I have spent many several hours here,in my parents’ backyard, thinking, talking, drinking, smoking secretive cigarettes, drinking some more, talking even more than that.
It is one of my most favorite spots on earth. You’re welcome to join me anytime.
Dear Eamon,
A week ago you made your way into the world, only one day later than you were supposed to, thanks to the miracles of modern science.
Your dad called to tell me the good news as Swede and I sat on the porch of Walnut House, our DC abode, enjoying cocktail hour, which obviously turned into a YAY THE BABY GOT BORN celebration. I asked your dad eagerly, “What’s his name?! What’s his name?!?” Over the past nine months, I’ll have you know, I guessed every other name in existence, as well as some that are not, to no avail. I think Eamon was the only name I didn’t guess, though I did manage to get a correct answer when playing the guessing game for your middle name.
That’s neither here nor there, really, as I’ve decided to call you Ronnie Bass, or, on days I’m feeling spunky, Sunshine.
(You can thank your Aunt Lizzy also for that one. We’ll explain later, when you’re better able to understand the simple and sincere relationship we have with heart-warming sports movies. You’ll be receiving a copy of Hoosiers for your first birthday.)
(You’re welcome.)
The doctors were mildly concerned about your oxygen levels when you were born, because you came out so quickly. Their concerns were quickly put to rest, thankfully. I could have told the doctors that, though, as you screamed your little face off in the background as I talked to your dad.
You came home on Sunday, and on Monday I got to meet you in person. You slept in a little bundle in my arms. Annnd…that’s it. That’s all you did. Was sleep. Well, that’s not true, you cocked an eye half-open for a split second, and I imagine blurrily sensed that the person holding you was vaguely like your mom so it was all cool, ergo safe to go back to sleep. You also thrust the occasional Power To the People fist in the air. Are you crafting plans for some sort of coup? You and the dog, taking over the house? Standing tall for the cause, even though you cannot yet hold up your own head? What cause do you even have? You’re a week old, for God’s sake. Talk to me when you’re 12.
Now that you’re here, you’ve usurped the Baby of the Family position from your brother, which he usurped from me. I’ve almost forgiven him. So far Chicken Nugget seems to find your presence a good thing, and often likes to announce that either A) he is going to have a baby brother soon (at which point we have to remind him that his baby brother is already here) or 2) You are his baby brother Eamon. Any time you make a noise, crying or not, Chicken Nugget will turn to the nearest adult and ask concernedly, “What’s he trying to say?”
Oh, if only we knew what you were trying to say, little Eamon Jude. Your face is so expressive when you scrunch up your nose and your forehead, making you look even more like a little old man in a nine-pound body. I wonder what’s going on inside that little brain of yours.
I don’t know, but I do know what’s going on in mine: We are all so, so glad you are here, and I love you very tremendously much.
Love,
Aunt Molly
March is national women’s history month.
Did you know that?
Actually, I did. But the only reason I knew this is because last year I wanted to do something on McPolish to celebrate women during March, but then things got crazy with the whole moving and the packing and the whatnot, so…yeah, it never happened. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity this year to celebrate women, because that would suck. Plus, I like to give chicks high-fives whenever I can. Virtually AND in person. But not really for any other reason than general solidarity and because I like high-fiving people.
What?
Right. Back to the topic at hand: Women.
I went to the Googler earlier to look up information about National Women’s History Month and learned that this year’s theme is Women’s Education—Women’s Empowerment. I read further down the page, and learned it was only 36 years ago that Title IX was enacted—meaning education and activities funded by the feds can’t be discriminating against vaginas—and about fell over.
Huh. So as recently as three years before I was born, things were a bit…different. What was life like for women then? What was it like to raise a daughter?
Obviously I wasn’t around then, so I decided to talk to someone who was.
My mom.
That in mind, dear Interwebers, I now present to you the first in this March series I’m calling Women on Wednesdays wherein I chat with people about womanhood, historical women, womanly things, and insert-XX-chromosome-talk-here.
