The Whole Enchilada

Yesterday I was grocery shopping and I thought, 31 years ago today I was waddling around Hudson's baby department with my mom and Aunt Pat and my water broke. Even though I was a Labor & Delivery nurse at the time I didn't know what it all really felt like. I had a lot more compassion when I returned to work 4 months later.

Jordan, 7 hours old

31 years ago today, when I thought it was never going to be over, I squatted beside my hospital bed and felt her head woosh down. Five minutes later I was looking into the face of a baby that looked like an Asian to me, chubby cheeks and a head full of dark hair. I thought "that can't be my baby".

I was expecting a fair skinned, blond and bald baby. That's what the babies in my family tend to look like. I looked at my husband, my high school sweet heart and thought he looked like he was in total shock. He looked at me and choked out the words, "we can name her whatever you want". What a man.

We had been debating names for months. He liked Kristen for a girl. I wanted Jordan, inspired by a female character in  the F Scott Fitzgerald book The Great Gatsby. I liked that it was unusual and gender neutral. I liked the idea that as an adult that people would see her name as an author, or on a resume and not be able to know her sex. Jordan Warren Nault. Warren being my maiden name.

The first clue that this could be problematic was when her birth certificate arrived and identified her as "male". In this mornings birthday email I said:

 HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY GIRL.

Your Dad wanted to name you Kristen. How heinous my anus would that have been. It wouldn't have fit you at all. That would have been so pedestrian and run of the mill, which we all know you are not.

Enjoy your last hour of only being 30, because technically you won't be 31 until 11:40 a.m.

Love you like CRAZY.  Mom

**************

Jordan and her favorite person

It didn't take long to realize that Jordan and her grandma were soul mates. I went back to work and my mom did a lot of Jordan raising for the first 5 years. Pretty much a day didn't go by that Jordan didn't spend time with Bette. Jordan did everything early: she walked, she talked, she sang, she acted, she potty trained, learned her letters, colors, numbers all at an amazing rate. It was all my mom.

When she was 4, I came home from work and my mom said she'd been watching a program on gifted children on TV. She said, " Jordan can do all the things those children they had on that program could do, and they were all older than her"!  OK mom.

The next day I was reading the notes (upside down) the pediatrician was writing and it said: smart, sassy, precocious 4 year old with a remarkable vocabulary. Identified and spelled colors. Spelled all family members names....

Looking back at the past 31 years, I'd have to say my mother was exactly right. If we overlook a small period of her life when she devoted a lot of time to....cheer leading, she's had a brilliant run so far.

In high school I begged and bribed her to join the basketball team. Her response: "mom, my gift is in academics". She went to high school with some awfully smart people, and she graduated #3 in her class (tied with her 2 best friends).

At the University of Michigan she excelled while testing her new freedoms from her conservative family. I said,"you are smart enough to achieve anything you want to. But please major in something practical, that will make you employable".

She insisted on majoring in something she had a passion for. That was Russian & Eastern European Studies which included living in Russia in 2001. She performed very well and graduated in the top of her class. But, I was right, despite all of that she had a hard time translating that into a career.

It turns out that Jordan was also gifted in some other areas. Ambition, determination, humility and a willingness to work hard and think outside of the box. She proved herself right, in that she took her education and molded it to equip herself for a brilliant business career.

Her current employer, after only one year in New York decided she was worth investing in. Once she got herself accepted into several of the top MBA programs, they moved her kit and caboodle to Chicago to attend University of Chicago Booth School of Business.

Jordan & her stuffy company mentors at her recent graduation party

For the first time in her life she didn't graduate at the top of her class. As a matter of fact U of C's Booth School of Business kicked her ass. It was the first educational venue that wasn't a piece of cake for her. She was in a program with some of the most brilliant quantitative minds around.

But, here's the thing that doesn't show up on her credentials. She is the whole enchilada. What she has that many of her peers don't is life experience that was vast. A grandmother who thought she was the smartest thing as sliced bread. The oldest child of 6, who's spent her fair share of time caring for babies, dealing with stubborn toddlers, to handling freak-outs from her now teenage sisters.Living in Russia, traveling Europe, making mistakes, surviving several personal and family crisis, excelling in the workplace.

