Be His

It seems crazy that a tradition which dates back centuries still exists. For a middle-aged married lady, such as myself, it is not that big a deal anymore. But for a youngster, who has never had a valentine outside of the family, this February has been a big deal. 

A few weeks ago, after school, my youngest told me he had a Valentine and a date to the in-school Valentine's Dance. He was pretty excited when he told me the news. A girl in his grade, who was too shy to ask him personally, had a mutual friend of theirs do the honors. 

He said yes. 

He had never mentioned this girl before so I wondered why he was so quick to agree. He explained, “Because she asked.”

Ok, I thought. Pretty benign - a normal 5th grade romance. I tried to make it seem like I was super cool with the whole thing. I even avoided bringing up the topic for fear I would add fuel to the fire. 

Last week, however, he asked if I wanted to see who this mystery girl was. I said of course. I have cafeteria duty in the morning and since he sometimes comes in for breakfast, he said he could point her out. He came over to me to let me know he would be walking past her and for me to pay attention. 

Of course, right at that moment, two 2nd graders spilled their chocolate milk and I was on clean up duty. I was frantically trying to pay attention to my son while cleaning up the milk when all of a sudden things got real. 

With my own eyes, I saw my 11-year-old son put his arms around a girl who was sitting at a table. I caught the eyes of the mutual friend who played cupid and I could tell she was just as surprised as me. It was almost as if the wind had been knocked out of me and I had been electrocuted at the same time. 

I didn’t know what to feel or how to feel and I couldn’t stop the scene from playing over and over in my head. Where had my little boy gone? Why was he hugging a girl I did not know? How did this advance so fast?

I asked him on the way home from school, when they got to the hugging stage. 

He said, “Today.”

I said, “Today was the first time you hugged her? Why?”

He said he didn’t know but “apparently she liked it because every time she saw me after that SHE hugged me.”

Woah, woah, woah. I thought. There is way too much hugging here. But I guess if she is initiating it too, he is not coming on too strong. 

You see this is new territory for me. He’s my youngest. My two older children have been focused on their careers and haven’t really made time to date. It figures my youngest would throw me headfirst into the world of kid romances. 

I was lamenting to my oldest about the situation and I asked him, “What would make your brother go up to a girl and hug her from behind?”

His reply? “We see dad do that to you all the time.”

Yes, it is true. My husband will come up to me while I’m doing dishes or straightening up the house and put his arms around me and lean his head into mine. I guess if our kid is going to be “learning the moves” it is pretty safe to be picking up “dad moves”.

I know my son can be very thoughtful and I know he is going to make this Valentine’s Day special for his “gal”. His idea is to find out her favorite snack and buy it for her from the cafeteria snack shack. I like where my kid’s head is at. Simple and sweet.

The good thing about the situation it is confined to school. The dance was during the school day, Valentine’s Day will be celebrated at school, and these kids see each other only between class periods. This kind of relationship is perfect for me to get my feet wet in the waters of middle school romance.

Of course, I had to ask an important question. He had been my valentine for the past 11 years. I asked sheepishly, “What about me? Who’s going to be my valentine?”

He replied incredulously, “Dad - it’s in the books since you got married.”

Well, I hope I get something from the snack shack. In case anyone asks, I like Cool Ranch Doritos.

KIT

“To a nice girl I met this year in band.” 

“To a very smart girl I met in Algebra I.”

“Psych-woman extraordinaire. You sit in the first seat in the first row because (this is my hypothesis) you are so cool.”

These are actual yearbook quotes from my junior year of high school. 

I’ve become nostalgic recently because this year marks 30 years since I graduated from high school. My other three yearbooks are packed away in the attic but for some reason the book from 1991 has rested quietly on a bookshelf in my basement. I brought the yearbook up recently and my children turned the pages with wonder and curiosity. The comments came fast and furious.

“Awe mom, you are so pretty.”

“I can’t believe he wrote THAT in your yearbook!”

“Show me the guys you dated.”

It’s funny because I came across one entry, from a classmate who I remain close with to this day, about a funny incident in French class. She commented, “thirty years from now this will not make any sense to you.”

