Reunion

Half of the 1992 grads. I failed to get a picture of the other half. Or a picture that didn't chop off the heads of the top two rows.

So Brett and I recently went back to the Chicago area for our 15 year college reunion. My writing about the weekend has been a bit delayed because of a work trip last week that immediately followed the reunion. One would think that one would have more time to write while on the road, but my work trip involved long hours as a booth babe at an executive offsite meeting. There are many perks to being a booth babe – like the all you can eat mints and not having to decide what to wear (the up side of the company sweater) – but extra free time is generally not one of those perks. So when off the booth clock, I was either catching up on my day job, hanging out with my fellow booth compatriots, or sleeping (quite well I might add) in my heavenly bed.

The reunion was a blast. Brett and I had a fabulous time seeing old friends, making new ones, and traversing the paths where our love first bloomed. (I can’t wait until Brett reads that line.) So by all accounts it was a complete success, but here are a few of the things that didn’t happen:

1) I did not get mistaken for a student. And for the record, neither did my youthful looking husband. Not that I expected that to be the case, but I also didn’t think that the college students would look so shockingly close in age to my nine year old son. I know the math suggests that college students are in fact closer in age to my son than to me, but he is still my baby and not able to walk more than three blocks away by himself yet. Naturally, the thought of him thousands of miles away living in dorm squalor with a mind entirely his own is much more than I can bear at this moment.

2) I did not feel guilty about leaving my children at home. They were happy, we were happy. We were actually deliriously happy. We had no one tugging on our sleeves to hurry up a conversation, no one asking us when we could go play baseball, and only one person who still wanted more real food after the dinner was over.

3) I did not run. Though I did bring three running outfits anticipating a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday early morning run. I love the hope that I had in myself that without a child waking me up at 6:30am that I would actually choose to get up out of bed and start my day before I had to. Instead, I got up at 10am every morning and felt completely at peace with my slothfulness.

4) I did not revert back to my freshmen year habit of ordering the chili and cheese nachos followed by the mint chip ice cream as my afternoon snack. My roommate Julie and I are still recovering from the horror of hearing that the basketball team used to call us the “freshmen fifteen duo.” We know this to be factual because Brett was on the basketball team and because we spent large amounts of time in the cafeteria lamenting the fact that nobody was asking us out.



Brett and Julie talking over the "freshmen fifteen duo" comments.

5) I was at the football game, but never actually saw the football field. The infield was buzzing with people to talk to that by the 4th quarter I was all done talking and needed someone to start tugging on my sleeve so that I could go take a people break. Thankfully, my friend Sarah came to the rescue and we ventured to the bookstore to use the new 20% discount we were now eligible for as fifteen year grads. So although I didn’t see any of the football game, I did see the $400,000 new video scoreboard that was apparently funded by some generous parents. These must have been the same parents who had missed the fact that the crumbling down football field restrooms looked to be months away from mandatory closure due to hazardous conditions. The Wheaton THUNDER sound effects sure did sound sweet on the video scoreboard, just plan to hold your pee.

6) I did not call anyone by the wrong name or make any known inappropriate comments. I had a doozey of an inappropriate comment at the ten year reunion which I was intent on not repeating. It turns out that bringing the eight pound yearbook along with us (me) to study before the Friday night event paid off well in the name department. I did accidentally mistake one women’s daughter for a boy, but it was from the back and so by all accounts would not be deemed a faux pax.

7) I did not even try to compete. You hear that people are often trying to one up each other during reunions with their personal and professional accomplishments. Yeah, well, given that some of my classmates are CEOs, others are championing causes around the world, and others are doing things like giving a year out of their lives to work as a nurse in Iraq – you start to understand just how small your own contribution is. While in some situations that realization might discourage me, I actually felt energized just hearing people humbly share about their life’s work. Besides there was probably only a handful of people that wouldn’t have fled the scene immediately had I started the conversation with this, “Well, I recently put together a really great marketing plan for a new wireless product ….”