And so I give you my interview with my mother, Kathleen, (Li’l Kath as some of you may know and love her) mother of four girls, grandmother to two boys, retired school librarian, lover of political debate and avoider of house cleaning:
As the mother of four girls, what did you hope would change in society for them?
I hoped that they would have more choices in careers than being a nurse, a secretary or a teacher.
What would you have been?
Hard to say. Maybe a researcher. Maybe like an economic researcher. Someone has to do the research in a company like a brokerage firm, on different companies are you going to buy their stock or not. Women in business now, in my day they would have been the business teacher in a high school.
Do you like being the mother of daughters?
Yes, but I never had sons. You don’t miss what you don’t have.
You have sons-in-laws.
Yeah, they’re nice.
What words of wisdom would you give your daughters if they have daughters?
Good luck.
What words of wisdom would you give your granddaughters?
Whatever interests you, don’t say you can’t do that. If you want to give it a try, give it a try. School, career, a hobby. Because your mothers will always support you. Go beyond the boundaries. Don’t be put off by society’s self-imposed boundaries. Achieve what you want.
What did you like best about raising daughters?
Watching them grow up with sisters, because I didn’t have any sisters.
Did it make you resent your brothers?
No.
Did it make you appreciate your brothers more?
No.
Why did you encourage your girls to go to all-women’s college?
I read the research that said since they don’t have think about competing with the males in class, they think about who they are and who they want to be. But if you didn’t want to go to Saint Mary’s, that was okay, too.
Then again, they went to college across the street from a co-ed university. So it wasn’t like you were isolated.
What did dad think about that?
“This is going to cost me a boatload of money.”
(And you all went to a co-ed Catholic high school. It’s not like you were in awe of males. Far from it. None of you were lacking in opinions about males or expressing those opinions.)
Did you want us to play sports growing up?
If you wanted to. I wanted the opportunity to be there, and if you wanted to participate, you could participate. I wanted you to develop that competitiveness, because you would need it in the working world. I think team sports are good for children.
What’s the biggest change you’ve seen for women in your lifetime?
The career opportunities available to women because of their education. Which in turn has lead to marrying at a later age, and having children at a later age.
Is that a good thing?
I don’t think it’s a bad thing.
I didn’t feel this way, but many women my age who got married at a young age felt like “This is it?” Some of them weren’t always happy staying home with their children.
You stayed home with your kids for 16 years, were you happy about that?
Yeah, I was. But one of the changes in our society is that it’s okay to pursue a career and have children.
Do you feel you were still able to pursue your career?
Yes.
Women can have it all, you just can’t have it all at once.
What do you see as the worst-case-scenario for your daughters?
That they’d be unemployed and living at home.
I think she’s kidding on that last one.
Maybe.
High five, Mom. High. Five.
Interwebers, I have to tell you something that might make you either love me (more than you already do) or dislike me greatly (more than you already do).
I’m a Notre Dame fan.
(In case you didn’t know.)
I come from one big Irish/Polish Notre Dame-loving family.
So I would very much be telling you the truth when I say I’ve been to my fair share of Notre Dame athletic events. Since when? Age 3? Age 4? In utero? Hard to say.
And we continue this tradition of starting the fandom early with the Chicken Nugget.
But due to his young age, Chicken Nugget isn’t allowed to tailgate as heartily as he would like.
That’s okay, Chicken Nugget. Grandpa wouldn’t let me tailgate as heartily as I would have liked until I was actually 21, either.
The Chicken Nugget has a very good attitude about all of this, though. Instead of pouting, he just decides that if he can’t tailgate, neither can Grandpa.
And so he will take Grandpa for a walk.
Chicken Nugget, if you play your cards right, I bet Grandpa will buy you a box of popcorn.
The past couple of weeks my sister and brother-in-law have been kind enough to let me stay with them during this, ahem, transitional time in my life.* In return, I have provided them with minutes of entertainment, several bottles of wine, and hours of free babysitting. One week I even babysat two evenings in a row, which prompted the following discussion between my sister and me:
Sister #1: “So, do you think you could watch That Baby on Thursday night?”