There were many of her peers in grad school who could run circles around her academically, but Jordan can walk into a real world business situation and rule. She can articulate her ideas with grace, charm stuffy heads of investment funds who give her gruff. She can implement all the things she's learned from life, her family, her friends and her educational opportunities and succeed.

Oh, and lest I forget her secret weapon:

Jordan, with Hailey, Dylan & Sydney

Which is: Power Puff Power

Until Reality Bites

It’s only 5:30 a.m. I’m standing in line at the Austin airport for my 6:20 flight to Chicago wondering what the hell all these people are doing out at this ungodly hour. I’ve never seen such a crowd. I boarded a small jet, gate checked my bag and prayed for all of us on the plane.

The flight was uneventful except a very bumpy descent that left me queasy. Proceeded to pick up my rental car. Do I want to upgrade? No. Do I want more insurance? No. Do I want satellite radio for $5 a day? No. Just give me my damn car already, please.

I find my spot. Fairly new Ford Escape, cool. I open the door to store my bags. Has the new car smell, did they spray that in there? I start it up, everything is shiny and clean. I look at the odometer: 223 miles. This is a new car. Wow. I’m on the road, searching for a radio station. New car, yet I can’t seem to get a clear station on the radio. I press the Sirius button and voila. Free Sirius and a brand new ride...this trip is going my way.

I make a quick stop in the meat packing district to grab lunch with my daughter the pastry chef. It’s been over 3 months since I’ve seen her. We drive up to Lincoln Square and chat over lunch. The truth is I can’t eat much, still queasy from the plane ride and anxious to reach my destination in Michigan, the reason for my trip.

I just wanted to drop her off and zoom away, but I had to take a potty break. I asked for a blanket, just in case I needed to pull over on the 4 hour drive to Detroit, because I only had 3 hours of sleep.My eyelids feel like sandpaper.  I sat on her couch waiting for the blanket and the next thing I know she’s waking me up after letting me sleep an hour.

Oh shit. Now I’m running behind. I need to reach my destination by 8 p.m. I fly out the door, hit I-94 and I’m off. By the time I reach the bridge exiting Chicago I’m getting my driving groove on. And it feels good.I’m road tripping all by myself and I like it. I’ve got my toll money gathered up. Driving brain is clicked on.

Three toll booths later I hit the real I-94 towards Detroit. It feels so good just to read that.Living in exile in Texas has been wearing me down good. Driving a road I’ve driven many many times comforts me. I have to remember not to take the lead as the fastest car heading East because these Indiana troopers are crafty devils when it comes to their speed traps.

There are a long string of songs I like playing on the 70’s channel so I’m singing, dancing in my seat, beating my steering wheel like a drum. Things you are only free to do in the car when you are alone.
I’m loving it. I shouldn’t be having this much fun in light of what has happened to bring me this way.

I thought about it, Monica would want me to. I don’t want to think any more. So I just let myself flow down the road, riding on the music. I observe my surroundings. It’s green. Lush and green. Tall trees casting shade. Back in Texas we are bone dry in the middle of a drought and baking at 100 degrees most days.

I “see” the trees going up on top of the freeway embankment as I would an art subject. Where is the light hitting the leaves, how the shadows are cast at the bottom of the branches. What would I mix in my paint palate to get those shades of green? I’ve learned to think like this from my extraordinary art teacher and band of artists I’ve been hanging with in Austin.

 It’s wonderful to be able to see everything from a new perspective. The group has been a life saver in the most literal sense. Without them I would have felt like slitting my wrists. I wouldn’t do that, because I am far too pragmatic.

I’m almost through Indiana and I feel the need...for speed. I pull off an exit that claims to have a Starbucks 2 miles to the right. I remind myself to settle my speed down just as I spot a police cruiser behind me, then beside me. Normally I would feel some anxiety in this situation. But nothing can rob me of my living in the moment happiness right now. I stop at a light and look over at the police car, my oh my the Valparaiso Police have such shiny clean cars.

If they pulled me over would I stoop so low as to tell them why I’m in such a hurry? Surely they’d let me go and just tell me to watch my speed.

You’re probably wondering what kind of drug is this chick on? I feel exuberant. Joyful. I’m having such a good time with myself. I have no business having this much fun at a time like this. I should be ashamed ...but I am not. What kind of an ice queen have I become?

Fueled up, I take some pictures of the car I’m driving and send an informal auto review via text message to my family members. Hitting the road I pull out the book on tape I snagged at Cracker Barrel. I achieve cruising speed and I’m off.

Michigan. I snap a picture of the state sign. Oh, how I have missed you. A cloud of happiness envelopes me as I get into the mystery novel playing through the speakers. Nelson DeMille...can’t go wrong there. Before I know it I’m taking the exit for M 14/ US 23 heading toward Brighton. Towards the event that has drawn me back here at this moment.

I’m running late, but I should still be OK. I’ll arrive at my destination a little after 8. I exit the freeway and poke around until I find a sign directing me to Main Street. I spot the place and the parking lot is still pretty full.

I turn right at the next side street and stop. It’s pretty late. Can I go in there dressed in my cargo pants and t-shirt? I really just should. I decide to do a quick change in the car. I pull into a church parking lot, way to the back. There’s a wooded area, a few benches, some irises blooming and it’s just getting dusky outside.

I don’t see any cameras so I grab my sundress, hop back in the car and push the seat way back to change as inconspicuously as I can. Opening the door I hop out,smooth out my dress. This will have to do. A few swipes of my hairbrush, lipstick. I can feel myself stalling, the anxiety building.

The fun has ended abruptly.

Taking a deep breath I drive around the block and zip into the parking lot. That’s odd. It’s empty now except for 2 cars. There’s still 40 minutes till closing. I grab my purse and briskly walk to the building and enter. Am I in the right place?

I assure myself I am. She’s the only one here. I rush over to her, peer down at her lying in the casket. She looks nothing like the woman I’ve known since I was in Kindergarten. Her cancer obviously had been particularly cruel. This reality sucks. I check the pictures placed around the room to make sure it’s her. I recognize many of the old photos that her mother had proudly displayed in her home while we were growing up.

I hear a familiar voice call my name. Her husband has walked into the room and put his arm on my shoulder. He looks wonderful, handsome in his dark suit, and so vital.

“Wow, John. I can barely recognize her”. He nods, “She fought an battle for 3 full years, but she died peacefully at home, with all of us by her side”.

I feel like I said the most insensitive thing in the world. We chat, I promise to see him in the morning.
I go to my car turn it on. The clock says 8:45. Why is everyone gone already, leaving her alone? I glance at my iPhone, the time is really 9:30.

 All this time I didn’t realize my car clock was 45 minute behind.

To be continued....

Foster Boy Ties The Knot

 Long time, no see. The process of moving has totally overtaken my life, energy and intellectual capital. I'm barely keeping my head above water in the sea of overwhelm. I have this plan in my mind where once the moving truck pulls away the pressure of a deadline will be off and I can return to writing, reading and being a friend.

Tom & Alexa

I had a brief escape to Chicago last weekend for the much anticipated wedding of my son's best friend whom I fondly refer to as Foster Boy (aka Tom-Ass, Foster Son or Tall Boy). He's smart, industrious and full of fun. Sometimes too much fun, to the point of obnoxiousness. He helped me set up my new cell phone years ago. Then he moved to Japan but since he had conveniently set up my password he also had access. It wasn't unusual for my phone greeting to be changed to the most outrageous message according to Tom's whim.But that is the classic Tom we all know and love.

He and his bride, Alexa met while students at University of Michigan. While Tom was working in Japan my son was Alexa's Foster Boyfriend, taking her to her sorority events and pulling the dreaded duty of accompanying her to many a Blackhawks hockey game. I've seen her practically make grown men cry when she's in action as the world's most rabid hockey fan.

Beautiful Walloon Lake

My son and the groom have been best buds since their teen years, living out an idyllic summer existence on Walloon Lake in Northern Michigan. The band of boys (and later sisters and girlfriends) boated around the lake most of the summer in a pack, they took their water sports seriously.Always in search of the glassy flat surface in which they could do some extreme water skiing.