8) I did not scold my husband for being a lame Reunion committee member. Turns out he wasn’t the only one. The Reunion committee was actually two women – Shayne and Katie – who managed to pull off the entire weekend without a hitch and without much help. I did however scold my husband when he failed to remember that not only was I involved in an on campus organization during our senior year, but that I was actually the Chairwoman of the organization. “Ohh, sorry, he said … I guess you were.” I wonder how that would play if I told him I momentarily forgot that he was on the basketball team. I got over it quickly though because we were enjoying rekindling our college romance.



Brett and his basketball coach, Coach Harris, and friend Nate

9) I did not get any good pictures. For as much as I love taking pictures, I completely failed in capturing the moments of the weekend. And not for lack of having my camera handy – I lugged that thing around with me the entire weekend, but I rarely used it and when I did, I seemed to miss the whole idea of candid shots. But for the record, here are the few photos I did get …



Becky thinking about whether her tube top needs to be pulled up again or not



Tess, Sarah, and Steph at dinner looking radiant



Me, Steph, and her new son Johnny!



Crowd of people + Steph who sees my camera!



Me, Janna (who had just done a triatholon!), and Julie at dinner



A good shot of the backs of people + Carolyn listening intently



Me and Julie + Katie and daughter Phoebe in the background

Jelly Bellies

A couple of Christmases ago, I splurged and bought Quinn the Playmobil Airport set. Not because he had been jonesing for it or because he loved Playmobil or airplanes, but because I had determined that he needed to work on his building skills. (It was also in a very large box that would make for an impressive Santa delivery.)

Within this box contained a movable elevator, baggage carousel, control tower, passengers, staff, even a customs officer and dozens of tiny plastic potted plants. I’m not sure what the piece count was, but I do know that it was significantly more than the number of the pieces included with my Cuisinart. It also looked like enough pieces to occupy several hours on December 26th so that I could enjoy some pleasure reading. What I didn’t anticipate however is that this new *fun* building project would require not just the full time involvement of an adult, but also the dexterity of a dentist and the patience of someone who is not me. By the time the airport was finally put together and ready for play, Quinn had lost interest and it was time for dinner.

We kept the airport assembled on the dining room table for several days (I wanted to make sure that this labor of love was on full display), but there’s only so much you can do with a play airport that for all it’s hundreds of pieces didn’t actually include any airplanes. Since then, the $60 Playmobil Airport has largely remained in the toy cabinet. I’ve insisted that all the pieces stay together and have even bought a special plastic tub from Storables to make that possible. I continue to hope that someone, sometime will enjoy snapping tiny plastic potted plants around the check-in counter. I tried to resurrect it when Colin turned four because he loves airplanes. While I was wrestling with where to attach the computer terminal in the control tower and throwing in a couple of expletives for good measure – Colin had already built his own multi-room runway with pillows and cardboard boxes and was busy flying his fleet of airplanes to Boston and Hawaii. So no need for the customs officer?

I now think of that Playmobil set every time I set foot in a toy store. I remind myself that my kids don’t need all the plastic stuff to have fun, that sometimes/oftentimes it’s the small things that bring them the greatest joy. And a little sugar doesn’t hurt either.

On a recent trip to Costco, Brett happened down the candy isle and decided to pick up a $10 super sized jar of jelly bellies. At first blush, I thought this was a mistake. After all, my husband
hasn’t had a carbonated soda in decades, nor has he ever shared a box of Hot Tamales with me. He’s the guy who knew about high fructose corn syrup before Dr Oz, and who is visibly burdened by white flour and anything other than plain non-fat organic yogurt. So the jelly bellies were naturally a surprise, but one that has brought incredible amounts of delight to our boys.

