now. At least until our next great migration. 

So, we are settled, but also slightly unsettled. And to expedite the sleeping that would lead us to settling, I'll take any tips to help a five year old shake her fears of mice, monsters, or moving again. 

Lo. 

A Mr. and a Mom

When I arrived at my doctor appointment a couple weeks ago, I checked the board behind the admissions desk to make sure I was in the right place. Youngman, Youngman ... yep, this is right. But I did a double take. It said Mr. Youngman. In fact, almost everyone listed was a Mr. 

Mr. Liddle. 

Mr. McDermott. 

Mr. Patel. 

Mr. Youngman. 

Mr? 

Were these even doctors? And why am I not booked with one of the three Dr. Doctors on the board? I did a quick Chat GPT query. Do people in England call doctors, 'Mr?' 

In too many words, it told me yes. And in fact it's the really good doctors who are called Mr. 

Phew. And further validated by word of mouth, word on the St. John's Wood High Street, and the Doctify reviews, I convinced myself he was the right doctor, or rather Mister, for me. Onward. 

He welcomed me into his office asked to have a look, and felt around my knee. He chuckled, 'yep, that's an ACL rupture. Okay, come on over here, lets have a look at the MRI, shall we?' 

'What? Wait, really? ACL?' 

'Yes, plus I think there might be a slight tare of the meniscus, see here. Also looks like you chipped the bone a bit. Some bruising. What exactly happened again?'

'I was skiing.' 

He chuckled again. 'This time of year everyone has broken bones and knee injuries. In fact, every time I go skiing I come home with a couple broken bones.' 

Why was he laughing when I was almost crying? 

I interjected to set the record straight. 'Well, I don't fall. I was a ski instructor. I'm a really good, but also careful skier. This was an awful fluke.' 

'Right,' he said, in the most British way possible. 'So reconstruction or repair? I think we can repair it. Best to do it straight away. Can you do Wednesday?' 

'Um, I need to be in America on Monday, so not possible' 

'Right. What is it that you do?' 

'I have a big job.' 

'Fine, how about the Wednesday after you return? That should still work.'

'Should?' 

'Yes, that should be fine.' 

'Fine?'

'Not ideal, but we can do it.'

He started dictated. A 40 something woman came in with a ruptured ACL. She fell while skiing. 

I wanted to interject - MY FIVE YEAR OLD TOOK ME DOWN! 

But he carried on: she is going to America next week, so we will do the repair after she returns and she is aware of all the risks: arthritis, infection, sepsis, blood clots, and the chance that this repair will ultimately lead to a reconstruction. 

Okay, now I'm aware of the risks. You have to love the passive aggressive efficiency. 

He escorted me out, smile on his face still while mine had disappeared - still at the top of the mountain in Chamonix, moments before I lost my knee.  

***

Over the past couple weeks, er, almost a month now, I've been in self preservation mode. Or perhaps self questioning mode. I have a certain definition of myself that is being challenged. 

I am fast. 

I am a runner. 

And field hockey coach. 

And tennis player. 

And skier. 

I am a kneeler and genuflector at church. 

I'm a mom who climbs up on the counter to reach the heights of our cabinets. 

I'm someone who sleeps on my belly.

I'm someone who can't sit for more than 15 minutes at a time. 

I didn't have any scars and I'd been told that I have good legs. In fact, I was rated best legs in 8th grade. A pride point that made me feel like the Elle Macpherson of St. Edmund's Academy. 

And I'm a doer. When no one else is getting things done, I'll jump in and do them.

Right now, I'm none of those things. I'm a slow, vertically challenged, walker at best, back sleeper, couch inhabitant, with a right leg that looks totally deformed, and a dependant on everyone else doing things for me. And it's incredibly frustrating.  

A little over a week ago, I had my surgery, and it was more painful, more debilitating, and more life style changing than I expected. I have three wounds. Two on my knee and one on my thigh, where they acquired hamstring tissue to stitch together my knee. I have a brace on my right leg running from ankle to thigh. And I can only take it off for washing. I need crutches, as much as it pains me to admit it. I have to keep my leg straight, elevated, and iced as much as possible. And I have to slow down. 

And that's the hardest part. There is no multitasking, running up and down the stairs, rushing over to stop a fight from happening, running to the next meeting because I'm running late, jumping in my car and going. There is almost no going at all for that matter. Which all just means, I've needed to be patient. And when my physio told me on Wednesday that it would take 9-12 months for me to be back to normal and doing all that I wanted to do again, I realized just how patient I would need to be. 

There are lessons in all of this. And people have told me that something great will come of it. For now, as time passes a little slower than I'm used to, I'm thinking that's the first lesson. That slowing down, reassessing the pace I'm moving through life, might not be a bad thing. 

Mary turned 13 last week. In a blink of an eye, the little baby that made me a mom, is a little lady, embracing her more mature stride, style, and self confidence. She has her moody moments, but she makes me so proud every day. She's an incredible student and opening her mind to all that this international city has to offer, she is beautiful piano player, has bravely taken on field hockey and squash in a new city, continues to navigate middle school girl politics with poise, helps out around the house, nicely navigates playing down with her siblings while asserting she wants to be part of more adult conversations, loves to bake and cook and make herself fresh squeezed lemonade, loves doing hair and makeup and has clients every morning in her room at 6:30 AM expecting to get their dos done, and she has been so resilient in the face of another big family move. Slowing down helps me appreciate all the steps my kids are taking a little more. All that they are becoming. It helps me sit with Bobby and explain the story, practice Margaret's words for her spelling test, play flower store with the twins in the park, and listen a little better when Peter explains the challenges of his day. 

The other lesson. Clearly. Put the twins in ski school next time. 