It has been 30 years and, lucky for me, time hasn’t erased the humor of that particular moment when I was supposed to be paying attention but was arguing with a cute classmate only to be put on the spot by the teacher. 

Some of the people who signed my yearbook, I vaguely remember. Some of the people I remember very well. 

This yearbook has particular sentimentality since it came out after I had endured a tough breakup. This ex signed the very last page in a cryptic way alluding to how he was soon going to ask a friend of mine out. I remember pouring over his words, looking for some hidden meaning. Anything to make sense of why he dumped me. 

Reading over his words I am reminded of this moment in time and the pain and confusion that came along with it. But looking back with eyes that have seen and experienced quite a bit in 30 years, I can now see how insignificant this breakup really was, how I am better off with the way things turned out and how happy I am that high school was but a brief time in my life. 

Currently, at my kids’ high school, the yearbooks come out after the school year is over. I guess the publishing company does this so they can include up to date photos from the prom and graduation for the seniors. 

But having those photos is a tradeoff. It eliminates a chance to allow classmates to make a permanent footprint in their story, with ink and innocence, and to have a record of funny moments, impressions, and requests to K-I-T keep in touch. (I came across so many phone numbers in my yearbook, I'm half tempted to call and see who picks up.)

These books are a precious time capsule that nothing can replace. I am sorry my kids will not have that same experience when they flip through their high school yearbooks. But now, 30 years after the fact, these precious entries remind me of a self-conscious girl trying to discover who she really is. It reminds me of the “kids” who helped make high school bearable and for the humor that made every day worthwhile. 

High school was hard for me because I came in basically as a stranger. I had attended Catholic school for eight years prior and had to start over in grade 9. Only two of my classmates were making the same public-school transition and, in a freshman class of 300, I didn’t see them that much. 

There were a couple kids I knew from participating in “shop” classes (wood, metal, cooking, and sewing) at the nearby public middle school which helped slightly boost my list of familiar faces when entering freshman year. 

I went from wearing a uniform every day to trying to find my sense of style. I went from listening to the Beatles constantly to discovering alternative music and I went from being a solo musician to being part of a band. I was a work in progress on a long and winding road but I think I turned out ok. 

The only thing I would change about my high school self is I would have liked to have more confidence. This is something that came with time but I look at my 17-year-old daughter today and see how bold and self-assured she is and I know things would have been a bit easier for me if I had just one fourth of her attitude. But maybe, just maybe, my trials and tribulations paved the way for an easier ride for my younger generation.

Looking back on 30 years, I am filled mostly with gratitude for the four-year experience. The pages of my yearbook indicate there was more good than bad and surviving high school made me realize I could survive anything. 

But the thing that stands out the most, are the people that accompanied me on that journey, who signed my yearbook pages, and who in their own special way helped create the person I am today. 

Thank you, Class of 92!

*My blog is featured in the "On My Mind" column each week in The Valley Mirror. This publication covers the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities.*

You Gotta Love Yourself

I gave up.

I simply stopped trying and it was easier than I thought it would be. One day turned into two then three. One week passed by then one month turned into three. 

I have been exercising regularly since probably 2015. At first, I tried running. Then I joined my local gym. Then I got a bike. I was trying to find the perfect fit for me and, no matter the activity, I was able to get at least three days a week in.  It wasn’t until I started with the bike that I felt like I found my “it”. I love riding my bike. I like the connection to nature when I am on a trail. I like the nostalgic feeling of being on a bike. 

My bike came about during the lockdown in 2020 and it became a family affair. I got all the kids' bikes repaired and we went out a couple times a week together. We took advantage of the former Eastland Mall site before construction began on the future Amazon warehouse. On the weekends we would go to either the Boston Trail or Great Allegheny Passage in McKeesport. 

Eventually, life got back to hectic and the only one still on the bike was me. But recently, little road blocks started popping up. First, I lost Eastland as a place to ride. This was a huge set back since it was so close and within minutes I could be out pedaling. A few weeks later, when I went back to work after summer break, my job became more demanding than I was accustomed to. Then I had some health issues to deal with. 