Me: “Sure, I’ll hang out with the Chicken Nugget.”
Sister #1: “Okay, but…I feel kind of bad, I mean, that’s two nights in a row.”
Me: “Yeah, but in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t really have a life right now. I hope to get one soon, but for the moment, I don’t, and I’m fine to babysit two nights in a row.”
Sister #1: “Okay, well, if you get a life between now and next week, let me know and I can get another sitter.”
Me: “Sure thing, I’ll keep you posted.”
And let’s be honest, Interwebers, babysitting the Chicken Nugget isn’t all that hard, considering I don’t get home until 6:30, and he goes to bed at 7 pm.
Note: I said goes to bed at 7 pm. One night after reading 16 books and singing half of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star (he gave my singing a dirty look so I stopped), I put him in his crib just after 7 pm, and 45 minutes later heard him still conversing with his duck blanket and pillow pet. I can’t imagine what topics the three of them were discussing so intently—the war in Afghanistan? Obamacare? Cheerios? Whether or not the American people should be asking Donald Trump’s hair to authenticate its birth certificate? Discerning, what, exactly, the point of using a spoon was when your hands work just as well?—but I wasn’t about to interrupt, and the conversation must have petered out because eventually there was nothing but silence.
Because I’m a good aunt. And a good aunt knows that as long as he’s not screaming bloody murder, there is nothing wrong with leaving a baby to chatter away in his crib so you can watch HGTV and drink a glass of cabernet in peace.
But I’d better be careful, lest my sister and brother-in-law throw their cares to the wind and try to exploit me for my lack of life and mad babysitting skillz, and beg and plead for me to babysit for the Chicken Nugget twice or thrice a week.
I’m not all that worried though, as that life I plan on getting should be here any minute now. Annny minute.
I hope.
*Transitional sounds a lot better than “this new job is freelance and until it goes FTE I am too chicken shit to sign a lease lest I jinx myself, get canned, and wind up clinging to too-expensive rent in an empty apartment because I never even got the chance to move my shit out of The Swede’s basement before my income went up shit’s creek.”**
**What? No, I don’t have unrealistic delusions Bag Lady Syndrome, WHY DO YOU ASK?
Tomorrow morning I, along with The Swede and one of my brothers-in-law, will be lining up with a bunch of other jive turkeys to run an 8K in Lincoln Park.
If I survive, my Thanksgiving blessing will be thanking the sweet Lord above for that fact alone.
If I do not survive, you’re welcome to my helping of the pork sausage stuffing.
Unless I decide to come back to haunt you and snatch that helping of stuffing away into the ether that is The Other Side.
I have no one to blame but myself for these Thanksgiving morning shenanigans, because it was my idea (being that I was like, “Oh, right. I said I’d run a 5, 8, and 10K this year. Huh, the year’s almost over. Better get on that shit.”) and I fully expect that at some point The Swede and my brother-in-law will both point fingers at me and say, “This was a stupid idea, do you know we’re missing the Macy’s Day Parade?” But then The Swede will remember that he hates those Macy’s bastards as much as I do, so he’ll eventually forgive me. I’m not so sure about my brother-in-law.
Happy Thanksgiving to all my Interwebers. If you’re traveling, travel safe. If you’re visiting family, remember to play nice. And if you’re eating, eat slowly, and wear expandable pants.
Today’s Photo Friday is brought to you by the letters C and T.
Which stand for “Chicago” and “Thanksgiving.”
WOO WOO! Thanksgiving! In Chicago! I didn’t get home last year for Turkey Day, so I’m extra thrilled to be going this year.
Particularly because not going home last year means I didn’t get any pork sausage stuffing.
Which makes me a sad panda.
And kind of an angry panda, too.
Well, no, not angry. More like lamentable.
Why? WHY??? did I not make myself some pork sausage stuffing in the last 12 months? WHY?!
Sigh.
Mom, I hope you make an extra pan. Maybe you could make some for me to take back to DC with me, too?
It’s just a suggestion.