In addition to being the perfect after dinner treat because of the inherent ability to ration (look like a hero on a 15 jelly belly night!), do you know that there are 49 different flavors in this jar of jelly bellies? And do you know what mystery there is in trying to figure out just what jelly belly goodness awaits with each one that is popped into your mouth? Or what kind of trades you can make with your younger brother to try to pawn off a buttered popcorn jelly belly? We have spent hours laughing and ribbing each other during these jelly belly evenings. We have played games. We have ordered and reordered our favorite flavors. And we have found uneaten strawberry cheesecake jelly bellies (the least favorite on everyone’s list) throughout the house.

My favorite moment was when Colin ate his first Licorice jelly belly and exclaimed, “Mom, mom – this one tastes like FENNEL!” That’s right people, my four year old knew the taste of fennel before he knew the taste of licorice. I felt incredible pride at this moment knowing that I had shaped my son’s palette to know a vegetable before a candy flavor. What a good and righteous Mom I am, I thought.

As I was basking in these thoughts, the conversation somehow turned to college. A couple of minutes into the conversation, Quinn looked over at Colin and said, “Colin, do you know what college is?” To which Colin immediately replied, “Of course, Quinn … college is where people play basketball.”

Maybe not so righteous.

Creating His Own Style

He prefers his loose and comfortable. No shirt. With blanket.

1 Year Letter to Lawton

Dear Lawton,

Happy birthday! You turned one year old this weekend. Colin had been counting down the days to your birthday for over a month. He has been obsessed about your birthday and told just about everyone he knew that his brother was turning ONE on Sept 15. You have no idea yet on just how much Colin adores you. He constantly reminds all of us that he loves you more than anyone else in our family. That’s big stuff.



You also have him to thank for your first birthday cake which he helped me make. As you know, you were not disappointed by the experience. You devoured your cake in the same way that I drink coffee in the car – with abandon and without much concern for keeping a clean shirt. You finished your piece way ahead of anyone else and immediately started searching to see which one of us might share what we had left. We decided that we should probably limit your first significant intake of sugar, so we just sang “Happy Birthday” to you again to keep your mind off it. The distraction tactic no longer works with your brothers, but it’s a killer strategy for little munchins like you.




Here’s a picture of you and I that Quinn took this weekend. I got my hair cut and colored on Friday night and since I hadn’t pre-planned a night out on the town afterwards, I thought I should at least document the three hour hair appointment with a photo. Since I’m the official family photographer, there aren’t a lot of photos of me --- and there certainly aren’t many of me with blow dried hair. So I wanted you to know that although I tend to favor the wet pony tail look, I am capable of better.



When I was at the hair salon, I saw this mom with her two pre-teen daughters. I smiled as I watched them flip through hair magazines and discuss (in excruciating detail) about their hopes and dreams for their approaching hair makeover. I also started to do some mental math about what kind of financial outlay this poor mother was going to be making in just a few short hours. But beyond that, I had this moment as I watched them where I realized that I was so happy to be the Mom of three boys. Not because having a daughter didn’t look to be an amazing gift, but because I felt so filled up having sons. When I left, I did call your oldest brother however to tell him that it was VERY IMPORTANT that he tell me how good my hair looked as soon as I walked in the door.



As a boy, you do love to explore. Especially the few places that we’d prefer you not to. The bathroom is the main place that you seem not to be able to resist. I totally understand why unraveling the toilet paper and crawling into the shower is great fun, but I don’t understand the need to hang out behind the toilet or the fascination with the plunger. You love to venture into very small spaces that you can’t get out of, and seem to be particularly interested in ones that are both unsafe and unsanitary. You should know that I have both a fear of heights and snakes and so I beg you to keep your growing need for exploration at sea level and away from reptiles.



Of course, you also like power strips a lot and pulling on stray power cords. We have tried to keep these things away from you, but you’ve managed to find all the gaps in our very half hearted effort at child proofing. You are the third child after all and so we are prone to chinks in the armor. We do however usually catch you before you put the electrical cord in your mouth, although we have not always been able to prevent the iPod from crashing down to the floor. You have not sustained any injuries due to falling iPods – although it’s debatable on whether or not that is more or less dangerous than making it through one of our family iPod dance parties. The iPod dance parties usually involve lots of flailing arms, running in circles, and the occasional chest bump. They also interestingly always end up with Colin stripping naked.



As our third child, your Dad often thinks we sometimes treat you like our pet. For example, this question comes up a lot at home: “Has anyone fed Lawton yet?” We are committed to getting you three meals a day, but we are fairly flexible in how that gets accomplished. We are looking forward to when you will be able to do some more self hydration, but so far you appear to be challenged by the sippie cup. I know we shouldn’t press you on the issue, but it’s just that you aren’t really into the bottle either and we know that you need your liquids. You used to be so focused sucking down your bottle, but now you’ve redirected that focus into telling us that you would please prefer foods with a little more flavor. Pesto pasta is your current favorite and you now reject toast that does not at least offer a light spreading of butter.



Oh my goodness, do you love to talk. You weren’t a very loud infant, but as soon as you discovered your voice several months ago you’ve been a little chatterbox. You engage in these amazingly long “dialogues” with people and already use the art of inflection. You are much more talkative than either of your brothers were at this age. It’s fun to think about what you might be saying. I wonder if you’ve been asking questions about why you’re the only one that has to be strapped to your chair or why shoes are mandatory for all of us, but optional for you. Or why we keep so many old newspapers lying around. I can’t answer that one. You’ll have to ask your Dad.



You were baptized with your cousin Josh on September 9. It was so special to be able to stand before God, our family and friends, acknowledging the gift we have been given in you. The verse we picked out for you was Zephaniah 3:17 which says “The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.” Wow. Your Dad and I promise to the best parents we possibly can to you, but that’s a promise that we couldn’t even begin to touch.



Happy Birthday, Lawton.

With love,

Mama

Giving

The Tigers are chasing the Yankees for the Wild Card spot. 50 Cent is chasing Kanye West for top CD sales. Jude Law is somewhere chasing a new skirt. And the executives in my Company are chasing me for my United Way contribution.

It’s only been 10 days since the campaign began and already I’m exhausted. There are emails, voice mails, conference calls, town hall meetings, building posters, elevator posters, flying rubber chickens (ok, so maybe not in our office but I heard about this in Flint, Michigan.) -- all with the just inbetween the lines message that giving to the United Way is good for our career ….ummm, I mean for the people who receive it.

So the chase is on. I’m being courted. And not just for participation, but for giving at the “leadership level.” Which means real, hard cash. Not just a nominal contribution that one could write off as a cost of employment, but one that causes you to recalculate your overall compensation package and giving plan. One that would also surely cut down on the number of cool boots walking around the office.

Let me say, that I believe in giving and giving generously. The idea that “To whom much is given, much is required” is something that I wholeheartedly agree with. I also believe that the United Way is a good organization doing good work. And I am all for encouraging people to look beyond themselves. But I do have heartburn over the idea that giving is anything but a personal decision. And, I think that people should be able to give to the places and organizations that are important to them. I say that if you want to give to “Ducks Unlimited” or to “Accuracy in Media” as your charity, then you should be able to do that. Our 2008 presidential hopefuls might really appreciate some extra money in the “Accuracy in Media” foundation coffers.

When someone first told me about the expectation for a certain dollar amount, I thought they were kidding. So I re-read the email to the “leaders of the Company” and realized they were right. Then I was confused. Then I was offended. Then I went to lunch.

As a “leader of the Company”, one of the important things I have learned is to not send email when confused or offended. This is what the DRAFT folder is for. Nothing good can come of it. Unfortunately, I haven’t always ported that learning into my personal life – and so some misguided missiles have made their way through cyberspace. Like the nasty gram I sent to my son’s principal when I got an email about his days absent from school. It was after I hit send on my reply that I realized that a) I had forgotten about a couple of “extra” trips my son had taken, b) that the email was autogenerated, and c) that maybe it was actually nice of the principal to be concerned. But I digress…

After my cooling off period and some informative conversations with friends, I realized that my employer is not charting new waters. This level of intensity is common among many big companies. How else could you explain the one upsmanship with flying rubber chickens. So I guess I’m still roughly at par with my friends over at Microsoft – except they do get a big fat maternity leave policy, an athletic club membership, and filtered water in their office.

By the way, it turns out that you do decide where your money goes – you can even elect to give to organizations outside of the United Way family. Now that I know it, I’ve jumped on board the train … and somehow now I can better see the pictures of needy children on the elevator posters.

The Stuff in my Shower

Brett and I recently had a discussion about the differences between cleansers, exfoliants, and body scrubs .. or as he might say, all the SH** in the shower. So to further elaborate, here are some reasons for all the stuff in the shower:

1. Must alternate between expensive shampoo and inexpensive shampoo to amortize the $200 check written to Aveda.

2. Turns out that expensive Aveda shampoo smells like the heavens, but is not all it’s cracked up to be - coarse hair is a life long condition and no amount of Sap Moss is going to magically turn frizzy hair into strands of satin. Though the quest continues.

3. While the Lever bar of soap may do an adequate job of keeping my husband clean and fresh, it has its limits. It’s the same reason that not all dry skin conditions can be treated with Vaseline, (honey).

4. There is fundamental agreement among all beauty experts that women of all ages should use a gentle facial cleanser on their face in lieu of bar soap. Ask anyone, (sweetie.) Think of it like this: basketball shoes vs running shoes. Same fundamental thing. Completely different uses. I really could use your support on this initiative toward healthy, radiant, well nourished skin because I keep overlooking the fact that the facial cleanser is actually in the shower ready for use.

5. Body scrubs, anything related to foot care, and books with titles like “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff” and “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff at Work” are very popular gifts to give working women. So it’s natural to oversubscribe on body scrubs that I DIDN’T BUY.

6. It is difficult to part with any razor, even a disposable one, for fear that you are throwing away the one of the five that still has some life left in it.

7. In my quest to try everything at Trader Jo’s, I thought I should give the Grapefruit Body Scrub a whirl. It, like the canned three bean salad, was a one time experiment. I also briefly forgot about point #5.

8. I continue to believe the one day I will have an extended shower – without interruption – that will allow me the time required to do a deep condition and facial mask. Until then, I am aware that these items are accumulating a great deal of shower scum on the bottoms of their containers and that it is entirely possible that they will smell like wet dog hair when finally opened.

9. Our children require special, tear-free shampoo and their own body wash. They also don’t seem to get the fact that they have their own shower – which unlike ours, includes a tub with an assortment of rubber duckies. Must I wait until puberty to take back my bathroom?

10. The sometimes present mirror in the shower is to aid my retrieval of a contact lense that has gone missing somewhere in my eye socket during a particularly vigorous face washing. It therefore contains no hidden meaning or innuendo in our family friendly bathroom. However … that mandarin orange body wash ….


Now, shall we talk about the stuff in the garage next?

4 1/2 Year Letter to Colin

Dear Colin,

So you are just about to turn 4 ½ years old. I am so glad for that. The last eighteen months of your life have had more than their fair share of parental challenges. I wasn’t always sure that we’d make it to the other side. But we have, and I count it a miracle. At least as big as Jesus feeding the five thousand. Because that’s what a miracle is isn’t it – God setting up a problem situation for us to face that we cannot possibly solve without His help.

Let’s just say that I never heard your Dad raise his voice until your turned three. Our neighbors Chris and Ellen have heard it too … really. And I never said so many “Help me, Help me” prayers in all my life.

I think my low point was the night you threw you metal trash can across your room during a time out … into your full length closet mirror .. and then decided, for effect, to pee all over the shattered mirror. We (now) affectionately refer to it as the “Rock Star Story.” When I came upstairs to see what you had done, I said something I never thought I would say: “Don’t move. I have to call your Father.” Your Dad recognized the panic in my voice and rushed home immediately. I was kind enough to clean up the shattered glass, throw you some band-aids, but then quickly exit the room before the craziness set in. It wasn’t pretty, especially because it took a long time for me to stop crying about how I had failed you as a Mother and for you to understand that urinating on things was not the answer to being frustrated.



We’re still waiting until your 5th birthday to have a birthday party that involves other children. You seem eager for that to happen, but we are happy that we still have six months to prepare for the event. It’s a good thing you aren’t old enough to know that your older brother had his first kid birthday party at 3. That was back when I was worried about keeping up with all the other new moms and when I thought that creating a fish bowl habitat for a beautiful Betta fish pet was somehow an age appropriate activity. All the fish pets sent home died within the first month. I now believe in non-perishable goody bags.

You spent a lot of the Spring uninviting me and the rest of the family to your birthday party. It was an interesting tactical move on your part given that a) you’ve never actually had a birthday party, b) you’d need some help with the cake, and c) if it was possible to outsource the party to another parent, I’d be all over it.

I read books on how to raise your spirited child and how to raise your explosive child. They have helped. Mainly because they have reminded me that I am not alone. And, that your independent spirit is also what makes you incredibly special.

We do feel like we are coming out of the dark years now that you have gained some skills in managing your frustrations. Counting to ten, hitting pillows, and humor have all helped along the way. At least now we don’t have twenty minute meltdowns about who put the parmesan cheese on your pasta or how spicy the toothpaste is.



Your Dad and I often talk about how neat you are. You have this incredibly wit and sense of yourself. One night this summer you were playing hide and go seek with your blanket. Towards the end of the game, Aunt Nancy “hid” your blanket in your bed in an effort to end the game and get you to bed. When you saw it, you knew exactly what was happening and said in complete deadpan, “That’s not my blanket.” Your humor is so beyond your years … as is your fascination with your private parts, but that’s a story for another time.

You also love baseball like no other four year old I have ever seen. It’s your obsession. It’s not usual that you know every player on the Mariners, or even the Red Sox, but it gets kind of freaky when you know that Jayson Werth has taken Shane Victorino’s place in the Phillies batting order. You wear a different baseball “jersey” every single day. You also used to wear matching baseball pants and socks with each jersey until you realized that was a big commitment during the month of August. You told me recently that the only thing you wanted when you turned five was a new (cool) bat … and catcher gear including the mask, chest plate, and knee pads … and lots more baseball jerseys of other players like Yuniesky Betancourt on the Mariners and David Wright on the Mets. Your requests are few, but painfully specific.



I was pitching to you earlier this summer and you told me that I couldn’t pitch underhand any more … that I needed to pitch overhand fast balls .... because you were too good a hitter now. You told me that you were worried that you would hit a line drive “into my boobies” on accident and it would hurt really bad. Since I’ve been pitching overhand, you’ve been complaining that I’m not doing the leg kick right and that I’m not very good at pitching from the stretch. I plan to fake an elbow injury soon if my batter (that'd be you, buddy) doesn’t start giving me some grace soon.

The amazing thing is that your skills seem, at least for now, to be equal to your passion. People stop and stare when you are playing. “Wow! - how old is that kid?!” “Oh my goodness, that’s incredible!” It’s disarming to see a four year old hit the ball like you can. You have this beautiful and powerful left handed swing that is beyond your years. Then again, you usually are the “full time” batter when you play and so you do have the benefit of repetition on your side.

Who knows how your interest and skills in baseball will evolve over time, but it is clear that you will be a winner in whatever you set your mind to. I say that because you are lucky enough to have both the kind of focus and innate self confidence you need to really be successful. So if not baseball, please just anything but the drums …or flute.

With love,

Mama