I kept thinking, “I’ll get to it tomorrow.” Then it became, “I’ll start back next week.” It transitioned to, “I just don’t have time anymore.” 

I gave up.

Exercising for me was always first and foremost about mental health and stress relief. Maintaining a healthy weight was a nice side effect but the clarity and tension reduction, that was the real benefit for me. It kind of surprised me that I didn’t put forth more of an effort to keep my routine. 

It was New Year’s Eve when I really started reflecting on changes I wanted to make in 2022. I wanted to feel better. I knew things had to change but I didn’t know just how to do it. Going to the gym at 5 a.m. doesn’t work for me anymore. I cannot get to the bike trail after work since we have less daylight.

I did some research and I purchased something called a stationary bike stand. It seemed like the perfect solution. I could attach it to my bike and the stand keeps it still so you can ride inside. Yes! Problem solved. 

It came in three days and my husband put the new contraption together. My idea was to ride in the morning when everyone was still asleep. Unfortunately, the bike ended up sounding like a buzzsaw when it was on the stand. It was so loud. I tried to make it work but I couldn’t justify waking everyone in the house up just so I could get some exercise. 

Back to the drawing board. 

A few years ago, my mom bought me a Fitbit. If you saw my Fitbit you would think it was from the 80s. There is no digital face to reveal step count, heart rate or time of day. It’s a black thin band with a series of five dots that light up as you move closer to reaching your step goal. 

My husband made fun of me because he has one of the newer versions and he advised me to just buy a less 'fossil like' activity tracker. Although I would like a new one, my old one works just fine and I can download all the information to my phone. Resurrecting this Fitbit has been a life changer.

I try to get to work early in the morning to give me some time to ease into the day before the students arrive. Since I bring my son to school, he normally sits in my classroom while I read emails or drink a cup of tea. Every now and then he would ask me to take a walk with him around the building before the bell would ring. 

The new year prompted me to prioritize “self-care” time and now he and I take a daily 15-minute brisk walk around the school. This walk has turned into my new exercise, until the weather changes, and I can get back on my bike. This will be week three for the brisk walks and I can tell they are making a difference. Paired with the number of steps I take around the school during the work day, reaching my daily step goal has not been a problem.

When you are constantly caring for others, you must take care of yourself. I lost sight of that and I kind of lost myself. Don't let this happen to you. Find something that you like to do and make it a priority to do it. Get creative and make it work. You will not be sorry.

A Conversation Starter

 

Here name is Michelle. 

Just like the Beatles song. A fun fact she pointed out during our conversation. 

I had been walking through the men’s department of a nearby store looking for items my son needed for an upcoming trip when she caught me off guard. 

“Have you been to Scotland?” she asked. 

I had to pause for a minute because I thought, “What a random question for two people who had never spoken before.” She was on the clock and had been busy tidying up clothes that were messily put back on a display table. I guess she looked up for a moment and that’s when she noticed my shirt which said - Scotland's for me.

This shirt is from an indie/rock band I listen to who are based in that area of the United Kingdom. I spent $50 on this shirt, a lot of money for a person who never buys clothes for herself.  Due to overseas shipping, the price was more than I would normally justify for a handful of cotton, with a cute rainbow and travel slogan, but I had wanted this shirt for years.

“No,” I said. “But I am planning on going someday.”

That’s when I noticed the twinkle in her eyes.

“I’ve been there,” she recalled with an excitement which managed to escape from her mask-covered face. 

I was in a hurry and still had a list worth of stuff to get but I couldn’t help but get caught up in Michelle’s magical mystery tour. As a reporter, I had lots of questions. When did you go? What did you see? Did you go to all the Beatles landmarks? I just started asking away. 

Her trip involved three of the UK countries - England, Scotland and Wales. If memory serves me correctly, her trip was back in the early 80s. Her mission: to buy as much vinyl as possible. I got excited thinking about the popular new wave music at that time and the treasure trove she probably collected while walking the streets of London. 

I tried to imagine a younger Michelle. I wondered what she wore and who she travelled with. Was she old enough to hit a pub? Did she catch anyone’s eye while checking out Buckingham Palace. Did she bring home a souvenir red phone booth?