I know I normally don’t post on Saturdays, but check back tomorrow when I’ll have a new Cake Slice Bakers post up. THAT’S TWO FOR TWO, MY BITCHES! I’m on a freakin’ roll here with the baking, people. A ROLL.
Sister #3 bought me booze when I was underage, and is the whole reason there is a story about me that ends with the nickname, “Little Miss Vodka Pants.”
But that’s another story for another time.
She recently invited herself along on a trip to Rome with some family friends, where, I learned through Facebook, she may or may not have given some nuns a What For about bathroom line cutting.
And let’s face it. Sometimes nuns need to be given a What For. They’re not saints, you know. Nuns are people too. Holy people, but people nonetheless. And my sister? Apparently she has no problem reminding them of the fact that other people have to pee, too, and just because you’re in a habit doesn’t mean you get to go to the front of the line. (It’s not like they had one of those Super Awesome Passes like at Disney World that lets you go to the front of the ride lines. Last time I checked, the Vatican did not work like that.) This is one of many reasons why I love her so much.
Happy birthday (yesterday), Sister #3. If you were here, I would hold your drink while you went to the bathroom (because I know how much it wigs you out when people bring their drinks into the bathroom), and then when you came out I’d hand it back to you, and I’d buy you a gyro after and say, “Happy birthday. This is beautiful, is it velvet? I love you very much.”
It’s a day late, because, well, I recently decided that posting only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays was a really good idea, but unfortunately for me not everyone’s birthdays fall within those confines.
So sometimes things are just going to be belated.
Like this birthday wish to Sister #1.
Happy birthday to you!
I can’t believe you’re 80!
(She’s not 80.)
(When my grandma turned 80 years and years ago, my mom and her brothers threw Grandma a surprise party. One of my mom’s cousins—one we’d never met before, and one that my mom hadn’t seen in years—went up to the podium to give a toast, and tearily choked out, “Florentine, I can’t believe you’re 80!” My sisters and cousins and I looked at each other in bewilderment, and my mom just sort of rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, he’s always been a bit swishy.”)
(So now, of course, my sisters and I like to call each other and yell into the phone, “I can’t believe you’re 80!”)
(As you do.)
(What? Is this going to be a whole post in parentheses?)
(MAYBE.)
Anyway.
Happy birthday, Sister #1. If you were here, I’d give you pumpkin baked goods and some Jameson and say, “Happy Birthday, I love you very much. I can’t believe you’re 80!”
(Which, actually, I did yesterday, on your actual birthday.)
(The yelling “I can’t believe you’re 80!” part. Not the baked goods or Jameson. Those don’t translate well through the phone.)
Cute, isn’t he? The little munchkin who keeps getting bigger and bigger every time I see him. In May, at Mother’s Day, he had less hair and no teeth. Now there are two teeth on the bottom and swirly curls of blonde hair all around his head.
He recently managed to put all the pieces of movement together, and crawls around with ease, oftentimes closer and closer to the dog who doesn’t seem to believe that this thing can finally move. Now it does more than just cry and whine and make noise, the dog thinks, but it moves. The dog is secretly hoping that this is just a phase, so he won’t have to get up and move out of fear for his tail every time the little punk comes a-callin’.
He can feed himself now. Kind of. He hasn’t mastered utensils, but then, neither have I sometimes. But he can grab blueberries or bits of bagel and miniscule cheese cubes and shove them all in his mouth at once. He can sit nicely in a high chair while you and your sister are out to lunch, occasionally reaching for the turkey on ciabatta on your plate (thankfully you’re still faster on the draw than he is), munching on fancy baby food from a Food Network star and more pieces of bagel, his hands grubby from shoving the pureed turkey and…whatever else was in that packet….into his mouth in happiness.
And he can, when his mom gently moves his hand away from her white pants, turn sweetly to Aunt Molly and wipe those lovely grubby hands all over her navy blue pants, the food remnants of which will later crust over and look oh-so-attractive to passersby.
He’s really growing up.
Thanks to Sister #1 for snapping this photo of me and the little pot-pie.
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