Lo. 

Do You ... ?

Traveling to a place our family hasn't been before brings a sense of wonder and excitement, reconnecting me to my 20s. A time when I lived in Rome, backpacked from country to country with various travel partners, returned a couple years later with a different travel buddy, then my parents, and meandered through life without a set agenda, without a lot of money in my account, and without the confidence that I was headed anywhere. I embraced bewilderment, learned navigation skills, and figured out how to stretch a dollar further.  

This month, for the kids half term, we decided to give skiing in the Alps a try. It's a choice that we and half of Europe made last week. Like our recent Italian vacation, we got the flight and Airbnb. The rest would be left to the whims and whereabouts of the snowstorm that was supposed to hit. 

The issue with reclaiming our 20 year old selves, is that we have five children now. And just about the time that our bewilderment and wonderment come alive again, say on the ascent from Heathrow to Geneva, they are met with the worry and anxiety of kids who are more comfortable with the familiar. On this trip, during the packing, boarding of the flight, drive to the mountains, unpacking, and first ride up the gondola, we were pummelled with nerve wracking questions that we couldn't really answer. 

Do you know how long it will take to get to our house from the airport? 

Do you know how many bedrooms the house has? 

Do you know if there is a bus to the slopes?  

Do you know where we will ski in the morning?

Do you think we will go out for dinner tonight? 

Do you know if the skiing in France is harder than Colorado? 

Do you think we will be able to ski here? 

Do you really think there will be an avalanche? 

They are asking if we want rescue insurance, do we need rescue insurance? 

Oh my goodness, no! At least I hope not. 

As much as I try to embrace it, escapism is never really an option on our family vacations. There is always a 'mom!, MOM!' and a question, or a hundred, that brings you back to reality, or at least a better laid out a plan that everyone can rally around. 

To my kids delight, the answers to their questions unfolded quickly. We made it from Geneva to Chamonix Centre in about an hour. We were driven there by Alps2Alps transfer. Peter's unposted review: worn out van, farting driver, Caroline going ballistic in the back seat. Our apartment (not chalet) was fine. There were four bedrooms. Mary had to share - the thing she was most concerned about. One of the toilets was connected to a sink, so when you flushed, the sink automatically started to refill the toilet. It was French engineering and plumbing at its best and reminded my kids to wash their hands every time. There were at least 6 shearling throws, thrown around the couches, that every day ended up on the floor. The stove didn't work, the oven didn't either, so we ate at Rose du Pont, right on the river, the first evening. And it was fabulous. 

On our first ski day, Margaret, the twins, and I took an Uber to the gondola. Peter, Mary and Bobby walked up Mt. Crumpet to meet us. Together ... one, two, three ... we pushed our way through a scrum of snow suited bodies onto the gondola. Lines don't exist in Europe. Only blobs of people fighting for each inch of movement toward the destination. Once on board, we breathed deeper, and soared up to the top of Mont Brevent. My nervous kids looked out the window fearful of the intense grade beneath us, asking one more time, do you think there are any easy slopes? At the top, with a near blizzard swirling around us, they started shaking in their boots. Unconfidently confident, I directed our group toward the sign that said easiest way down. 'ONWARD,' I yelled because the wind was so loud. But then someone ahead of us said there had been an avalanche, so turn around. But then the ski school went that way, right by us. So I charged ahead, pulling the twins along who were holding on to my poles, encouraging everyone to follow my voice through the white out. It took a run to get everyone comfortable, but they quickly were. And we skied on, hoping an avalanche wouldn't really come tumbling down the mountain. 

On that day, we also figured out there were no lodges on the mountain, just full service restaurants. With fondu, fancy chocolat chaud, gratins, and frites. Beaucoup de frites. Et biere. We figured out that you couldn't stretch pounds, euros or dollars skiing in Chamonix. We figured out that the only way down Mt. Brevent if you don't want to kill yourself is on the gondola. We figured out that walking back home is too far with skis. And we figured out that if you eat dinner around 5:30, you can get a table. Everything is booked by 7:00 PM though. And they definitely want you and your five kids out of the restaurant by 7:00 PM. Despite it being someone's birthday. 

On the next day, we learned that if it snows too hard, which it kept doing, many of the mountains close. Case and point, Brevent was closed. But Les Houches was open. Les Houches is always open. So we, along with everyone else in Europe went to Les Houches. We took two Ubers. Everyone else in Europe crammed on the free busses. And then we all waited together in line for the gondola. Peter being Peter figured out a way to cut half the line, and got us in behind some friendly Brits from the North, who happened to be elementary school teachers, and who happened to be mildly entertained by Caroline crawling forward in line because her legs were too tired to stand. No one else was entertained. 

After a 40 minute drive in traffic to Les Houches, 10 minutes in line getting tickets, 30 minutes in line for the gondola, and mounting stress because Caroline and Jacqueline might just give up and walk out of line any minute, we finally made it up the mountain. And there it was. Bliss. Escapism. Some great ski runs. Joy and gratitude. And then ... another long line at a different lift. And then the lift broke. And Caroline screamed in line. And the Europeans didn't help or care. They just pushed forward. So I pushed back. And then pushed Caroline ... and Jacqueline ... and then Margaret through the turn styles, and pushed everyone else out of our way. I will get out of this line, out of this hell, and on this lift. Only to be met with another one at lunchtime. The restaurant La Cha was adorable, and all of Europe thought so too. So once again, we queued and fought for food and a table, making me ask my own questions. 

Do you think the ski resorts in Chamonix are family friendly? 

If the Titanic sank in Les Houches, would women and children be able to board the boats first? 

Do you think Caroline's screams can be heard in Italy? 