The part of the story she remembers most vividly is when the airline lost her luggage on her way home. She retold the tale of calling her father from the airport to let him know. He anxiously asked her, “What about the records?”

“I had packed them in my carry-on,” she told me as a hidden smile crept across her face. Even back then, she wasn’t taking the chance her precious cargo would get lost. The satisfaction of knowing they were safe and sound filled me with happiness as well. The mission of her trip was accomplished.

Every time I wear my Scotland shirt now, I think of Michelle. I had noticed her in the store prior to our conversation and never would have thought she had such an interesting story to tell. I think that is the case for many people we come in contact with in our day-to-day activities. I fall into the trap of writing people off, judging a book by its cover. 

I have seen Michelle a few times since our meeting and I’m not really sure what to do. Part of me wants to find out if she has any more interesting stories to share. Part of me wonders if she remembers me and our conversation. Another part of me just wants to get my errands done and be on my way. 

The other day I was out at a restaurant having breakfast with my family. I noticed Michelle come in and get seated at a booth. I wanted to go over and say hello but I thought that might be awkward. 

“Hi there. Remember me? Miss Scotland?”

So instead, I excused myself from our table and secretly got her bill from the waitress. The least I could do was offer some subliminal hospitality from one anglophile to another. 

I am sure our paths will cross again, and hopefully when they do, I’ll be wearing my Scotland tee shirt to get the ball rolling. Who knows if either of us will go out of our way to jump start a conversation. That part of the story remains to be written. Will she tell me the same story again? Will she tell me about other interesting travels she has had? 

But one fact unites us in solidarity. 

Scotland is for us.

*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week in a column called On My Mind. The Valley Mirror serves the Woodland Hills and Steel Valley communities.

It's A Marshmallow World For Some

It's hard to be a type A personality in a holiday world. 

Type A’s like planning, perfection, and precision. These characteristics seem perfect for making a gingerbread house, right?

Well, not necessarily. 

My youngest and I had the opportunity to help represent our school and build a gingerbread house that is now on display at Kennywood. This is the first time my family has participated in an activity like this and now I know why. But we’ll get into that later. 

Over the years, we have marveled at the gingerbread houses on display at the PPG Wintergarden at Christmastime. It really is something to behold and now that we have made one of our own, I can truly appreciate the time and effort that goes into making these holiday specialties. I have seen some amazing houses with themes ranging from The Wizard of Oz to Harry Potter. You can let your imagination go wild with a gingerbread house if….you have the time, patience and proper supplies. 

As has been the case for the majority of my parental years, things tend to get done at the very last minute. But this method of operation is not something that is new to me. I remember doing an elementary school science fair project the day before it was due. I remember college papers that were printed minutes before a class. This has been my style and I’m pretty sure having kids made it worse. I work best under pressure.

When I was approached to make a gingerbread house, I responded positively and with enthusiasm. “Sure we can do that!” I actually was excited to participate in something we hadn’t tried before. I had so many ideas for a sweet little cottage for a young cookie couple. The ideas were grand yet our time was limited. I played out the building process in my mind. It was divine.

I had picked up a gingerbread kit a few days prior to construction so I felt kind of good that at least that aspect was secure. But having a kit does not ensure success. The day before my youngest and I got working on ours, a friend posted a photo of her house and a collapsed roof. I was disheartened. What did I get us into? Did I set us up for failure?

At 7 p.m., the night before the house was due to be turned in, it was go time. At this point in the workday, you can imagine I’m at the height of creativity and energy. I told my son we’ve got one hour to get this done. (I’m sure these were the same parameters Frank Lloyd Wright worked with.)

On our dining room table, filled with weeks' worth of junk mail and clutter, we prepared to build our house. We carefully took out all of the pieces of our kit and laid them out to inspect and ponder. The gingerbread kits don’t leave a lot to the imagination which actually worked very well for us. The other thing I bought to help us in our endeavor was another container of icing. In my brief online gingerbread house research, I noticed that was a common complaint of the kits - not enough icing. 