Tom, being the youngest in his family had a natural affinity for babies and we had them in big supply for a few years. The small rustic guest cottage in the back of our property was naturally  a big attraction for all the teens on the lake. In exchange for chores and babysitting I hosted dinner for the roving pack of 6-8 boys every Thursday. Many of the boys family's joined the program and these guys ate together like kings several nights a week.

Although they are spread out geographically, a few of the original pack members were at the wedding:

 

Scott with his lovely fiance Kristy

My son Michael with Peyton

 Unfortunately adult hood leaves them unable to spend summers on the lake.These guys worked hard, played hard and left a legend behind on the lake that I don't think has been equaled as of yet. Last summer on a brief visit to Northern Michigan I met a woman who told me a tale of a bunch of fanatic waterskiing boys who frequented her cove to take advantage of the smooth as glass water in the evening. She could not believe her eyes when they zipped by her property NAKED waterskiing.

I did not lay claim to them being any relation to me. I just asked, "by any chance was it a white and red Mastercraft ski boat?" When she confirmed that it was I just responded, "oh yeah, that was a wild bunch". Now that brides and future babies are on the horizon I hope they have all developed some sense of caution and survival.

The Prince (pictured here with his big sis) has become a semi-professional wedding attendant. "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride" has been the theme for several years. After his best man gig for Foster Boy he has another wedding this summer. When a great deal came along, he decided to bite the bullet and just buy a tux.

2 separate bachelor party events were part of the obligations this spring, one in Miami and one in Las Vegas. I noticed there were pictures immediately posted on Face book from the Miami deep sea fishing expedition, but I have yet to hear a peep about the last one (not surprising due to the what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas thing) but I swear the boy has not been quite right since his return.

After observing the hijinx of several of the Northwestern University grad students at the wedding, I'm pretty sure I don't want to know what happened in Vegas.

The Beaumont Texas Gang

I did find out our clan had some stiff competition for the "we actually enjoy hanging together " family award. The above brother-sister trio may look quite respectable and inconspicuous but don't let that fool you. They were absolute dancing fools.  Their mother was a brilliant ring leader who gave me a serious run for my money.Much to my surprise this was what  we all went crazy dancing to for the last song of the night. Who would have thought hidden in these hard driving men were Gleeks? My children do their best to make me look good on the dance floor but I think I have been outdone by that Texas gang.

Dancing with the Pastry (or Party) Princess

  Home again this week it's a full court press to finish packing for the big move to Austin. I'm truthfully ready to be done with the whole moving thing and there is still so much to do. I'm looking forward to being able to post all the stories that I have only had time to write in my mind. There, residing in my noggin are some brilliant observations about what's happening in the world outside my door.

The Mayor & the best man

Random Sass

And nothing but sass. Why would I expect anything less with 5 daughters, 1 son and a 120 pound beast of a dog I live with?

Things have a strange way of disappearing, or getting broke and nary a soul here ever knows a thing about it. Typical conversation goes like this:

Mayor: Who did this?

House mates: Not me.

Mayor: Where's my .......?

House mates: I don't know.

The other day I was looking for my lip stuff. I had bought a multi pack because with 3 other girls around there is a constant pilfering of supplies around here. I had given each of them their own tube so this time there was no good reason for any of the usual suspects to have pocketed mine. I searched, I accused but see the example of the typical conversation to get an idea of how productive that was.

The next day I'm vacuuming in the family room and stop to pick up dog chew toys and I'm...WTH?

Exhibit A: chewed up lip stuff

I thnk I can whittle down my list of suspects real quick. "COOOLE, what do you think you're doing???"

"Are you talking to...me?" Note the snotty look on his face

Mayor: Yes I am talking to you, you big stinkin rat bastard. Since when do you chew up my stuff?

I scolded him, I gave it to him good and....

put him in a time out.

Don't feel sorry for him. He's a damn dog. I don't need shenanigans from the dog, I got enough of that around here without having to practice behavior modification techniques on the resident pet.