Do you think we should head home now?  

Do you think that bus takes us home? 

Do you think this is our stop? 

Do you think we should grab that taxi because we missed our stop. 

Do you think 25 euros is a reasonable rate for traveling 1 kilometre? 

With the twins, sure. 

The next day, everything was easier. No traffic. Hardly any lines. Great snow. Great skiing. Sun and mountains peaking through. I looked up and said, thank you God for all of this. 

And right in between my wonderment and Caroline's anxiety, do you know what happened?

Noooooooooo!

Pop. 

Pop. 

Faaaaaaaaa! 

Mommmmmmmy ... I'm so so sorry! 

And ...  

Do you need a rescue? 

Yes. 

Do you have rescue insurance? 

Ugh ... no. 

Do you know where your kids are? 

At the bottom. Except this one. And the other two are with my husband. Who is at the top of the hill (I think.) 

Do you have cinq enfants? 

Oui. 

Do you speak French. 

Un petit peu. 

The next thing I knew, I was in a ski patrol evacuation bed, sledding head first down a steep hill in Chamonix on the back of a skier who was flying (FLYING) down the hill. Caroline, perfectly fine after our fall, was in the arms of another ski patrol woman. Peter carried Jacqueline. Margaret bravely skied down. And Mary and Bobby were thankful to be reunited with us at the bottom. I was then thrown in a French ambulance and brought to the hopital de Chamonix, which seemed to specialize in ski related knee injuries. Joe from America was in the same boat as me, but didn't want to talk about it. Meanwhile, Peter was left to battle the intense logistics of getting five kids and their skis off the slopes. Just the bewilderment that he was looking for. 

I got an x-ray and then the self described young doctor and old doctor both pushed and prodded my knee. Rien. They sent me on my way with a prescription for pain meds and the warning not to ski anymore on my trip.  

While not in any pain, something was definitely wrong. I couldn't bend my right leg correctly and the next day it started swelling. I scheduled an MRI back in London, and am still hoping that it will heal naturally. 

There was a whole lot that could have gone better or been easier on our first trip to the Alps. There were probably better houses to rent. The service at Josephine on my birthday irked Peter and he let it be known. Some of the lines were crazy. And I wish I had known how to avoid them sooner. It never stopped snowing and we missed the Alpine views that people gush about. On the slopes, Peter and I were always waiting for someone, making sure someone didn't fall, scooping someone up when they did, and not just free forming it down the mountain. I likely pulled my MCL while trying to help Caroline down the steepest part of a black hill that I never should have brought her down. And we spent a whole lot of money. 

But, there was a whole lot that went so right. 

Chamonix is just lovely. And I want to return. I got to speak French, including in a hospital when my knee's life depended on it. The food and the ambiance at Rose du Pont was heavenly. When the clouds cleared on the 17th and I could see Mont Blanc from the top of Les Houches, I held my breath. The last trail run I did, likely for awhile, along the river was epic. All of our kids skied so well and got better while there. And Peter and I once again, got to explore a part of Europe we hadn't seen before, teaching our kids a little bit about the lost art of navigating life, one new word, one wing it decision, one rescue, and one thank god it wasn't worse moment at a time.

Lo. 

Outtakes

Several weeks ago, our Parish priest started his homily by saying, 'if you want to tell God a joke, tell him your plans.'

Which might explain why Peter and I run our lives the way we do. That is, without too much planned. With plenty of room for pivots, detours, and outtakes, always giving us a little more to laugh about when we have the chance to reflect. 

Our plan: after Christmas, we would go to Italy. A couple days in Rome. Several more in Tuscany. That was it. That was the plan.  

After we realized we better plan a little more, we filled in some gaps with a train reservation and a car rental. Okay, there, that was the plan. 

This was the reality. 

On December 20, our family started a bout of illnesses, that would circulate around and around and around until we had all been sufficiently humbled. 

On the morning of December 27, about five hours before we were supposed to leave our house, I was once again caught in the virus' travel path, waging another war against the toilet. At 4:00 AM with no hope of keeping even water down, I told Peter to take as many kids as he could, I would meet him in Rome on a later flight. 

Peter did just that, he took four kids, while Bobby and I nursed ourselves back to vitality. Bravely navigating another country with four girls under the age of 12, Marriott took pity on Peter and upgraded us to their Presidential Suite. The space, view, bubble bath, mini slippers and robes, and bowl of fruit created a welcome oasis. 

Bobby and I woke up feeling better and ready to fly. Upon arriving at the hotel, I rushed everyone out the door to make up for lost time. Things I should have planned for: more people than I had anticipated, crowds making the kids nervous, scooters being tough to ride on cobblestone sidewalks, the line for the Pantheon being two hours long, and a dinner reservation somewhere. Things that I improvised: 

Gelato. 

Church. Looks like a nice one. And half of us hadn't been to Mass, and they were saying Mass, perfect. Look a Caravaggio! 

Dinner at the first place we saw after Mass. Which just happened to be in the Piazza Novona, next to an Italian puppet show that was part of the Christmas market. And the twins loved it. 

The next day, I told Peter to take the big kids to see St. Peter's. So he did. He was flabbergasted by the line, so started milling around in the middle of the square until he met a Vatican security guard. Who offered to help him skip the line for a nominal payment. Peter paid, they got in. Italian bribery at its finest. 

While he did that, I ventured to the Forum and Coliseum with the twins. The cab dropped us off at the bottom of Caligula's palace and pointed to go up the stairs. Caroline sat down on the first stair and said she couldn't walk anymore. Jacqueline echoed the lament. So I hoisted one up, dragged the other one, and made Margaret keep up. At the top, the twins had a concern about the temperature and the need to find the sun. So I found it, on the other side of the plaza. Which is also where we saw the entrance to the forum. I told them this was a better version of a playground and they perked up, balancing on ancient walls, and learning how to take pictures using the big camera. It was pure joy until I asked them to keep walking so we could see the Coliseum. Nope. Done. Caroline sat down again. Jacqueline asked for 'uppy' which means, 'lift me uppy.' Which is when I saw the horse drawn carriage and threw them in it. To the Coliseum! Turned out to be their favorite part of the vacation. 

That evening, I took another grouping of kids to scoot around Trastevere and have dinner at a charming Roman restaurant called Vanda. Artichokes, fried zucchini, foccaccia, fennel and olive salad, and excellent pasta. Oh, and of course, gelato. 

Monday brought the Villa Borghese for me, Margaret and the twins, while Peter took the big kids to the Forum and Coliseum. After our unique adventures, we came together to make our way to the train. 

Navigating Rome Termini with five kids and four big suitcases is not for the faint of heart. Navigating our arrival in Firenze with five hungry kids, arguably was even more challenging. 

So, Gelato. 

Next, a cab to Europcar. A hypothetical quick check of ID, car selection, and off we would go to our secluded house in Tuscany. 

But ... 'do you have an international drivers license?' 

No. I don't have one of those. 

Well, you can't rent a car from us. 

Fine. Get that Uber driver back here ... how much to drive us to Rosenanno? Welp, let's go. 

Actually, we need to stop at the grocery store first. Got it, let's go to the one right outside of Florence, easier for parking, much more local, much more difficult for an American to shop.  

I drew the short straw - I shopped, while Peter stayed in the car with the kids and Uber driver. Fastest, hardest grocery shopping I've ever done. 

Midway to Rosenanno, our Airbnb texted me that luckily, his driver Stefano was available for next four days. So we hired him. Stefano our guardian angel, to the rescue.  

The first day we saw San Gimigniano, leveraging the purchases of Pinocchio ornaments and gelato to appeal to the twins, and went to a winery. It was a classic and perfect Tuscan day with almost zero outtakes except for Caroline's general comportment because she was on day 6 of constipation. 

The second day we went to Siena. To the Duomo for Mass, which was regal and reflective - a perfect start to the New Year. But Siena was cold and drizzly. And the twins were not too happy about it. Especially as we searched for a place for lunch, which was hard to find because everywhere was full. Note to self, plan for reservations on New Year's Day. We finally found a place with a less than desirable menu for Mary and Bobby, a Freud poster of a naked woman, and a table. We'll take it, the one right under the poster. Surrounded by Italians celebrating the day with friends, we had an unexpectedly delicious cheese and charcuterie board, wine, lots of focaccia, and pasta that the twins devoured. Mary and Bobby finally came around. After lunch, we saw the Piazza del Campo. The big kids rode their scooters up and down the bowl of the plaza, terrorizing the Italians who were none too excited about the American kids in town. It was good, until it wasn't. The twins were frozen again, and the only thing that could possibly make them happy ... 

Gelato. 

Followed by a ride home from Stefano. God bless Stefano. 

Peter went to bed early that night. He didn't look well. Caroline finally pooped. She looked better. 

The next morning, Peter didn't get out of bed when Stefano arrived. So we boarded the van with six not seven. And were off to a farm. We toured it - it was stunning - we saw where they made cheese and the kids held their noses - we were welcomed into their cozy restaurant among a crowd of second dates and family get togethers - and the kids miraculously behaved. Next, we went to Pienza. It was adorable, and I loved it. Except for when Caroline yelled, I WANT GELATO over and over again in the middle of the town square. Mortifying.

Back home, Peter was still sick. Feverish, then cold, coughing, then shivering, and unable to get out of bed. I packed us up, telling the kids, they needed to be better helpers. 

In the morning, Peter rose from the dead, Stefano got us to the airport, and we made it home. Chock full of pictures and great memories.  

So, that was the trip. Not very planned, struck by sheer luck several times, far from easy, and maybe not as relaxing as some would want. But it was everything to me. 

Having a big family as we do can be limiting. And there were times back in the states, that I doubted my ability to show my kids more of the world due to the expense and the logistics. But this less than organized trip to Italy, showed my family what's possible and what's out there and everyone is hooked. 

And yes, the next time, we might plan a little more, but there is something more enabling about life unplanned. It makes you think and problem solve, and it certainly creates laughs. The outtakes and pictures that my Grandma Barry was notorious for saving. Peter sitting on the steps of Santa Maria Novella with Caroline in his arms and four suitcases around him as I went to search for more gelato. The kids faces underneath the Freud poster. Peter carrying scooters in a garbage bag around Siena. The Uber driver without headlights who drove us up the winding hills of Tuscany to Rosenanno. The gory torture museum in San Gimigniana, the Vatican security guard, the horse ride around the Coliseum, all possible because being impromptu enabled it. 

Most of all, we learned that once again, we can do it. We can do hard, in sickness and in health, always finding ways to make life more memorable. 

Lo.  

Unlucky

After four months living in England, I've collected quite a few new turns of phrase from the British lexicon. Some worth pondering, some worth putting away, and some that I'll pick up and carry with me. 

I came across, 'alright?' very early in my working relationship with the Brits. It was used as a greeting, set in a more despondent, worrisome tone. At least that's the way I heard it. 

You. Alright? 

Me? Alright? 

It took me awhile to respond. I actually didn't know if I was alright. I had just packed up my family of seven and moved to a new city, in a new country. I felt in over my head in a big girl's job, didn't know anyone, and it was pouring rain, and I was soaking wet from it because I forgot an umbrella. No, I don't think I'm alright. I'm far from it. So what should I say? The first couple attempts at answering this salutation were awkward, and much more truthful and transparent than any Brit is used to. There was one day when I walked into the office and four different people sequentially asked me if I was alright. It was like my hazing. Would I finally answer in a normal way? By the fourth I just said, 'yep. You ok?' I got a 'yep' back. So that's how it works. Presto. Pondered. Put away.   

In the early days, I also came across the difference between 'fine' and 'brilliant'. An idea that is fine is terrible, won't ever work, please someone send her back to the States pronto. 'Brilliant' is brilliance and hey, we might just adopt her. I think my People Officer told me something was fine early on. 'Just fine?' I asked. My Corporate Affairs Officer told me something was brilliant a little later on. I AM alright! Eventually I got more brilliants out of the other sides of the business. 

In the middle of a leadership team meeting, my Supply Chain officer told me, 'I don't want to teach you how to suck eggs, but ...'

I interrupted her, 'what did you just say?' 

'It means, I don't want to teach you something you already know.' I already knew what she was talking about, except for the turn of phrase. That's one I will be putting away and never using. 

My Technology Officer told me that the building's cables were knackered, next to another brit that commended him on his word choice. Knackered cables are not a good thing. But I love how the Brits appreciate good use of language.   

I was asked by a franchisee if I fancied a brew over an afternoon meeting in his restaurant. A brew was not a beer. It was a tea. I declined both. 

Perhaps my favorite is the use of the cheer, 'unlucky' during a sporting match. Namely, my daughter's field hockey game. And it's not so much the word itself, but how it's used that is just so British. 

A girl dribbles down the field, is wide open in front of the goal, doesn't look up to see that, shoots and misses by a mile. 'Unlucky!' Another girl doesn't stop a ball, it whizzes past her, the other teams gets it and goes to goal. 'Unlucky!' The team takes 7 shots on goal in a 60 second flurry of activity, and yet none of them go in. 'UNLUCKY!' Mary ended up scoring a goal because she was in the right place at the right time, and had a stroke of luck. I literally yelled onto the field, 'LUCKY!' 

As I reflect on Christmas this year, there is one British phrase that seems all too fitting. And it's not fine. Or brilliant. It's unlucky. 

It started with Caroline and then Jacqueline getting high fevers when my parents came for a lovely visit. Unlucky. 

It got unluckier, when Mary vomited on Saturday night ... which then made Jacqueline and I vomit early Sunday morning. Double unlucky.  

Tuesday the 23rd felt like the height of unlucky because Jacqueline went from fever, to norovirus, to pneumonia, to the doctor, to the pharmacy, to bed rest. 

Tuesday night, and we had the unlucky trifecta: Peter, Margaret and Caroline vomited. Caroline won champion chucker though, making an absolute mess all over her bed and bedding, never trying to aim for the toilet or even bathroom once. Mommy was unlucky the next day cleaning it all up. 

Christmas Eve was unlucky because 4 out of 7 Schultzes were too sick to go to Mass. Or eat a fish dinner. 

It was unlucky that Charles came to visit when all of this was happening. 

Somehow Christmas Day came and passed with luck. 

But then Bobby got sick the day after. Unlucky. 

And then Mommy got sick AGAIN the day after that. UNLUCKY and I'm not ALRIGHT! At about 2:00 AM on Saturday morning, I told Peter to take as many kids as he could on our vacation, and I would catch up. No, Bobby and I would catch up, because Bobby still had no energy. Fine.  

So on the 27th, while Peter and the girls landed in Rome, I laid in bed, thinking how unlucky. How despondently British have I become, crying over watching Love Actually wrapped in a blanket, trying to sip water. I'm worser than worse. Curseder than cursed.  

Until I woke up the next day, boarded a flight with Bobby to meet up with my family, put away my 'unlucky' bug, and realized just how incredibly lucky I was.  

As all matters of thoughts crossed my head while I was sick, sick, sick, I realized 30,000 feet in the air, that yes, we are doing life differently. And yes, it's not tried and true, and the American ideal. Yes, I'm coaching five kids on being resilient. Yes, things are hard. Yes, it was different celebrating Christmas away from my family, getting all the pictures of dinner tables where we weren't present. And yes, everyone had the sickness in sequential order. But as we have wandered around the streets of Rome, all I can think about is how entirely blessed we are, and how lucky we are to have this experience living abroad.  

I'm reconnecting with language lost in Rome now. And as I learned back in 2002 while living here, I loved how the Italians express themselves. In bocca al lupo. Et mille grazie per una vita bella. 

Lo. 

Christmiss

As an American leading a British business, one of the most popular questions I get is, 'are there things that you miss?' 

My short answer. 

Yes. 

My long answer. 

- Peanut M&Ms with the right color of artificial red and orange dye. 

- The availability and price of LIFE cereal for my kids

- American convenience 

- American electricity  

- American workmen 

- Tennis. 

- Tennis. 

- Oh yeah, tennis. 

- Parking spaces with more room. 

- Streets with more room.

- Being able to take pictures of my kids in their school events 

- My American work family. 

- My SEA family. 

- My PGC family. 

- My family family. 

As we enter the Christmas Season, the list takes on a more sentimental toll. I've caught myself thinking, where are the real red and green M&Ms?, hustling and bustling is merrier when you aren't in gridlock London traffic, I wish the Pittsburgh Golf Club would stop sending me invites to things I can't possibly attend (but really really want to), will I ever get invited to a Christmas party here, and I guess I'll just be dreaming of a white Christmas. 

Last week, while on the road with my team from Leeds, to Manchester, to Birmingham to London, I got another question quite frequently, will you be going home for the holidays? 

My short answer. 

No, we are staying here. 

The long answer. 

- Home is an interesting term right now. Yes, I'm a U.S. citizen, but we don't have a house in the states anymore. So, I am home.  

- I've also been traveling since January, and I need time to not right now. 

 

- Besides, despite the rain, London is wonderful at Christmas time, and I was gifted a British Christmas cookbook, and we got a tree from the Highlands of Scotland this weekend, and my parents are coming to visit next week, so, I'm ready to go full Brit at Christmas. 

- To summarize, I am home for the holidays. 

The first and last points are the ones where my technology officer lingered a bit. He had taken an assignment in Japan before coming to do the role in the UK. He said, it's good for you to embrace that. When my wife and I were in Tokyo, we often found ourselves dwelling on the temporary definition of the assignment, and saying, 'when we get back we'll do this, when we get back we'll do that.' Instead of living in the moment. Instead of calling Tokyo home. 

He caught the little tear in my eye. I caught his. 

These moves are big. There is always loss and always excitement that comes from there. And there is emotion between the two. Actually taking a second to reflect on what we as leaders have done and continue to sacrifice for the company might draw a wet eye. 

Despite a roof over our head, home has a deeper meaning. It's a feeling of comfort in your surroundings, your support network, and your sense of safety. And in London, it's taken a little longer to create those because of the distance and differences here.   

But we are getting there. And this lead up to Christmas has helped. There's something about the decorations (which thankfully didn't break on the ship across the Atlantic), the kids plays and concerts, the carols on the piano next to the glow of the Christmas tree, and the relationships we are forming across school, work, and church becoming a little warmer, all making you feel that our sense of home is taking hold. 

Yes, we will miss Christmas in America. But we are embracing what Christmas in our new home will bring. 

Lo. 

Over the Pond and Through the Heath

There are several images as we said goodbye to Pittsburgh that still haunt me. 

When the kids walked out of Chapel for the last time and I knew I wouldn't get to experience them as students in that special school anymore.  

My last game on the tennis courts that had built friendships, rivalries and the best relief to my stress.  

The last time I tied up my shoes and ran around the East End of the city, by our house on Bayard that was now empty, all of our stuff packed and on a ship headed across the ocean. 

The last night at the Golf Club, driving home under the Schenley Park sycamores while Peter played Werewolves of London in the car, tears welling in my eyes. 'We'll be back,' he said. 

The last hugs between siblings and cousins, after a last family dinner, not really anticipating that it would be far too long until the next ones. 

The photo of my kids with Nana and Opa at the airport – pure smiles on their faces representing all the joy they shared across the generational divide, during the three years we called Pittsburgh home.

And finally, the plane's ascent above the city, the golden triangle fading into the distance. It was when my emotions truly got the best of me. Seeing my city, my hometown, fade into memories yet again.

I honestly never thought I would call Pittsburgh my home again after I left in 2007. We were lucky that my negotiation tactics worked, and that we got to further my career while moving back to the neighborhood, school, and club that defined my childhood and early adulthood. Once back and once fully attuned, it felt like destiny to stay. But it wasn't to be. My company had other plans and the next adventure was waiting. I told my parents, don't be sad that it's over, be glad that it happened. I told myself that as well. 

Now, we live in London. We have been here for more than three months. And we will be celebrating Thanksgiving today over the pond, through the Heath, in our fourth home address of the year.

I've always said it takes two weeks to acclimate. When coming back from maternity leave, when taking on a new job, when moving to a new city, when matriculating at a new school, I've told myself, and our family to give it the obligatory two weeks. Two weeks is the time it takes to uncover new patterns, find comfort, and build confidence in the path forward.

After two weeks, Mary told me it still wasn’t easier. She wanted a refund on that advice.

Fair. Maybe international adjustments take longer. 

And as I reflect over the past three months …

We lived in a temporary house in Knightsbridge with mice in the kitchen, a leak in the dining room, five flights of stairs between my bedroom and the kitchen, a broken refrigerator, and spotty electricity.

     We then moved to a different temporary flat in Maide Vale, which was smaller, but much improved.

     We finally moved to our permanent house in Hampstead, and after several weeks of trying to fit an American household full of stuff into an English townhouse without a garage, we discarded a lot, found new methods of storage, and got relatively organized. 

My kids have started new schools. Yes schools, plural. Because in the 45 days between finding out about my assignment and moving, we were pressed to find good schools and placements for the kids. We were fortunate to land where we did, but with some inevitable logistical challenges. 

My kids started sports and dance. They have made friends, been invited to playdates and birthday parties, and are building a social life far better than mine. They have been pushed to work harder and learn more at school, particularly the three in the British school system which is ahead of the American one. They have each found their unique strides in a new urban environment, and I'm nothing but proud. 

 
Peter learned how to drive on the left side of the road, grocery shops on foot, cooked in kitchens with limited supplies, finalized selling our house in Pittsburgh and leasing our house here, processed the overwhelming amount of communication and paperwork from both schools, navigated the national health system, moved us in and out of three houses, and found a network of landscapers, cleaning support, and workmen to get our house into working order.  

I started a new job overseeing a big brand across an entire market spanning two countries. I learned how to stay confident with my American accent and approach. I've put the team through a bootcamp of sorts, level setting on business performance, evolving our plan, setting higher expectations and clarifying roles and responsibilities. I met peers running other countries across Europe, developing a new international network of colleagues. I presented in front of 1,000 people at our Summit. I've visited 35 restaurants across three of four devolved nations and the Republic of Ireland. I presented in front of and then had dinner with our CEO. I have built strong partnerships, gained followership, and started my brand ambassadorship, meeting politicians and even the Princess of Wales. 

We’ve explored London. We've seen shows in the West End, Bobby and Peter went to a cricket match, the kids have all experienced London as a classroom in school, I've run all the parks and all the miles, we went to museums, restaurants, markets, and stores. And more stores. And we overspent. We did it all. ALL. To make it feel more like home faster, easier, more completely. 

     But homemaking, comfort making, confidence building isn't something that can be rushed. Mary was right. Two weeks wasn't enough. But I think we've arrived at a place where we feel okay. Dare I say, good. With a turkey in the oven after a turkey bowl in Regent's Park, Bluey on the TV and paintings on the walls, Opa and Margaret playing cards while Mary plays the piano, Bobby's remote control car racing around the basement, flowers in the vases, and my attention where it should be, I think we can all say it feels like home.  

      And while I'll miss that image of my Dad taking his turkey out of the oven - the one that Peter has captured just about every year since we've been an item - the memories we are forming in London are the images I'm grateful for. I am forever thankful for the globally mobile home that Peter and I have created together. 

     

      Lo.

London Mum

A couple weeks ago, we went on vacation. 11 days in total, two locations, enough time and distance to recoup from 45 days plus three years of very hard work. 

A couple days in though, I had already logged 12 hours of work, I hadn't had time to read, I didn't have a puzzle going, and I needed to be on the phone again in an hour. Mary was asking to go off with a friend. Bobby was pleading to go fishing with Dad. Margaret had a tick bite, ear infection, and pink eye. The twins were fussing and desperately in need of a nap. Peter was at the grocery store. And I lost it. 

'Who do you think this vacation is for?' I yelled. 'It's for me and Dad. It's not for you!' 

They were shocked. No, appalled. I was shocked and appalled too. Oh my God, did I just say that? 

Bobby being the wit he is, in words dripping with sarcasm said, 'seriously? This is not our vacation?' 

I rethought my words (and tone) and immediately apologized. 

'Okay, yes, it's all of our vacation, but I need ALL of you to give me some grace right now.' 

I was forgiven in minutes, or maybe seconds. And the kids pulled back on their persistent pleas. But I've been guiltily processing this moment of becoming the mom of a horror film for a couple of weeks. Yes, my career and its implications have been stressful. Yes, it triggered an outburst. But I have to remember that life is happening to all of us, not just me. In fact, I'm the creator of our dismantled and displaced existence. I should be the one holding it together. Or at least holding myself together.    

I'll back up. 

About two months ago, I was pulled into a drive thru of one of my restaurants to discuss the trend line of a recent promotion ... and my career. I had answers to the trend line, I waited for responses on my career path. There were some developments on that front. They wanted me to move abroad as early as July. Would I be open to it? 

I called Peter. He confirmed that yes, we would. So we opened the door. 

A week later I was told we needed to start the immigration process, look at International Schools and assess places to live. We might want to dabble in learning the language as a family, time permitting. Ik eet de botterham. Still got it. They also wanted me to take a leadership assessment. So in no shorter than 9 hours, I took it.  

Each week, while still managing my old job, I asked for a status or confirmation of next steps, and got nothing. 'Things are still fluid' they said. 

When my assessment came back, the company pivoted. From one country to a different one. From a lateral move to a promotion. From one language to another. Yes, clearly fluid.

At that moment, after calls from the biggest of bosses, we had 45 days to get passports in Pittsburgh, a visa in Boston, an e-visa somewhere in between the UKIV website and hell, landscape, window wash, patch up, and clean up a house, fly to London to find a new home, navigate the odd and highly ineffective world of educational consulting to find a school, get the kids into the school(s), pack our house, learn a new and floundering business, finish off an old, but booming business, train my successor, and say goodbye to an incredible network of relationships I've built at work and in my community over the past three years. Plus go on a vacation. 

Said vacation was a non-negotiable, because I hadn't been on one since spring break. While corporate America agreed on paper, it's reality as well as motherhood had other plans. There would be a last minute fire drill at work, there would be anxiety about the move, there would be kids who didn't want to cooperate, and there would be a general inability for me to relax. I will say though, the last day in Cape Cod was perfection. I achieved harmony: an 11 mile shining sea trail run, Peter's joy of fishing for and catching Benito, a great book on the beach, oysters and lobster for dinner, getting to hang out with friends, incredible champagne, and kids on their best behavior. I vowed over Cristal and the most beautiful sunset to return to this place, mentally and physically again. Hopefully in the nearer future. 

On the next segment of our vacation, I remembered that it was for them. I did work a couple of days, but mostly, I just played with my kids, and let them play and play and play with their cousins. I would still like my vacation though. 

Today, we made it through 45 days of crazy, onto the next stage of adjustment and refining our definition of life. We are in central London and everything is different: The way people talk. The way people drive, bike and run. The way you look to the right then left. The toilets and how they flush. The smells, sounds, flickering lights, broken refrigerator, weak internet, and many flights of stairs in our temporary house. The number of languages spoken in the streets. The cereal made without all the fabulous tasting yet banned ingredients in the UK. And the very orange yolk of the eggs and how they discolor the scrambled version. 

Despite what we've considered a challenge, despite what's been stressful, I am incredibly proud of how everyone has adjusted and embraced the excitement of a newfound life.  

Mary has adapted to the styles and designer tastes of Sloane street, has leaned in to what the West End has to offer, and even went for a run with me in Hyde Park.  

Bobby has bravely navigated the Tubes and found new taste treats in Peri Peri wings at the local Pub and Spicy Chicken McNuggets at the local McDonald's.  

Margaret is over her pink eye and ear infection and is enjoying sleeping with me every night while Peter protects us on the first floor of our five floor, awkwardly designed temporary townhouse. She also loved the museum of transportation and reading the Underground map.  

Caroline and Jacqueline love Hyde Park and the playground near our house, the swans in Long Pond, being carried through the streets of London when their legs get too tired, and watching Bluey while eating Goldfish bought at the American store.  

I am most impressed with Peter though. He has navigated all of this brilliantly, to coin a British phrase. He has performed the role of household COO flawlessly, navigating a perverse 45 day check list, displaying a can do attitude at every turn. As an example, today, he navigated our seven seat Euro minivan to the Catholic School uniform shop in East Finchley, trying on and purchasing a plethora of uniform variations for forest, rain, sports, chapel, spring, summer, fall and winter for the twins and Margaret. He then entertained the youngest rascals until Mary and Bobby were done at school, picked them up and navigated his way back through the congested streets of London on the wrong side of the road to our place. He's been incredible. And I'm so thankful for him. 

There is no doubt, I will only be successful in my new role, if my family is successful. And my family couldn't achieve success without Peter's patience and attention to our day to day operations.  

With all this said, it's about three and a half months till our first vacation. I will need it. We all will need it. And I pray every morning to be the best mom I can be, given all that's going on. 

Lo. 

Amper Scamper Little Camper

About fifteen minutes after consuming a cinnamon and sugar cake donut in Linesville, Ohio, came the turn onto Lake Road. My parents would announce our proximity to Sheldon Calvary Camp with weighted importance. And in the backseat, my tummy would turn, fried dough and nerves suddenly not settling well. The possibilities of Camp gone right and on the flip side of my indigestion, Camp gone wrong ping ponged through my mind. 

Camp gone right was the vision where I would accumulate a bunch of green eights, our team would win the banner, I would become best friends with my cabin mates, and most importantly my annual camp crush would finally figure out that it was me he was searching for under the big tree in the middle of camp. We would watch the fourth of July fireworks together, eat M&Ms and drink Cokes as we watched the sunset over Lake Erie every night, we would perform in the Sunday Chapel skit together, he would ask me to the banquet, we would part ways with tears, and the promise to write to each other until we were reunited at Camp next year. And as we pulled onto the gravel road in our Transport Van, I willed this vision to be my reality and my stomach to stop doing flips. 

Camp gone wrong was everything the alternate version wasn't. It was losing. Losing morning and evening competitions, losing the electives that I wanted, losing the good people in my cabin, and every year, year after year after year, losing my crush to a Shadyside girl. It was always a Shadyside girl. They were built with longer, skinnier legs, hair and skin that seemed to look better after a KYBO spa, and a cooler calmer indifference to the world. 

The story of 9 years going to Calvary Camp was a mix of these two scenarios. I loved the camp-wide competitions, especially the one hosted by the forest, I loved learning and growing at electives, I loved the songs we would sing, the peaceful environment around the Chapel, I loved the laughter at rest time and devotion, and I loved the forever friendships I made at camp. I never found love. In total, I probably had 6 camp crushes - half campers, half counselors. All unrequited. 

This year, I made the turn onto Lake Road from the other side of town. Google had mapped an alternative route from Pittsburgh to Conneaut, Ohio, so we missed Linesville. And we missed the donut shop. The turn didn't carry the same familiarity or teen fantasies, so I imparted my nerves onto my kids who would be first time campers this year. Amper scamper little campers that is.

Bobby didn't seem to have any of those tummy twisting anxieties and when we arrived he was immediately ready to release himself from my affection and desire for him to need me. He had his cousin, his friends, and his charisma, which true to form, helped him glide through his first year. 

Mary took on a double dose of nerves. She entered a brave new world without a friend in her cabin, without knowing what the week would bring, and with an introversion polar to Bobby's personality. After a couple tears, she said goodbye, stoic and resolute as ever. She has always been a fearless leader - and her camp experience was no exception. 

Two weeks went by. We got some letters. Mary contributed four. Bobby one, thanks to his cousin for mailing it. The camp administration posted pictures. I could glimpse Bobby fishing, shooting a bow and arrow, and goofing off, and I could see Mary painting, making bracelets, and finding her way in a campfire circle. 

Yesterday, we picked them up - dying to hear their stories and revelations. Eager to feed them real food and welcome them back to civilization.  

Bobby had had the camp experience that one of my crushes might have. Carefree, central command for attention, went to the banquet with someone - despite him saying it was a group thing, won an archery award. He also came home tanner. And I didn't think that possible.  

Mary wanted to portray her experience as negative - that she couldn't break into a cabin of friends who came together from Alexandria, VA. But when you dug into it, she loved much of what I did about camp. The songs Hiding Place and Day is Done from Chapel, eating treats at Canteen and watching the sunset, getting two green eights and apparently two elusive black tens, learning how to paddle board and do Yoga, bringing home painted rocks, and laughing about secrets stored at camp, between campers, maybe about a crush or two. 

I wanted them to guest blog - to write out their experiences - but they declined. I thought it might help them process the ups and down and in betweens. That yes, Shadyside girls always get the guy. That Cabin 10 boys have a way of getting in trouble. That the food will always be bad and the slop bucket will stimulate vomit. That there is a secret language of songs, rhymes, and sayings that only Calvary kids can know. That even though you didn't love everything, you come home unable to stop talking about all of it. I've committed what they've told me - the rest, will be theirs to keep and hold. And whatever lives on Bobby's disposable camera, well ... I can't wait to see.  

Camp will always be something that we do. Because finding a place where kids can cut out electronics and explore a deeper sense of who they are, how they show up, and what they are capable of, is an experience they need to keep coming back to.  

And as an Easter Egg, camp was certainly something that built character - character that will be necessary for my next blog entry ... 

Lo.