Little did I know, a hot glue gun is the most needed tool we would need. The icing that came with the kit didn’t seem very efficient in holding things together. The bling we tried to add on, you know sprinkles, gumdrops and candy corn, thinking it would stick to the white goo, had another agenda. 

As we took a pause to regroup, I had to put on some Christmas music, a thing I only do after Thanksgiving, because my husband decided to watch the movie Goodfellas during our arts and crafts period and I had to drown out the colorful dialogue.

Once the sounds of an Irish Christmas began pouring from my phone, our house began caving in on all sides, and I was ready to give up. This is when my son remembered the special roof holder that came with our kit. We employed it immediately as Ray Liotta emerged from the living room to lend a hand. 

With all hands-on deck, we were able to stabilize the house. The hot glue gun was ready and I was a gluing fool. My son worked on his adorable final addition of a Santa looking gingerbread man who was coming down the chimney. He dyed the icing red to make the Santa suit and we used a glob of icing as glue to permanently affix him to the house.

When it was all over it looked like Christmas threw up. There was icing everywhere. Sprinkles were everywhere but my marbles were lost. Our house looked well...ok. Just ok but good enough for a first try.

The next morning, when the icing was dry, our gingerbread house looked a lot better. Everything had set and it reminded me of our real house after a fresh snow and none of the powder had been touched yet. I asked my son if he had fun working on our project and he said, “Yes!” Then we loaded it up in the car and took it to the drop off location. Deadline met. Yes, this girl still got it.

*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week in a column called On My Mind. The Valley Mirror serves the Woodland Hills and Steel Valley communities.

Chrissy, Give Me The Big Knife!

Surgery.

A word people most don’t like to hear unless you are a surgeon and that is what you do for a living but when you are the one going to be on the table, I would say that’s a hard pass. 

But tomorrow that’ll be me. The one who is going to be on the table. 

It has happened kind of fast. I had some tests done at the end of September and here we are mid-November and it’s almost go time. I have been having some minor female issues and it appears surgery is the appropriate course of action. 

For a planner like me, this development has put a wrench in my schedule. I don’t like the fact that I will be off work for a few days. I don’t like that this is happening a few days before Thanksgiving. I don’t like that a part of me I came into the world with will no longer be a part of me tomorrow. Yes, there is so much not to like. 

I am no stranger to surgery. I’ve had close to five in my lifetime. My very first surgery happened when I was seven years old. I was a child who had lots of ear infections. I am not sure if things are the same way now, but back then the answer was tympanostomy tubes - small plastic tubes that are inserted into the ears to help with fluid drainage. 

I found out about my very first surgery days after my mother’s father had passed away. It was a crisp, cold November day, much like it is now, and I recall my mom and I sitting in a booth at Stan’s Restaurant in White Oak. We were trying to process the news just delivered to us at the doctor’s office and I had a few questions. 

Having experienced a funeral just a few days prior, I was wondering about my own mortality. It’s funny how much I remember about this experience. I remember asking my mother if I was going to die and how she tried to console me. I was staring at the squiggly lined tabletop waiting for my French toast as she spoke. I was just wishing I could make it all go away. 

 

My recollection of the surgery is fuzzy of course but I don’t remember anything bad. (And believe me, I would have remembered anything bad.) I was thirsty when I woke up wearing a fashionable blue hospital gown and wishing I could just be in my bed. The hospital staff made such a fuss over me and how well I had done. I even got a brand-new coloring book;  a special gold McKeesport Hospital coloring book with a bunny on the cover that I am positive can be found somewhere in my parents’ home.

I had two to three tubes surgeries throughout the course of my childhood, plus a few other procedures as an adult. None of the experiences were bad although I would have preferred not to have them at all but as they say life happens. This upcoming experience is one I have tried to resolve in my mind and I think I am getting there. A recent visit to a health professional helped considerably. 

We talked about all of the positives surrounding having the surgery; having a good support system, having the sick days to use, having the new Beatles documentary to watch during my recuperation period. (Ok, we didn’t talk about that but you know I’ve been thinking about it.) And oh, I almost forgot to mention the Thanksgiving leftovers that will only be a room away. 

 

I can see it now. 