******************************************

COYOTE UGLY

What happens in Chicago stays in Chicago....well not always but if a few readers see this..oh well. Once we arrive for a visit the goal is usually to pack as much fun into a few days as we can. It always includes a night out that is preceded by adult beverages (for the adults) and dancing.

We spend a lot of time strolling the streets of the Fulton River District and there's an exercise studio in the neighborhood called Flirty Girl Fitness (you may have seen their exercise DVD ads on TV). They have quite a set up there. They teach all kinds of dance, including but not limited to pole dancing and coyote ugly dancing. They have a weight room, a mirrored dance studio complete with poles and a very long bar set up for educational purposes.

They didn't take any lessons

I guess they learned from osmosis & observation

Doesn't everyone do this in their kid's home?

 The fun doesn't end there. If you want to call it fun. You'd think that when they grow up that there would cease to be overt antagonism and hijinks...well think again. Maybe when they have kids of their own? Of course it's kind of nice to be able to have fun in whatever you're doing, no matter how mundane.

 The special at Jewel today? Hot dogs, any size, shape or flavor.

At least the older three behave like adults and don't get hysterical when things happen. Things like your sisters forcing you to stay out on the patio in the freezing cold weather.

Let's lock her out!!!

Chicago triplets, living together in harmony

unless it's time for sisters to kick brother's a**!

It's no wonder I'm always suffering from exhaustion whenever I get back home.The poor Hurricane had to stay back from the trip to work and watch the Beast. 

My Blip FM is playing while I get my suitcase unpacked and think I'm going to relax when the Hurricane storms into my bathroom demanding that I braid her hair. When I try to beg off the chore she goes all Kung Foo Fighting on me.

High kick way too close to the Mayor's head

I thought, man she's kind of old to be pitching a fit

Turns out she was just dancing.

Turns out I was jumping to conclusions. The Hurricane was not feeling antagonistic. She had enjoyed having the house to herself under the careful guardianship of the Beast. Although she had friends over several times the house was pretty quiet while we were gone. Plus the Beast had gas (the kind that necessitates a gas mask to survive) so she was expressing her joy of a return to normal.

Right Back Where We Left Off

The frigid Chicago wind blew me in as I opened  the door of Bin 36. I walked  through the wine bar scanning for my query and I spotted her right away. Still tall and lanky, dark headed, subtly classy and graceful. I strode over and drummed my fingers on the tinny bar top. Instant smiles and hugs. She had ordered a Cosmo, I went for a glass of the house red. We chatted a few minutes as our grown sons arrived and scooted up to the bar.

My experienced lice picking eyes spotted a white speck in her otherwise very dark hair. Naturally I just leaned over and plucked the offending fuzz out of her hair. Right away the Prince is shocked, “ you haven’t seen her in 20 years and you’re picking her head like a mother gorilla?”  He continued, asking both of us, “don’t you think that’s a little weird?”

We just looked at each other and cracked up. It should have been odd, but it wasn’t. We were the kind of comfortable neighborhood friends who always had each others back. Peas and carrots. She’s the only thing I missed when we moved away from Chicago. And it was oh so good to share a table with her once again.

Andra & the son who is not a doctor

Ryan, no stranger to fun, tolerated my lick your mother commands

Trio of terror when they were wee tots

When my husband moved me to Chicago in the late 80’s for a climb up the corporate ladder, I was a reluctant participant. I had 3 little babies under the age of 6 and I had just lost my best friend (my mom) to breast cancer. It was the lowest point in my life. I was raw emotionally and functioning like a zombie.

It was a sunny, beautiful day when we pulled into our new neighborhood and stopped in front of our large (in my eyes) new home. I did what many crazy young mothers would do. I burst out in tears (and I am not a crier), “ I don’t want to live here with a bunch of rich snobs.”  I have to admit I fought liking anything about our job transfer. But I am, if nothing else, a practical puss. School was starting in one week and I had to deal. So, I did.

Swansway turned out to be, by far the most kickin’ neighborhood I have ever lived in.We lived, loved, fought, cock tailed, birthday partied and had pick up basketball games in each other's driveways. When we were selling our house 3 years later I remember telling buyers, “you may find hundreds of homes around here as nice, or nicer than this one, but you will not find a better bunch of neighbors.” And I can honestly say all of my 8 neighborhoods since then have been a disappointment. I’m still looking for a place that compares.

Andra comes from a big Greek family and her husband Mike was from a big Irish gang. I was fascinated by them. We had children around the same ages and we all clicked. Even Raymondo, who tends to be an introvert, couldn’t resist their magnetic pull. We were willingly sucked into their ethnic gregariousness and enjoyed every minute of it. We traded kids, recipes, ideas, secrets. When having to run out to do a preschool pick up we’d drop off the handset of the baby monitor so we would’t have to wake up napping wee ones. That’s trust!

I think I learned the art of hospitality from this friend of mine. She’s an intuitive cook capable of hosting large gatherings with amazing food. Yet she could make a party on the spot with a couple cans of tuna fish, bread and salad out of nothing. I was always so jealous she could dress a salad perfectly by shaking in some red wine vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper. I’m still making several of her family recipes on a regular basis, and now my grown kids are repeating the process.

One night, after having had a couples night out for dinner, Andra called to announce she was in labor. We shared a history of having a baby born at home. Armed with a fancy camera and their video camera, I recorded their only daughter’s birth. Let me tell you this tall Greek knew how to get down to business when it came to birthing babies! A few hours later I was back at home in bed basking in the nuance that only comes with the smell of amniotic fluid, blood and a newborn’s cry. (Sorry if that is too graphic for some of you weenies).

A few years after our move from the Chicago area,we met up to go on a trip to California together for an extended weekend. It was March and the weather was dreary and drizzly. Not exactly what you travel to the west coast for.

We  spent one morning out in the weather at the San Diego Zoo. This is where my husband received his nick name of Rain man. He doesn’t always play well with others, forever wandering around to the beat of his own drummer. After losing him several times, Andra’s husband Mike (who is funny let me tell you) saddled him with that moniker and it’s pretty much stuck and gotten shortened to Ray and transitioned into Raymondo, in honor of the popular Tom Cruise/Dustin Hoffman movie Rain Man.

Mike was probably fantasizing being Tom Cruise while imagining my husband in the role of Ray. After 2 days we gave up and drove to Palm Springs to spend a few days in sunny desert warmth.

Thanks to the wonders of social media we have reconnected some 20 years later. You may be wondering why, if we were such similar peas in a pod, we didn’t do a better job staying in touch?

The things that we had in common got in the way of that, I’d have to say. We expanded our families since then, she has 4 boys and 1 girl. I have 5 girls and 1 boy. Both being creative, ambitious and strong women, we share having the role of being the rock of our families. That job description is all encompassing in the time and energy department and leaves time for little else. If you are the rock in your family, you know exactly what I mean.

Do we look like rocks? I assure you, we are

When your bosom buddy is not readily available at the whisper in a phone or a baby monitor... you cope and life goes on.  Considering our age, I think we’re both still smokin’ hot. After as many babies as we have had no one could blame us if we had gone to fat or taken to padding around in house dresses and slippers.

It’s given me a gift to rekindle my love for this woman. I’m flooded with memories I didn’t even remember I had.  Yet, you know how it is when you look someone else in the face and you recognize the look of pain buried deep in the eyes? The economy of the Midwest in particular, and life in general has taken a toll on the both of us. I know it without even asking. The older I get, the more I recognize that no matter how perfect someone’s life looks, I guarantee you it isn’t. Everyone has their stuff to deal with.

Later that night, cleaning up the kitchen at the pimp pad, my son had some astute observations. He was truly amazed that his old buddy’s mother and I  would still have so much in common after all these years. We have been traveling a similar and parallel path. Finally, he met another peer’s mother who is so fiercely connected to their adult children, without being overbearing. “My God Mom, she’s just like you! She likes to hang out, and you can see they like hanging out with her too! She just mans up and hops the train to Chicago on a whim, exactly the same thing you’ve been known to do.”

It’s true. Two woman whose paths crossed a couple decades ago.

I do declare the conversation between us has just begun again.