Me: “I’m feeling a little sore. Maybe I need some extra whipped cream on that piece of pie?”

I recently re-watched the movie Castaway with Tom Hanks and he performed tooth surgery on himself without anesthesia or the proper instruments. I don’t need to worry about any of that either thank goodness. 

As I mentioned earlier, I am a planner and I never would have planned any of this but it is nice to know the timing, while not great, isn’t that bad. I can have a prepared holiday honey-do list that may or may not get done and I need to allow myself to be ok with that. I have a book to read and a few shows to watch but the only thing I have to do is get well.

So, in the meantime, send some good vibes my way and maybe some extra stuffing and oh yes, lots of whipped cream.

Till Death Do Us Part

  

Death and life.

Life and death. 

This past weekend, my husband and I attended our first wedding in four years. The ceremony was held at the amazing gothic Sacred Heart cathedral in Shadyside. 

It is a treasure you take for granted if you live around here. When you step inside, you are transported to Paris, Cologne or Florence and are immediately lost in the architecture and little nuances embedded in every inch of the impressive structure from the tile floor to the wooden ceiling. 

It is the perfect setting for a Cinderella-like bride to walk down the aisle, accompanied by a man in uniform, to join with her forever love. It was very romantic. But when you take away all the visuals and listen to the words, it becomes a good exercise in marriage evaluation; especially for couples who have been on a journey for decades. 

I get emotional at weddings for many reasons but I guess it is mainly because my husband and I are so far removed from that new love stage. For couples hearing the ‘to have and to hold’ and ‘to cherish’ it sounds absolutely lovely. But when you add the  ‘in sickness and in health’, ‘richer and poorer’, ‘til death do us part’ things get a little less dreamy. 

When you’ve been married 22 years, and you’ve got multiple teenagers in the house, you are in the thick of the less dreamy part. Lately, when my husband and I wake up in the morning, I whisper, “Let’s run away.” He whispers, “Ok.” and then closes his eyes for a few more winks of sleep. 

For us, there is nowhere to run but we also know there is nowhere else we would rather be. We are in it together and no matter how hard it gets, we understand what we vowed to do decades ago. And with that he gets up and makes our coffee and oftentimes he’ll bring me my first cup. It’s no diamond ring or view of a Tuscan village but, at this point, caffeine is our love language.

As luck would have it, the DJ played our first dance song during the wedding reception. It was an exciting moment for us to hear the Beatles “Something” as we danced near the new bride and groom. Old love and new love may look different but deep down inside they are the same. Comfort, trust and affection - yep, we’ve still got it. 

Just a few days after the wedding, I found myself standing in a hospital room. I stood there holding my aunt’s hand and she attempted to comfort her husband of 56 years. My uncle was hooked up to a ventilator to help him breathe. He had been sick for a few months and he took a turn for the worst. A priest came to give him his last rights. 

My aunt said something that was both beautiful and heartbreaking in the same breath. 

“I don’t want you to go but this is how it has to be.”

To love someone enough to not want to see them suffer. To love someone enough to put their needs in front of your own. To recognize the gift of 5 decades of marriage, thankful for each day you’ve shared, both good and bad, and knowing your time together is nearing its end. At that moment, I saw those marriage vows, the ones I heard just a few days prior, come to life before my very eyes and only then did I truly understand what they are all about.

Death and life.

Life and death. 

In the same breath they give and they take away. But the great uniter is hope. Hope that we will one day be together again with those we love after they depart. The hope that love never dies and goes beyond this life and transcends into the great unknown. 

Seeing love from all sides in the past week has been eye opening. I can only hope that I can carry the lessons I’ve learned and truly celebrate the gift I’ve been given. Yes, my husband and I are in the less dreamy stage of marriage and the days of flirting, rapid fire kisses, and Sunday Fundays have been replaced by quick dinners, grocery shopping and Home Depot runs, there is beauty in those as well.

I wish my newlywed friends the gift of a long, loving, and fulfilling marriage. I wish my aunt and uncle a love that lasts until the end of time.

*My blog is featured in the On My Mind column of The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week. The paper serves the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities.