How Miss P Came to Be

The Story of Jumpin' Bean 

Jumpin’ Bean’s birth story begins on November 5, 2010, when we were on our way to a weekend trip to Missouri, just the two of us. That Friday night Jack and I arrived to a quiet and peaceful hotel in St. Genevieve. The next day my friend, Sarah, was getting married at the nearby Chaumette Winery. Sarah and Ben’s ceremony was sweet, set in the early afternoon amongst the backdrop of sunshine and blue skies on the winery’s hilltop, followed by the best wedding food I’d ever had (a French and American spread), a glass or two of wine, dancing, and a tranquil drive across wine country to St. Louis where we would spend an adult evening alone.

Jack and I at Sarah Bear and Ben's wedding

Once in STL, we went to a quaint Tapas restaurant Sarah recommended to us, had some bravas, olives and peppers, tasty fish and jamón and drank us some Alhambra. We sat at the corner table where we felt like the only ones there—just perfect. We stayed at this super cool hotel in The Loop, so after dinner we walked up to campus, got some coffee and sat. And talked. Uninterrupted. If you’ve got kids, you know what a treat this is. We slept in the next morning, went to Mass at a nearby old church (that’s one of our favorite things to do when we travel—go to Mass at new places), then went to the St. Louis zoo (for free!) before heading back home to Joseph, who was staying in B-town with Nonna (my mom) that weekend. Do I really have to spell out for you what the result of our weekend was? Nothing inspires procreation like a bestest buddy’s wedding. Love was in the air!. Muchisimas gracias, Sarah and Ben. It is only fitting that you were Jumpin’ Bean’s first non-family visitors. (P.S.—Joseph was the result of a trip to St. Petersburg, Florida. Jumpin’ Bean was the result of a trip to St. Genevieve/St. Louis. Lord help us if we go on trips to places with the name ‘Saint’ in them.)

As we pulled into our driveway I got this feeling. Were my boobs hurting already? We ran inside to greet Joseph, literally pushing each other over to get to him first, and he was happy to see us. That sweet, innocent little face. Oh, God, are we ready for two? I’m probably not even pregnant, why am I freaking out? Big monkey hugs from him as he wrapped his legs tightly around my torso. I know I’m pregnant, I just know it.

A few days later I traveled to Spain for work. In between site visits, I got to see an old friend, Padre Zazo, Joseph’s namesake. The last time I had seen him, it was the spring of 2009 and I was pregnant with Joe. I didn’t tell him I suspected I was pregnant again. I don’t think I needed to. I could tell in his face that he knew.

Catedral in Leon, Spain. Said a prayer here for JB. 

I came home to a mess two days before Thanksgiving. While I was gone my poor kiddo got pink eye. Then my poor kiddo, hubby and mother-in-law got a nasty stomach bug, so naturally I was bracing myself to get it upon my return. Nothing says ‘Missed you, Mommy’ quite like projectile vomiting. Instead, what I got was a wicked case of jetlag. Joseph was taking three hour naps to recover from his rough patch, so I joined him every day in hopes of recalibrating on this side of the Atlantic. My brothers and sisters poked fun at me for being such a party pooper—and my stepdad called me out when I kept declining wine. “You must be pregnant!” he said with a sly grin, as if saying it out loud would will it to happen (he loooves being a Papoo). After being home for a few days and still taking three hours naps with Joe, I realized this was not mere jetlag. It was jetlag with a pregnant punch. I was whooped, exhausted, pooped beyond words. Jack finally asked me if I was alright and I told him that I thought I was pregnant. His heart might have skipped a beat. When he asked me how long I had thought that, I told him pretty much since we had driven home from St. Louis. He knew I was being serious and I’m pretty sure that’s why he turned completely white. After the ten days he’d had with Captain Pink Eye followed by Captain Pukies, baby on board seemed a little overwhelming to him and I couldn’t blame him. We got back to B-town the Sunday after Thanksgiving and we took a test. Holy. Schmoly. Ready or not, here two come!

We were elated, really we were. We were just kind of stunned, frankly. Joe had turned one in September, and we knew we wanted our kids to be about two years apart—but could it really have happened so fast? Turns out, after checking my charts and doing some quick math, this little nipper would be arriving to us at the end of July—the 29^th according to my calculations. We’d be joining the two under two club. I also hoped that the babe would arrive late just like his/her brother, as my job requires me to essentially be ‘on call’ until all nine of my study abroad programs return to the States. The last program in 2011 was set to return July 28^th. Uf, we were going to be cutting it close.

We phoned my parents and Jack’s parents right away. Thinking of it makes me smile so big. Is there any more fun news to relay than you’re having a baby? My Mom was squealing on the phone. She called my stepdad to tell him and rumor has it he started to do jumping jacks in the airport while waiting to catch his flight for a business trip. We told my brother, who was pretty pumped. My Dad replied with an enthusiastic ‘That’s fanTAStic!’ My stepmom said she knew we’d come back from the St. Louis wedding weekend with a baby on the way—and she said she could tell by the way I looked when we saw her over Thanksgiving. My mother-in-law cried. We didn’t tell my father-in-law because we knew if he did, he’d tell all of Greater Cincinnati before we got a chance to. We swore our five parents and my brother to secrecy and decided to make the announcement at Christmas. Both of our moms were bursting at the seams harboring such a secret, and lived to run in to one another on the westside of Cincy to talk about it (who else could they talk about it with?).

Before the night was over, negotiations for baby’s name were under way—and settled before we even went to bed. For a boy we wanted Jude—the middle name was still up for grabs (with Albert, some variation of Augustus/Augustine, and Aquinas all in the running—remember those saints I was talking about? We like saints. To be eligible as a Goetz-approved baby name, you have to either have been a saint or a Marian apparition). For a girl we wanted Pilar Kathryn, the name we had picked out had Joseph been a boy, after the Virgin Mary who appeared to St. James on the river Ebro in Zaragoza, Spain, and told her to build a church on the very ‘pillar’ on which she appeared—the beautiful Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar is the result. It took us a few days to decide what we would nickname this little one. Joseph had been Peanut while he was in the womb. Peanut 2.0 felt like a betrayal to both Joe and his sibling, so we settled on Jumpin’ Bean for the newest Goetz tater tot, or JB for short.

Our first doctor’s appointment was on December 17^th. We did the typical first visit stuff—met with the childbirth educator (“Can’t eat this, should stay away from that.” Oops, ate and drank most of what was on that list while in Spain), the financial rep (“Your baby will cost roughly $X,XXX.” Jack went white again.), the doctor (“How are you feeling? Any questions? Ready for two?” Ha. Hahaha. Ha. No.), and then, the ever favorite, the hero of that hours long first visit—the ultrasound technician. She looked at me kinda like “You’re back again already?!”, but then got straight to work on gelling me up. I don’t care how many babies a woman has or how many times she hears the swoosh and gallop of her baby’s beating heart, it’s never enough and never as special as hearing it for that first time. Tears streamed down my face, and Jack’s, too. This was for real, and we had our baby’s first photo to prove it. When we went to Cincy a few days later for Christmas, we hung JP’s ultrasound photo on the fridge, and decided we’d just let people figure it out. My sister was the first to notice the night before Christmas Eve and she cried (how I love her!). Then the night of Christmas Eve, my uncle Mike Tallarigo spotted it and asked if it was Joseph. I said ‘no’ and the people who overheard me got real quiet and their eyes got real big—the calm before the storm—then all one thousand Tallarigos whooped and shouted. Hugs, and kisses, and general loudness ensued. When we told Jack’s family the next day (my mother-in-law wrapped a pack of diapers up for my father-in-law to open), everyone was thrilled. JB was everyone’s favorite Christmas present in 2010, especially ours.

In many ways, my pregnancy with JB was eerily similar to my pregnancy with Joseph. I felt the same (great—but a bit more tired due to chasing around a toddler), was on a pretty similar trajectory (with their birth dates about an estimated six weeks apart, I went through the winter looking a little pudgy, like I’d eaten too much turkey at Thanksgiving and then again at Christmas, then started to get a belly in March or so, blossoming in the spring and just popping in the summer—bonus: I got to wear all of my maternity clothes that I wore with Joe a second time around since I was preggers in the same seasons), looked the same (mostly all belly out in front), and had the same zest for being pregnant (see Joseph’s birth story; Jack thought once was just good luck, but enjoying being pregnant a second time and he officially began to panic thinking we might produce an entire soccer team). Because so many things were ‘the same,’ and were ‘the same’ from the get- go, I began to think very early on that I was having another boy. And I was really thrilled about that! I’m a tomboy—I’ve always been considered ‘one of the guys.’ I was more than alright with Joe, Jack and I’s many outings playing in the mud and dirt with sticks, tossing rocks, racing cars across the tile and the like. Jack had the same gut feeling, too. In fact, everyone did—except for Papoo (my stepdad) and GG (my stepmom). So we pretty much began to focus on what the middle name would be, praying to the saints to give us a sign.

Well, a sign came, and it wasn’t the one I was looking for or expecting. But is it ever?

My pregnancy with JB went by so, so fast. Mommas of two or more out there know exactly what I’m talking about. The first pregnancy, it’s all about you, the Momma Bear. The second pregnancy you have no time to think about you because you are chasing after another one and that other one has no concept of the fact that there’s a little nipper growing inside of you, taking much of your energy, and making it harder for you to read him/her goodnight stories since he/she is getting pushed out of your lap more and more each night due to the belly, which seems to grow infinitely faster the second time around. Got morning sickness? Too bad, toddler reigns. You’ll just have to barf in a bag on the run. Got hemorrhoids? Shucks, that’s unfortunate. Can’t soak your hiney in the tub for an hour because, well, you don’t have an hour! In fact, you don’t even have fifteen minutes! Got back aches? Dang. Well, get used to it because big bro or sis still wants to be picked up, more so now than ever, mainly because he/she can sense that someone or something is encroaching on his/her territory, and soon. Fortunately, I had a very happy and healthy pregnancy, and only had one of the previously mentioned maladies. I’ll let your imagine roam—a true ‘lady’ doesn’t reveal her secrets (hahaha, since when have I been considered that?).

The point is, time flew and before I knew it, it was mid-July and we found ourselves in the same situation in which we had found ourselves with Joe—all ready to go and just waiting on baby. Joe moved out of the baby room into his ‘big boy’ room (which he rather enjoyed getting in and out of to come visit us—did I mention many older siblings tend to regress in their sleeping habits when a little one is on the way?), and one day I found myself in JB’s room, just looking around in awe. Wow, this was really happening, wasn’t it? For whatever strange reason, I opened the drawer of the changing table and that’s when I saw the sign: the rosary of the Virgen del Pilar that I had bought when mom and I went to visit Zaragoza so that I could show her the Basilica that would be my daughter’s namesake, should I ever have one. I had been wondering where that was—it was tucked away in the back of the drawer, with just la Virgen’s head peeking out. I literally felt the breath knocked out of me. I think I actually sighed out loud. Shivers went up my spine, the hairs on my arm on end, the way you feel whenever you know that God’s telling you something. I had been wrong about Jude all along. I hung the rosary on the wall and smiled, then sealed my lips. This was the kind of sign not meant to be shared.

I kept this sign in the back of my mind for the last few weeks of my pregnancy. My spiritual being knew better than to doubt it, but the logical side of me was still convinced I was carrying a JAG. Or maybe it was this: I was petrified, I mean scared to my core, to have a baby girl. Why, you ask? Well, I feel like it’s taken a lot of hard work, a huge community of support, and about 25 years (out of my 30 on this earth) to officially come into my own as a woman. Dang…that’s a long journey! I do not regret a second of it and if that’s how long it took for me to be who I am and who I was meant to be (which, I believe, is still a work and progress), then it’s well worth the wait. Perhaps in a different era or a different time, the journey to feeling comfortable in my own skin would not have been as long—but in THIS time in which we live, gals have it tough and the journey simply takes longer. We are being taught to be virgins on one channel, to use contraception on the other, and how to be sexier/skinnier/prettier/add any adjective with ‘ier,’on the end, which implies that what we are currently just isn’t enough, on yet another channel. Ugh, mixed messages anyone? So while I know that women can come out of all that mess with strong voices, strong careers, and strong senses of self (I like to think I’m one of them—and I know so many more), I also know that there are some major growing pains, moments of self-doubt (and sometimes self-hatred), and feelings of inadequacy along the way. What a daunting task to think about bringing up a baby girl in this world! On one hand, it’s what I wanted more than anything: to feel the kinship with my daughter that I’ve always felt with my mom, to have the special bond that my mom and I have with a little Pili, to go on Momma/Daughter trips like so many that Mom and I have gone on before. On the other hand, I just felt like I was better wired to raise baby boys. I’m NOT saying boys are easy breezy, because that’s certainly not the case. I’m also not saying that boys aren’t spoon-fed mixed messages, either. I just feel like boys have less inherent baggage to carry (I know that sounds awful, but I can’t think of another way to say it without saying what I mean) and less pressure on them to meet certain (mostly unrealistic) expectations. I know that I wake up every morning thankful I am a woman and that I a woman empowered. I also know, however, that Jack wakes up every morning thankful he’s not a woman—for many of the reasons I list above.

Yup, that was it. I was afraid to have a baby girl. So I prayed only to la Virgen del Pilar for the remaining weeks of my pregnancy, asking her to help me be the best mother I could be, regardless if a Jude or Pili arrived to us. I also prayed to la Virgen that JB would wait until after my programs ended, not because I couldn’t handle it if he/she arrived before then, rather because I didn’t want my little child to ever have to compete with my work on his/her birthday. Ever.

Joe and JB playing peek-a-boo

July 28^th came and went. Phew! Even though I still had a project that would have been nice to finish up before JB’s arrival (the launching of our program’s new promotional video), I gave JB a special pat on the belly and told him/her that he/she could come out whenever he/she wanted at this point! I took Friday, the 29^th, off of work and treated myself to a massage (the only one I got with JB—in the month leading up to Joe’s birth, I got one just about every weekend—see paragraph above on being a second time Mum), a trip to Hobby Lobby to put together Joseph’s ‘Big Brother Bag’ (a slew of goodies—books, stickers, paper, markers, etc.—a care package, if you will, to remind him that he’s still a special boy) and a movie, yes a movie!, all by myself, complete with Twizzlers, popcorn and a soda. I saw ‘Midnight in Paris’ and it was just perfect—light, funny, whimsical. It fit the mood of the day just right.

That Saturday we took Joseph to the Monroe County Fair, which is right up that kiddo’s alley: chickens, pigs, cows, horses, big trucks and trailers and…of course…John Deere tractors. The little guy was in heaven. Jack and I looked at each other at one point when Joe was climbing in and out of the tractors and somehow had a sense that this was our last weekend together as a family of three. In fact, I remember Jack commenting to me what a difference a year had made, given in 2010, we went to the Fair and Joe was barely just walking and rather stroller bound. Fast forward to a year later, and he was climbing like a monkey on tractors, so articulate for not even being two, and about to become a big brother. My comment back to Jack was…can you imagine what next year’s Fair will be like?

Visiting the horsies at the fair, three days before JB joined us

Saturday night, after Joe was nestled in bed and I had found my usual spot on the couch, I started having some cramping. Familiar cramping. It was around 11:00 at night, and I told Jack I thought something was happening. We both went to bed soon after and slept peacefully, all faired out.

Sunday (JB’s due date) I woke up and the cramping had increased, but had not become what I would call contractions. Still, my gut was telling me that change was on the horizon, and since we have no family in B-town and my mom was pretty much just waiting for ‘the call,’ I phoned and told her she might want to think about packing her bags. And I also told her to pack them as if she wouldn’t be returning to Cincinnati for a while. As the day progressed, the cramps turned in to full-on contractions, but were very, very infrequent (one every few hours). Also, I noticed that JB wasn’t moving as much and that always freaked me out, especially given that both Joe and JB (up until that point) were active kiddos in the womb. When Mom got to our house, I called the doctor and after describing my occasional contractions and lack of movement, they wanted to be safe rather than sorry and had me go up to the hospital to be monitored. While ‘the bag’ was packed, I didn’t think this was ‘it’ so I didn’t bring it along. Jack and I left for the hospital and left Joe and Nonna behind.

They hooked me up right away to a monitor and once they had me do a non-stress test, we came to find that JB was moving around just fine (precocious little stinker—waited until he/she was hooked up to start moving again!). What they did notice was that I was pretty dehydrated. So they gave me lots and lots of liquid through an IV, and I had tons of ice chips and water. Three hours later or so, they released me. We got home after midnight. “Maybe tomorrow,” I thought.

Joe went to daycare and God love Mom, she helped me do some last minute nesting at home while I was at work. Yes, work. Mom came and picked me up from work, then we went to get Joe together from daycare and took him to the Mall to burn off some energy. Since it was so bloody hot out, playing outside was not an option. Also, the doc recommended I not have a repeat of the recent dehydration bout. It was August 1^st. Just like with Joseph, I was bound and determined to walk JB right out, so I was walking/running after Joe at the Mall as much as Mom would let me. I went to the bathroom for the umpteenth time that day and, lo and behold, my bloody show greeted me in the terlit. That hadn’t happened with Joe until I was at the hospital, so I was encouraged that JB might actually be more motivated than Joe was to meet the world on the outside (for those of you that know JB, this should not come as a surprise). We got home that night, all had dinner together, and then after Joe went to bed I checked my e-mail. The promotional video with all the most recent edits was waiting in my inbox for me to review. I watched it one last time and it was just perfect. At 9:50 or so, I sent the e-mail signing off on the project, saying it was good to go. Green light. I felt a huge weight off my shoulders. I fell asleep almost instantly…

…and was woken up by a wandering Joe around 5:45 a.m. “Uppy, uppy,” he kept saying (in case you are not fluent in toddler, that’s a command for “Pick me up, dummy!”) I scooped him up and we snuggled right away. He rubbed my hand and played with my fingers before nodding off back into sleepy land. I, however, remained wide awake because they had started. Contractions every ten minutes or so. It’s like Joseph knew. He wanted to spend a few last hours with me as my only child and I adore him for that. I also adore JB for allowing its brother to get one last snuggle-with-Mommy-moment. I think both Joe and JB probably realized that I needed that moment perhaps more than they did—Big Joe’s world was about to get rocked, yet I was the fragile one. The contractions did not hurt in those moments, with the security of my little baby boy cuddled up against me. I just breathed through them—they were about a minute long—and focused my energy when they came and relaxed when they went. I cried softly as I held him, not because I was in pain but because he was soon going to be a big brother. As I breathed through each contraction, I hoped and prayed that he would still feel loved, and special, and needed, and cared for when JB came along. All of these silly thoughts entered my head: Will Joe resent us for creating him a sibling? Will JB ever feel loved the way Joe did, given he/she has to share us from the very start? How will my heart possibly be big enough to love two children the same and so very much? Without saying a word, Joseph comforted me and made me feel calm, much like his Daddy always does. Those first few hours of labor were—dare I say it?—blissful.

When Joe woke up around 8:00, it turned from blissful to—intense. The contractions had picked up to every seven minutes or so, but were not lasting long at all now. What the? I called the doctor, who suggested I come in later that afternoon to get checked and see how I was doing given I had been at the hospital two nights before. So Mom called my stepdad, Jack called his mom and I called my dad to let everyone know that these were the kind of contractions that lead to the main event. In the meantime, I took a nice, leisurely shower, finished packing JB’s stuff into ‘the bag,’ and by that time, Bill had arrived. Jack, Mom, Bill and I decided to have lunch together. Since it was probably going to be my last meal before JB arrived, it was my pick and I chose Scholar’s Inn. I’ll never forget eating our lunch there, and reaching across the table to squeeze Jack’s hand every time I felt a contraction coming on. Jack was my rock, just like he was when Joe was making his entrance. Bill was on his cell phone to all of his business pals, bragging that he was soon going to be meeting his new grandchild. When the waiter caught wind of that, he looked at me kinda crazy. “I’m in labor,” I told him nonchalantly. He said he was honored that I chose to have my last pre-baby meal at Scholar’s Inn. Little did he know I only chose Scholar’s Inn because I didn’t choose Mother Bears since I was looking forward to getting pizza delivered from there post-delivery.

Last pic of JB in my belly, taken before going to the hospital

From lunch, I went straight to the doctor’s office while Jack went to the house to pack his bag. I was eerily calm through the whole first part of the check-up (they took my blood pressure which was looking good, did another non-stress test to which JB responded well, checked me and I was 2 cm dilated), then the doc made a suggestion: “How about if you report to the hospital at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow morning and then we’ll go from there?” Calmness and poise out the window. I literally laughed out loud, followed by a rather resolute, “NO!” If Joseph’s labor and delivery were any indication of how this one might go, I could labor for hours and hours (and hours) with no progress—didn’t the doctor check my records? Um, hello, did he not remember the 25 hours of labor with Joe? He was rather taken aback, and then offered a much more palatable suggestion: “Okay, well you can go to the hospital, but they aren’t going to want to move your labor along at all.” “That’s fine,” I said, knowing that if I showed up at the hospital they weren’t gonna turn me away without a baby. So, I left the doc’s office and went home to pick up Jack. Just like with Joseph, I took a long look around the house and knew the next time I set foot in it, it would somehow be different—homier, sweeter, fuller.

Upon arriving to the hospital I was delighted to see that Dr. Cook was on call, who is the same doc that delivered Joseph. Dr. Cook seemed to understand Jack and I’s relationship (and banter) as well as our outlook on this whole labor and delivery thing, and right away after I got my lovely gown on he asked if I wanted him to break my water. “YES!” I responded. And laughed inside at the other doc’s comment “They aren’t going to want to move your labor along at all…”

From here, my memory gets really fuzzy—I don’t remember exactly when things happened, but I remember the order in which they happened. Contractions picked up after breaking my water. Mother-in-law showed up. Mom, Bill and Joe came up after they took Joe to dinner. Epidural. Yessssss. Dad made it in from Cincinnati. Mom took Joe home to be with our sitter (big shout out to Casey Biggs!) and then came back. Ice chips, tons of water, popsicles. Lots of residents accompanying the docs and nurses (I felt like a human guinea pig. Also my undercarriage was getting lots of exposure. Yay for being preggers in a college town.). Finally, around maybe 11:15 or so, they came in to ‘empty my tank,’ (can’t tinkle myself when I have an epidural so another resident had the honor of inserting a catheter) but didn’t proceed to check me afterwards. I looked at the nurse kinda funny. “Aren’t you going to check me?” I asked. During labor with Joe, they emptied my tank and I dilated from 7 to 10 cm just like that. “Dr. Cook will be in to check you before midnight. If you need anything, just press the button!”

She left the room and suddenly it felt like I had to, well, you know, relieve myself through the non-catheter end. I knew what that meant…it was time to push out a baby. So I pressed the button and in she came. I told her the dealio and she sent the entourage behind the curtain so she could check me. This was what she said, I kid you not (I can’t make stuff like this up): “Okay, close your legs. I’ll be back with Dr. Cook.” Cheers erupted from behind the magic curtain. I glanced at the clock. About 11:30 p.m. JB had less than a half an hour if he/she wanted his/her own birthday—otherwise if he/she arrived on the 3^rd, JB was going to have to share its birthday with my Aunt Julie. As Dr. Cook made his way in and the family entourage made their way out, I heard Bill tell him that he’d slip him a 50 dollar bill if he could facilitating JB getting’ born in under the midnight mark. That was of less concern to me—my biggest issue was keeping this baby from creeping out before Dr. Cook could get his catcher’s gloves on.

Jack and I had less time to get our thoughts together than we did with Joe. We did say a quick prayer together, though, and then it was go-time. They reviewed pushing with me again, and I gave it a whirl. One push. Two push. Three push. Born. Like a Dr. Suess book. Yup, JB came out in three pushes—Dr. Cook was stunned, Jack even more so. In the meantime, I’m waiting for the big reveal while Stunned 1 and Stunned 2 can’t believe a baby just came out in less than five minutes. “It’s Pili!”
Jack said, still stunned. “The rosary…” I thought to myself and cried tears of sincere happiness. It was 11:49 p.m. Still August 2^nd. Miss P had her own birthday, by golly. Now that I know her, well of course she wasn’t gonna be born on the same day as anyone else. She’s a feisty Leo and wasn’t going to share her 24 hours with nobody, God love her.

My fear of how I would find enough room in my heart to love two children was washed away in an instant as my heart just grew. I literally felt like the Grinch in that ending scene when he’s so happy that Who-ville got to celebrate Christmas—you know, when his heart grows too big for its chamber and it just bursts?

And what happened then? Well, in Who-ville they say that the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day! And then the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches…plus two.

To be clear: I am not likening myself to the Grinch (stop snickering, Jack), but I can think of no other way to describe how my heart grew three sizes in a day, and by virtue of Miss P simply being born, how I found more inner strength than ten Griches, plus two…more inner strength than I ever thought I was capable of, but was certainly going to need in the weeks, months, years to come.

They handed Pilar Kathryn to me on my chest, a squirrely, wiggly and writhing 7 lbs, 4 oz. and 20 inches long. She was screaming. She didn’t stay on my chest long because she pooed on her way out (that oughta tell you the spunk she was born with) and had to get cleaned up. When she was ready to go, I got to see her for real. Big, pensive eyes. And this mate de pelo (head of hair) that was to die for—fuzzy, and with blond highlights! I mean real highlights, like the kind people pay big bucks for. She just looked at me, and I at her—and I felt this instant connection, this instant camaraderie with her. With Joe, I had an instant connection, too, but with more of a Momma Bear protective instinct kind of feel. And he nuzzled right up to me and snuggled. With P, it was different. We just seemed to ‘get’ each other. There was less nuzzling and more mutual understanding, more looks of complicity, something that just happens among females who have that chemistry, something that you just can’t describe. We just clicked. Sounds bogus, but I know what I felt. I still feel that way with her. It’s beautiful. I know it will inevitably cause us some strife and possible discord in future years, but I look at her and relate to her so much already, the way only Mommas and their Daughters can.

Instant Connection. Boom.

While I don’t know what Jack felt in that moment, I had a good idea based on the look on his face: he loved her so much already it hurt. And he was bracing himself for a lifetime of moments with her in which he would fear for her knowing she would have no fear, want to protect her knowing he couldn’t, and tell her, much like my Dad has always told me, that he’d be the first man to ever love her and the only man to love her for her whole life. Also in that moment, I sensed that Jack would be perfectly happy if Pili became a nun, as the only men she would then have permission to love would be her dad, her brother and Jesus. Jack has since confirmed for me my last suspicion, declaring that he thinks Pili would make an excellent Carmelite nun, or perhaps a splendid Poor Clare Sister. I think P has other plans.

Bill tried to slip Dr. Cook a fifty, but he graciously declined and instead told him to treat the staff to pizza. Bill did as he was told. From that moment forward, we became the hospital’s favorite guests that night. The family was of course thrilled about the astute little girl who arrived just under the midnight hour. We ate pizza, laughed, and all marveled at little Miss P. I had a daughter! I wondered what Joe would think of his new sister when he met her the next day…

Joe and P meet for the first time. He stole her binky. Clever.

And, as is only fitting, Sarah Bear and Ben came to visit Miss P the very day after she was born. They were passing through B-town on their way to visit family. Pili Punkertons, you would not be here today had it not been for Sarah and Ben pledging their love for each other. 

Ben, Sarah, a one day old Miss P and a proud Daddy-o

Pili Kate is a rock star. A dream come true. How could I have been afraid to have her? Now I can’t imagine life without her. She’s my Pilarina chiquitina, Miss P, Pilicakes, my Pili Pili Punkin’ Pie. She is a firecracker of pure spunk, yet at the same time she’s incredibly easygoing. Fantastic combination. She melts all of our hearts on a daily basis, especially her Daddy’s and her brother’s. And of course, she puts those two on a pedestal. She rocks her brother’s hand-me-downs, rocks her gushies and naturally always rocks that mess of hair she has that just keeps growing and growing. She is her own person and has been since she came out kicking and screaming. She’s independent and strong-willed, free-spirited and be-bops to her own tune (literally—she moves her little hips and bumsy to the songs in her head). She needs wide open spaces. She’s like I was when I was turning 20. Except she’s turning one. Uf. I think we might have a boat-rocker on our hands—but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Happy Birthday, Sweet P, Apple of my Eye and Keeper of my Soul. Feliz Cumpleaños, mi chiquitina. You are my sunshine—and the sweetest pea in the whole pod. Thanks for helping your Momma to find her way. 

Miss P as a youngin' 

Miss P on her first birthday, cupcake face and all

My other home

Spain has played an integral part in the tapestry that is my life. It has been the backdrop to many memories so powerful that upon triggering them alone I can smell aceite de oliva, café con leche, jamón serrano, and queso manchego. Traveling to Spain is a sensory experience—there is an exquisite beauty, while at the same time rugged grunge, in the sights, the smells, the tastes, and a telling juxtaposition entre lo antiguo y lo moderno.

There was the winter quarter of 2002 when I studied in Pamplona—and found, among other things, my wings, an amistad with four girls that still thrives today, my passion in life and myself. 

Then there was the summer of 2005, my return debut to Spain teaching for the Program I now direct, in which I found my calling as a teacher and my love for la Mancha. 

Los profes in 2006. We were all so different, and that's why we worked.

In 2006, the stars aligned when I returned to Ciudad Real to teach for the Program, and encountered the most incredible group of kids I’ve had the privilege to know (and dearly love) and the most fun group of profes with which to spend a summer. 

In 2007, Jack and I took our honeymoon to Spain and he finally ‘got it’—he came to understand why that country meant so much to me as we toured cities large and small—our two favorites being Zaragoza (home to the Basilica that Pili is named after) and Sevilla. After that trip, we knew two things: if we ever had a daughter, her name would be Pilar (after the Basilica and the patroness of Spain) and if we were so lucky to live a long life together, we would make it a goal to walk El Camino de Santiago. In fact, when we visited Pamplona, we each bought El Camino key chains to keep that dream alive. I have to smile every time I see Miss P pick up my keys. Strangely, but I am convinced it is not a coincidence, the first item she chooses to put in her mouth is always El Camino keychain. After our honeymoon to Spain we had our most difficult goodbye ever in the airport in Barajas—Jack returned to the U.S. as I went to la Mancha to teach. What a bittersweet 8 weeks it was to be apart from one another.

Jack in Zaragoza in 2007, with Pili's namesake in the background.

Then there was 2008.

That summer, before I taught for the Program, Mom toured Spain with me for two weeks. It was the trip of a lifetime for both of us. I could teach my Mom all about the country that had taught me so much. I took her to Ávila, where we saw so many remnants of Mom’s namesake, St. Teresa of Ávila. I took her to Pamplona, my stomping grounds. To Sevilla, to Barcelona. And, of course, I took her to la Basilica in Zaragoza, too. And just like with Jack and I, Mom, too, felt the power of the place—and understood right away what I saw in it so many years before when I first visited it in 2002. I hope Mom and I can make a trip like that again sometime soon. And I certainly hope and pray to la Virgen del Pilar that Pili and I will be able to do the same.

Mom and I in Avila, walled city and home to St. Teresa of Avila.

I put Mom on a plane after two weeks so she could head back to the States, and then waited for my group of students to arrive to Madrid. That summer teaching with the Program was a remarkable one for more reasons than I can count, the most salient because it was my last. The other most salient because it’s when Spain won the Europe Cup—and I learned to appreciate fútbol. I mean real fútbol. I won’t ever forget the memories that summer watching games with my students and the other profes brought. Rather than try and recount them, I will copy and paste a group e-mail I sent to my loved ones while in Ciudad Real that summer. It sheds light on my newfound love for fútbol, and sheds light on what it meant to me to teach for the Program that year, and the three years before it. It goes like this:

**********

July 3, 2008

Subject line: In My Life

Campeones!

Greetings to all,

Never In My Life have I seen anything like what I saw Sunday night.

To commemorate the three week anniversary of our arrival to Ciudad Real, the arid, oven-hot land of Quijote, fútbol, pisto and queso manchego, the Spanish national fútbol team won the Europe Cup Sunday night, defeating Germany 1-0, and ending the cursed 44 year streak of going without a title win.  And we were there.  Sort of.

In a tiny sports pub tucked away on a hidden side street in Ciudad Real, Cesarina and I (the only two teachers on hand) and about 15 of our chicos, found ourselves camouflaged in a sea of red and yellow flags and t-shirts, to witness history in the making, and to see a nation´s hopes answered in the form of a solid, swift kick from the cleat of Fernando Torres, also known as "El Niño," (the kid)
Spain´s beloved fútbol hero, the apple of every Spanish mother´s eye, and the idol of every Spanish boy who wishes to make it big and go from playing the game in the Plaza Mayor to the stadium of Santiago Bernabau in Madrid.  The goal came in the middle of a well-played game on behalf of both teams, a game that got my blood flowing and my heart racing, and I can´t say that I´ve ever been a big fan of fútbol.  But to see this game and see what the win meant for these people--Spain´s curse of not winning a title in 44 years was lifted Sunday night and our chicos were there to see it.

As soon as the end of the game was signaled, madness ensued.  Folks ran out of the bar and piled into the streets as firecrackers and fireworks were set off, the Spanish national anthem blasted from cars and open patios, and everyone, I mean everyone, old and young, made the street their home, parading around with Spanish flags, horns, and noisemakers.  The chicos wanted to fulfill one and only one dream if Spain won: partake in the Spanish tradition of jumping in a fountain in the plaza mayor to celebrate.  Cesarina and I were clearly outnumbered, and the chicos were going to do it whether we were there or not, so we conceded defeat and at least offered to take their pictures and get video of the celebration.  Silly us, did we actually think we were going to get away with not getting tossed into the fountain ourselves? Because after we took everyone´s picture, the kids (once again we were outnumbered) came at us in two different directions, picked us up and plopped us in the fountain, along with the rest of the population of Ciudad Real.  And I didn´t care.  Yes, I was the adult in the situation, and yes, I am their ´director.´  And yes, the water in the fountain was probably never before (and never will be) cleaned, which means I could break out in a rash any moment, but, again, I didn´t care.  I looked around me and realized that a simple 1-0 victory would be icing on the very delicious cake that is this trip for these kids and I smiled bigger than they were smiling because I now know the power of nostalgia and I know that they will look back on that moment as a defining one in their Spanish journey.  As the plaza mayor began to fill to its brim, photojournalists and camera news crews snapped and filmed away, trying their best to capture an unforgettable night.

The party pretty much never ended (it´s still going on, really), so on Monday morning we came in to school confronted with many tired faces, but the excitement was still burning in the kids, especially when they discovered they had made it in not one but THREE newspapers, all pictures of them in the blessed fountain next to the statue of one of Spain´s greatest kings, Alfonso X.  And guess who else made it in the newspaper?  Yours truly, the adult, the director, the "one in charge." So the first thing we did in my class was to head to the kiosk down the street to buy a copy of each paper for the good old memory chest.

In a nutshell, that has been the experience thus far in Ciudad Real: one outstanding memory followed by another, really.  We have been smooth sailing for about two weeks now, but things did not start out so easy...

The kids arrived nearly three weeks ago on June 9th.  If you all recall, around that time, there were pretty wicked storms hitting the midwest, more specifically Indiana and Illinois.  So while 32 students
were supposed to arrive in Barajas on June 9th, only 28 actually made it.  After many, many phone calls and a lot of hassling the airlines, we finally figured out where the other 4 had been re-routed to (from Indy to Cleveland to Newark to Madrid), and found out that their flight from Newark to Madrid was pushed back another day.  So we left Paloma (one of the teachers) behind in Madrid to tend to the remaining four the next day while we took the majority to Ciudad Real to meet their families.

The following day, the four students arrived safely and soundly to Ciudad Real by train.  I was worried these four kids might be traumatized by their experience and arrive to Ciudad Real feeling super
behind, lost and scared.  Seeing the first three kids step down from the train, I was at ease.  But the fourth immediately worried me.  He looked like Chicken Little, waiting for the sky to fall at any moment. He looked nervous, unsure of himself, and like he just wanted to stay on the train and keep going far, far away from that moment.  I became even more worried when his host mother came to greet him and instead of giving her the customary one kiss on each cheek, he backed away and at
my urging to give her kisses he said "No."  Well, okay.  It was then that I came to know him, the boy who would return to the US.

I do not want to go into much detail about him, there is much to say. Let´s just leave it at this: half of my heart breaks for the boy and the other half just doesn´t understand him.  The part of my heart that
breaks is the part that wanted to always hug him, comfort him, tell him he´d be fine if he´d just let go a bit and be able to laugh at himself. The part of my heart that doesn´t understand him is the part that worried that he wasn´t eating (nor at school or at home), that his nose seemed to never

stop bleeding, that he just didn´t "fit" with the program.  I worried about him, we all worried about him, but we knew just what to do when he came to us and said he wanted to go home.  If you had looked into his sad, lost eyes, you´d have agreed to send him home, too, and that´s what we did.  After a little over a week, he went back to the US and I certainly hope he was able to learn something in his few days here.

I learned from him, sadly, that no matter how much you believe in someone, no matter how much you want them to succeed, they cannot do so unless somewhere, somehow they believe it themselves, too.

For a few days, things were going smoothly, then we came to learn an ugly, ugly word here in Spain, and it hasn´t really left us: huelga (which means "strike").  Due to the (you guessed it) high gas prices, many of the truck, bus and taxi drivers have decided to go on strike. Kind of problematic if a fourth of our students arrive to school via bus.  Even more problematic if all the excursions to other cities involve a lengthy bus ride.  Our first excursion it was easy to plan around the strike: we bought 2 euro train tickets to get to our destination, which was only about 25 km away.  The next excursion,
however, brought on a further and more popular destination: Córdoba and Granada, and there was not nearly enough money in our budget to get us to those places in a train.  So we scrambled, looked for solutions, and were at the point of calling in the Marines to haul us out of this desert land and transport us just three hours south when we made an executive decision and decided to move the excursion to a different day.  You see, the "huelga" is only for Tuesdays and Fridays--and Fridays are our excursion days.  And did I mention the "huelga" is only going on in the province of Ciudad Real?  That is to say, if you were to drive across the borders of the province (about 50 miles), you´d be
in another province where the strike is NOT in effect.  Yet buses cannot enter or leave Ciudad Real.  You can imagine how tricky this makes things.  To avoid problems with the strike, this Friday we are headed to Madrid in the train, and the following weekend we have already switched the excursion to Toledo from Friday to Saturday.  Problem solved, right?

Wrong.

As of July 7th, the huelga is taking on more days--going on strike Mon, Tues, Thur and Fri.  We leave Ciudad Real to fly back to the states on July 24th which, as luck might have it, is a Thursday.  So we have already begun the scramble to find a way out of this land and back to Madrid.  Do not get me wrong--I am having a great time and the summer has been a remarkable one, the kids have been super good, all has gone about at smoothly as I could ask for--but come Hell or high water, I am
coming home on July 24th.  Getting home is like any goal you set in life: I´m at the three week/half-way point in the program and I´m thrilled with how things have been going--training hard for the finish,
but not yet counting down the days to come home.  At the same time though, the goal and the finish (i.e., the date I´m coming home) is etched into my brain and it ain´t changin,´ end of story.  So, as I
said before, we´re coming home on time, I just don´t yet know how.

About coming home...I´ve gotten many e-mails asking if this last summer has been living up to my expectations and/or if I was getting to do all that I wanted to.  Funny, I thought you´d never ask...

Though I was 99% sure this was going to be my last summer upon arrival, I am not the kind of person who says ´never,´ so when I left the States, there was still that 1% chance remaining that I might go to Spain again next summer.  But almost immediately when I touched down in Barajas, the 1% chance went away.  It was not a bad feeling, and it certainly does not indicate that I was having a bad time (quite the opposite), it´s just that very soon into my trip (if not immediately) with Mom, I could feel that Spain, a country that I believe has grown to love me as much as I love it, was finding little, subtle ways to let me know it was okay to not come back next year, as if to say to me "I´ll always be here and you are always welcome."  Those little, subtle ways continue to manifest themselves here in Ciudad Real every morning.  I wake up early every morning to take a nice hour walk before classes and it is absolutely beautiful: most mornings I head east towards the sun and catch incredible views of the flat land, which in the distance meets rocky hills, which then, further east, climb into the sky.  It is so flat and so dry that the sky stands out brilliantly, a tapestry of shades of orange, yellow and pink.  When I get to the "Puerta de Toledo" (a roman gate built centuries ago, that leads you to Toledo) it
never fails, I see the same old couple walking arm and arm, not saying a word but communicating in their own way, with their German Shephard, unleashed, on their heels.  They are not going anywhere, their dog is not going anywhere, and the manchegan lanscape is not going anywhere. I could come back in 30 years to the same countryside, and though the couple might be gone, another couple will replace them.  The setting will stay the same and that is what Spain is trying to tell me.  Even if the people change, the place, in its essence, will stay the same.

Even without the hints that this, what at times seems to be more my mother land than my own country, tells me, I can come to the conclusion on my own that, quite simply, this river has run its course.  My time with the program is almost up, it´s just something I can sense.  It´s like when you finally realize it´s time to stop dressing up for Halloween and going out trick-or-treating (which for me was freshman year in high school, a bit late), or when you finally realize it´s no longer appropriate to play drinking games at parties (which was grad school, again, perhaps a bit late--though some of you out there still believe it´s appropriate to play drinking games, more power to you), or when you realize that the hot topic between you and your girlfriends is no longer grad school or reminiscing about undergrad, rather weddings, kids, and mortgage payments (still making this realization, bare with
me).  If you notice a pattern, I seem to be a little late in coming to these previous realizations, but not with this one.  The time has come to fold, to hang it up, to gracefully (ha, Steph does not equal "graceful") bow out.  And having made that decision before I arrived to Spain this year, then being reassured of its rightness in my first days here, have allowed me to enjoy every minute much more than I could have imagined.  The trip hasn´t been about places I´ve visited or monuments I´ve seen.  It´s been about moments, about conversations, about morning walks and Spanish dinners (tapas, wine and cold, cold drafts), about church bells ringing at all hours, about deserted streets during

My 2008 chicos and I at the 'despedida.' Tears and smiles.

siesta.  I have been lucky enough to see some monuments four years in a row that some people would wait a lifetime to see, but the monuments and sights are not what is in my heart, it´s the people I was with when visiting them, or the people I thought of when visiting them, or the song that was running through my head when visiting them.  I´m learning now more than ever that the best memories I can make are the ones that I can connect to memories I already have.  Which is why, before I left, I made the soundtrack to my life so far (I love itunes) and broke it down into four volumes.  It tracks my memories set to music, and on those morning walks I spoke of, I run the spectrum of emotions that songs have the power of bringing to me.  And each song takes me to a different place and time, which triggers other memories, and then others, and all I can do is smile.

As far as the kids go: they are a super, super group.  Don´t worry 2006 kids, they still do not reach your level of "super"--the 2006 kids will forever reign as my favorites.  But I do have to say that factoring in the combination of students, fellow teachers, living situation, and the school that we are in, it´s been my best summer yet in Ciudad Real.

Well, I must be off.  I´ve been writing this e-mail since Monday, in 15 minute segments at a time, so it is time it was sent.  Beware of grammar and spelling errors.  Limited e-mail access does not allow for much editing.

This weekend is a big one for us: tomorrow we go to Madrid, Saturday we go to a bullfight in Ciudad Real, and Sunday Sanfermines coverage begins in Pamplona, so I will be watching.

Happy Fourth of July to all.  My favorite holiday after Christmas, and next year I´ll be home (in every sense of the word) to celebrate it.

Besos,

Steph

"There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all....

**********

Reading that e-mail makes me smile from ear to ear. I knew that summer that some big changes were in store for me when I returned to the States from teaching in Spain. Little did I know the changes in store were me being appointed Managing Director of the Honors Program, and becoming pregnant with my little Peanut shortly thereafter. The summer of 2009, just one year after teaching for the Program, I was directing it and feeling little kicks from Mr. Joseph Anthony Goetz to keep me from suffering too much nostalgia. Oh, the joy of reading in hindsight!

So thank you, my dear and sweet Spain, for allowing me to take a trip down memory lane tonight. And thank you for being so instrumental in helping me find my way over the years, for helping me to forge a half-Spanish identity that I hold dear to this day—my time in your unbelievable country has left a profound mark on me and I cannot wait to return. How I wish I could be there with you to celebrate and to jump in a fountain. Congrats, campeones de Europa. ¡Que viva España! 

The kiddos and I celebrate Spain's win. Note the kiddos in their Spain uniforms.

This one's for the dudes...

A number of stories have been shared with me about conversations that were had at our wedding over the past five years since we got hitched. I always smile when I hear them (I’ve yet to hear a bad one…so far), and consider them to be little gifts to remind me of the joy brought together on December 9, 2006.

One of my favorite stories is the one of my Dad and Aunt Julie finally making peace. My Dad is an amazing man. My Aunt Julie is an amazing woman. They just never got along, even when my parents were married. The thing about my Aunt Julie is that you love her or you don’t. She is fiercely loyal to those who are loyal to her, she’s driven, she speaks her mind, and she’s full of beans and spunk. She makes no apologies about who she is, and I happen to think she’s fantastic. Did I mention she’s a Leo, just like Miss P? Uf, we might be in trouble. Did I also mention that Dad is very much the same way? Anyway, Julie’s strong personality can sometimes be tough to go up against, even more so for an in-law. So she and Dad were never the best of friends, and that’s probably putting it mildly.

Apparently, on the night of my wedding, both Dad and Julie’s hearts softened towards one another and they shared a moment. The story goes Julie told Dad that she thought he’d done a great job raising me. Dad responded that it takes a whole community to raise a child, essentially giving credit to Julie in the role she had played in my upbringing, too. Peace. 

Dad was right, and it’s fitting that I only understand this now that I have children of my own. It does take a community to raise a child, and if you are raising a girl, it takes a community of strong females, but especially strong males. We are finding out more and more in our culture just how important the presence of fathers and father figures are in raising a girl to respect and love herself. Daddy-os and other strong males play a pivotal role in the development of a girl’s psyche. Tina Fey said it best in her hilariously poignant book, Bossypants: “Let’s review the cost-free techniques that we’ve learned so far for raising an achievement-oriented, obedient, drug-free, virgin adult: Calamity, Praise, Local Theater and flat feet. Another key element is: “Strong Father Figure/Fear Thereof.” Nicely said, Tina.

I consider myself a very happy and fairly well-adjusted adult female—though it’s taken, well, a lifetime to get here. And for that I have the following community of men to thank on this Father’s Day:

Mr. Bouman. You were the first person to teach me it was not just okay, but cool, to be an adult nerd. I hope you take that with the spirit with which it was written: admiration and respect. While I didn’t care much for the content of British Lit, I admired my teacher of it beyond words. I mean, who else has the courage to do a medieval rap of the Canterbury Tales in a high school classroom full of sophomore girls who are too cool for school? You instilled in me a passion for humanities, a hatred for Beowulf, and a love of literature. Even though I didn’t always like what we were reading (sorry, British Lit is not my thing, Mr. B), I appreciated that you taught me how to analyze what I was reading—to see the meaning beyond the meaning. I also respected that you were at nearly all of our basketball games, honoring our talents out of the classroom just as much as our merits in the classroom. It has been one of the highlights of my career so far to go back to MMH and talk to your class about what I do—in doing so, you valued my choice to follow my heart in my career, and not the dollar signs. I hope that my children, especially my girl, have a teacher like you in their future. Thanks for being an inspiration.

Mr. Bley. “Work, now, work!” That mantra will never leave my head. You (along with Ms. Huismann) taught me the hard-nosed discipline and work ethic that one can only learn from committing oneself to an activity wholeheartedly. You coached us with a tenacity that got your blood boiling on a daily basis, but that drove us to success in three of my four years on MMH’s varsity team. But what I took away from you as my coach on the court paled in comparison to what I took away from you off the court. Thank you for teaching me how to be magnanimous. And thank you for making me look up what that word meant as a dopey 15 year old freshman playing varsity.

Uncle Chris. I know that as the years have gone on, we don’t see each other as much and lead different lives, but you have always had a special place in my heart. I have such fond memories of hanging out with you and Aunt Julie growing up on Childs Avenue, including the impressive fart sandwich you and Julie made, with me right in the middle. And there is one thing I will never forget that you said to me at a very impressionable age. I must have been in first or second grade, the period of time when I was a butterball/chub-chub, still hanging on to my baby fat and just learning to feel self-conscious about it. I was at Mamaw’s house agonizing over the fact that the next day in gym class they were going to be weighing each student (I don’t remember why this practice was even in place…how traumatizing!). You told me to remember that what matters about a person is what’s on the inside. Then you told me you’d love me no matter what the number on that stupid scale was. Even today on my fat days, when I look in the mirror and wonder what in the hell happened to my body after my two kids wreaked havoc on it, I hear your voice in my head and remember that it’s what’s inside that counts. Thank you for saying that to me and really meaning it. Those words are hard to come by nowadays, so I’m grateful you uttered them and that they echo in my mind still.

Everyone needs an Uncle Chris in their lives.

Pawpaw. You are the funniest and most quick-witted man I know. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be for you now, for your mind to be working faster than your mouth and to not be able to express yourself as you would like; for your body and your motor skills to abandon you and have to be taken care of like a child. But know that every time I see you and look at you, that’s not who I see. Instead, I see the Pawpaw that helped raise me, the one who always put a smile on my face when I saw him, despite whatever plans you had to embarrass me (do you remember driving me to school at Dulles in that maroon Omni with all of the Wizard of Oz paraphernalia on it?). I see the Pawpaw who introduced me to some of my favorite things as a child and teenager: the Wizard of Oz (I still can’t watch that movie without thinking of your lessons on courage and my Wizard of Oz-themed birthday party in which you made ALL of us dress up as a character from the movie); the 12 days of Christmas, The Other Wiseman, planting the tree downtown and about a zillion other Christmas traditions; Neapolitan ice cream (Mamaw used to buy the square blocks of it, and you’d just take it out of the square and dump it on a plate in the middle of the kitchen table for us to eat from—I never touched the strawberry, but loved the chocolate, still true to this day); Cold Mountain (you used to talk about that book every winter with me). 

Four generations of love. All because Mamaw said 'yes!'

You are the only grandpa that I have ever known. As Lauren said about her grandpa: 'Having you as my only grandpa my whole life is better than having two lesser men.' Truer words were never spoken. I am so glad that my children have known your love. Thank you for making me laugh always, and for being, along with Mamaw, the heart and soul of our big Italian brood. Please don’t ever stop reminding me that all of the craziness that is our family would have never been “had she not said ‘yes!’” And please know that if we ever get brave enough to have another child, and if that child is a boy, his middle name will be Albert after the most gentle and faith-filled man I know—you.

Bill. We’ve had a long, hard road. Ours is a relationship that can be best compared to a rich wine: it has gotten better with the passing of time (and a side of Manchego cheese with some olives). In the beginning, I knew you as a strict stepparent, whom it felt like I could never please (though I always tried my damndest!...bringing the keg up the basement stairs comes to mind here!). When you came into my life, I was so young. And not at all cool with you taking up so much of my mom’s time. Poor guy, you always had an uphill battle with me—I didn’t understand my jealousy of and acted out a lot in response. I didn’t understand why you were so strict with me (you were just trying to teach me responsibility and accountability) and thought you were just out to get me. As I got older, I opened up to you more, but still kept you at a distance just to be safe, still unsure if I was willing to let you in all the way. 

It was not until I was engaged and was able to look back on my childhood and teenage years with greater perspective and some distance that I was able to see how integral you were in shaping my path to adulthood. I have much to thank you for. Thank you for making Mom happy and for showing me (along with her) what a happy relationship should be like. Thank you for never trying to replace my Dad—as a Dad yourself, you know Dads cannot be replaced in their daughters’ hearts. Thank you for pushing me to be an independent woman—in my thinking, in my career and in my finances—I’m thankful for those lessons every day (and so is Colleen, I am sure of it) and would not be where I am in my professional life without your guidance and support. Thank you for being instrumental in every major decision I’ve ever made in my life—heaven knows I wouldn’t have gone to Mercy, Spain, Ecuador or grad school without you both advocating on my behalf and pushing me all the while. You are a fantastic man, the most well-intentioned individual I know. Thank you for loving me as you would your own daughter, even if I resisted some of the time—I never meant to and I certainly don't resist now. We are at our best yet nowadays and every year that passes, we grow closer and closer and understand each other more and more.  

And of course, Dad. I’ve already got tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat, afraid that my words to you will not do justice. I’m your girl and you’re my Dad…what is left to say? And more importantly, what could be better than that? We never really lived together my whole life after you and Mom got divorced—so that meant I looked forward to all of our time together, no matter how much or how little. Zoo visits on Sunday (with trips to Wendy’s on the way there—single with cheese, ketchup only! You used to tell me I was going to turn into a tomato from eating so much ketchup.)—we knew that place backwards and forwards. To this day I could get myself around the Cincinnati Zoo blindfolded thanks to our weekly trips there. Wednesday night visits during the week—you’d play sneaky Pete on the way over the Big Mac bridge and we’d have dinner, watch The Wonder Years, and we’d play ‘Riddly diddly I-dee-dee’ or spelling games on the way back home to the west side. Occasionally in the spring and summer time, we would see fireworks on the way home if the Reds would win their ball games or hit a home run. We listened to WEBN or 700 WLW, windows down. Christmas time—our visits to Larry and Doug’s, checking in on your Krogers’ stores, going to you and Gaile’s in Loveland for schnecken, cheesy potatoes and mimosas. I cherished those times with you, I hope you know.

In high school you never, ever missed a basketball game. I loved to hear your voice (“Good defense, number thirty-four”—you always called me by number so I knew it was you) encouraging me, or getting on the refs’ asses if they made a bad call. In college you might have questioned some of my choices, but like a good Dad, you always let me make them for myself and ultimately supported them. I remember when you took me to visit Pitt when I was applying to grad schools—one of our many road trips together (remember going to Washington, DC when I was in eighth grade? One of my favoritest vacations ever, and perhaps my only with just you and I. Remember going to visit OU and our car broke down on the way back? That was my first trip to Athens and I thought of that trip every day when I was on campus during my four years there). Shortly after arriving, I had a brief impromptu interview in your presence, in which I had to speak only Spanish. Had you not been there, I would have panicked, but I knew you’d have my back no matter what, and that gave me all the assurance I needed. I remember seeing you beaming out of the corner of my eye as the interview was taking place. When I was finished, you told the man interviewing me how impressed you were that I could carry myself with such confidence in Spanish. That was one of my proudest moments as an adult. Similarly, when I got my first job out of grad school and you told me how proud you were of me over the phone…I blushed. A little girl (no matter how grown) lives to hear things like that from her Dad. I’ll never forget you saying that to me, even though it was just one of our routine little telephone calls.

My Dad in his greatest role yet: Pappy

One of the days in which I was proudest of you was on my wedding day. You faced a lot of heartache on that day, but one would never know it the way you courageously walked me down that aisle (with that beautiful bracelet on that you gave me only nights before), gave me away to a man that I know you respect, like, and love, even though I’m sure it was the hardest thing you’ve ever done, toasted to our life together with your gregarious and charismatic nature, danced with me to our dad and daughter anthem, “Be Ever Wonderful,” and, yes, made peace with Aunt Julie. You were perfect on that day, just perfect. Have I ever told you that?   

Dad, thank you. Thank you for being honest with me on your own time about the things I needed to know, I respect you for it all the more. Thank you for for passing along to me your smile, it's my favorite part of me and it's directly from you (and I think P inherited it, too!). Thank you for introducing me to Earth, Wind and Fire. Thank you for not ever feeling threatened by Bill’s presence in my life—a lesser man would have been, and with good reason, as Bill was and still is a great influence on me. Thank you for always touching up the tattoo that reads ‘Steph’ with a star and rainbow over your heart—how sweet is that? Thank you for showering me with love and affection—I love getting big bear hugs from you, and smooches, too. Thank you for always sending me a card for every single holiday, never forgetting a one, and for signing it in one of your signature ways—either ‘I love you this much ßà’ or ‘from the man who loved you first and always will.’ Thank you for being you. Be ever wonderful, Dad, in your own sweet way. And stay as you are.  

So, that’s the community of men I have to thank for helping make me who I am. For the rest of you out there, dads or not, don’t underestimate the impact you could have on one’s life. Especially on the life of a girl who is simply trying to find her way.

Best. Dad. Ever. 

P.S.—Did you all really think I’d forget to mention Jack on Father’s Day? To the father of my children and (yes, here comes the cliché) the love of my life—I chose you as my partner because you are the combined package of all the best qualities of the men who influenced my life that I’ve listed above—you have great faith, passion, a sense of humor not to be matched, tenacity, a heart of gold, and a charisma that still captivates me (and our kiddos) every day. Thanks for being in the front seat of this rollercoaster ride with me. And thanks for choosing me back. 

Nonna's Castle

I am convinced that in another life, I was born, lived and died by the sea. There is no other explanation for the intense connection I feel to el mar—the way it sounds, smells, feels as it washes all the stress off my body the further and further I succumb into the waves, her gentle hands.  

I have always loved the water and never really felt like I was on vacation unless I was—you guessed it—on or near water. I’ve always needed to hear the waves, the seagulls, the lull that even still water somehow seems to provide to truly relax. Cádiz, San Sebastian, Toronto, Canoa, Lisbon—some of my favorite places on earth and the one thing they’ve all got in common: water. It is no wonder, then, that I find myself on the eve of our vacation wondering when I will see the water again. It’s never soon enough.

It is also no wonder that I’ve come to love and treasure so much our family’s vacation spot, St. Pete Beach, in what Joseph likes to call ‘Nonna’s Castle.’

The beach at Nonna's Castle. Life is always good here.

I’ve been coming to St. Pete Beach to vacation with my Mom and Bill for as long as I can remember—Colleen and I used to make up rockin’ dance routines in the pools of every condo Mom and Bill rented. We always had crushes on the British boys who used to vacation here with their families and we would flirt with servers who were twice our age in hopes of kindling a summer romance, mostly to no avail (the Brits always liked Colleen, though, with her pretty brownish red hair, her cute freckles, her awesome bangs). We had our favorite restaurants we frequented—with ice cream joints to boot—and always loved to shop for chintzy shell jewelry at St. John’s Pass. We loved to play putt-putt at all the touristy courses with waterfalls and Easter Island-looking statues (what a rip off!), and loved to go to the movies by ourselves at Tyrone Square Mall. I can remember we saw ‘A League of Their Own’ there together, chowing down on popcorn and Twizzlers, thinking we were so cool entering the theater by ourselves. Ohhh, what grown-ups we were.

Finally, in 1998, after testing out nearly every major resort on Gulf Boulevard, Mom and Bill bought what would become Nonna’s Castle some years later—a condo on the 5^th floor of a high-rise overlooking Blind Pass, an Intracoastal Waterway. Equipped with a pool and its own private beach, and within walking distance of some seriously authentic beach bars (namely Woody’s Waterfront, which happens to be my maiden name), the condo was, well, just what the doctor ordered. Still is.

My memories of the condo are far too many to relay. But there are certainly some highlights worth mentioning.

Thanksgiving 2002. A visit to the condo after the quarter at OU ended was much needed, as the Fall 2002 quarter was probably my roughest personally up until that point. I remember being in a relationship that needed to end, I just didn’t have the courage to do it. When I finally did some months later, I can credit Mom and I’s long walks on the beach that Thanksgiving trip that really planted the seeds of my thinking. I remember Mom saying “Steph, should you really be working this hard at a relationship?” Coming from one of the strongest women I know, who was once divorced herself and happily remarried, the woman who showed me more than anyone the importance of working at your marriage, that was a real wake-up call. More than once I have thought that the answers to the world’s toughest questions could be solved by a long walk on the beach, along the shore.

The October '06 trip

October 2006. My Mom, aunts, cousin Maria and I visited the condo to celebrate Mom’s 50^th and have my bachelorette party. There was lots of fun in the sun, stories being retold, and the intermittent calls from the guys back home who were enjoying Jack’s bachelor party at Keeneland in Lexington. My Aunt Toni was pregnant with my cousin then, and we were all emotional and sentimental because I was getting married. Add a few drinks to the mix and we were a slobbery crying mess of a riot. I remember giving each of my aunts and my mom a picture frame with a picture of me and each of them in it—along with a note explaining to them that no matter how old and ‘married’ I got, that I would always need them and would always love them. Little did I know that the older I got, the more and more I would come to rely on their strength and support.

December 2006. Jack and I drove to the condo for our mini-honeymoon. Our ‘real’ honeymoon was to take place in Spain in the summer of 2007, but we wanted to escape right after our December 9^th wedding. The whole way down, we did nothing but recall every minute of our wedding, from start to finish. What a great road trip, one I will never forget. As we approached the Pinellas Bayway, I got really nervous, panicked that Jack wouldn’t like our vacation place. A few beers and wings later at Woody’s, and a few days of getting acquainted with the place, Jack was won over. I remember looking out on him from the kitchen as he was leaning on the patio rail, looking out to the sea—he was at home. *Sigh.* It was the perfect way to start off our married life together, and was also the kick-off of our new tradition of going to the condo together right before Christmas every year.

Honeymooners: our December '06 trip

December 2008. It was during this trip to the condo that we brought Joseph home as a souvenir. Need I tell more?  

December 2009. First trip to the condo as a family of three, and Joseph’s first time on a plane. Our little man was just three months old, and we were still new parents, afraid to go anywhere with him for fear of him having a crying fit or for fear of there not being a changing table to diaper him if need be. Rookies! Now we traipse the kids along even if they are melting down and there ain’t no shame in changing them on a chair in the restaurant if the restaurant doesn’t provided the courtesy of a changing table. But how fragile we were then as parents! And how in love we were with our new son! That trip, our car broke down one night just after crossing the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. Holy smokes, talk about freakin’ out—thank goodness we made it across the bridge (you know what I’m talking about if you are familiar with the Sunshine Skyway). All three of us kept calm and managed to get back home to the condo safely in the back of a taxi that reeked of booze and illegal substances, driven by a man who did not know the brake pedal. Never ever was I so glad to see the condo as I was that night!

The October '10 trip: M, M and J poolside. What a life!

October 2010. A return trip with Mom, the aunt farm, Joe, and cousins Michael (who was in my aunt’s belly four years before) and Maria. It was then that the condo was dubbed ‘Nonna’s Castle.’ To four year old Michael, the high-rise seemed like a castle, and the name stuck. To this day, when Joe sees the Walt Disney Castle flash on the screen before Toy Story and Cars (the two movies allowed in the rotation), he says “That’s Nonna’s Castle!” I do not have the heart to tell him it’s not—or maybe I should just let him think it is, that way we’ll never have to take him to the dreaded Disney World and we can save a year’s worth of college tuition in not going.

May 2011. Our last trip to the Castle as a family of three. This was our babymoon (with Joe in tow) before P came along. We had a blast—our first few days we spent the three of us, then the last few days, Nonna and Papoo joined us. I wore a bikini and it was AWESOME. Never before had wearing a bikini felt so liberating. I didn’t have to suck it in because I was preggers. And I felt like I was floating every time I got into the ocean or the pool—a preggy woman loves nothing more than to feel weightless. I loved baring my belly in the sun—and I’m convinced that’s why P has rockin’ highlights.

May '11: Miss P bakin' in the oven

September 2011. A return trip with Mom, the aunt farm, Joe, cousins Michael and Maria and a month old Miss P. P and Joe were both champion travelers, but ‘vacation’ with two kiddos was quite different than with one. Thank the Lord for the arms of my aunts, who all bought me some much needed sleep. Fun in the sun? Not so much, it rained almost the whole time. But nothing like spending some time in the company of strong women to make me feel like I COULD be a mother of two under two—up until then I was questioning myself. My aunts have always been more like sisters to me than aunts—and they feed my soul like no one can. Can’t wait for Tallarigopalooza, SPB October 2012 edition. Is it appropriate to start a countdown yet?

May 2012. Here we are, vacationing with Joe and Miss P. It’s hard to believe that a year ago we were last here together as a family and waiting to see if the Jumpin’ Bean in my belly was a Pili or a Jude. Now that she’s on the outside, it’s impossible to think she could have been anything other than a Pili. As with last year, we spent the first few days as a family of four, then Nonna and Papoo joined us (P.S., in our humble opinions, there is no better way to family vacation than with the grandparents—they’re always up for watching the kids a time or two so we can sneak out on dates). While on out on our date night last night, Jack told me that as he looked down on P, Joe and I at the pool from the balcony the other day, he was a bit sad knowing that as each day ends, the kiddos get older and all growed-up, and we’ll never get to go back to how it was before. Such is the great joy—and the great sorrow—of being parents: we get to experience the miracle of them growing older, reaching milestones, coming in to their own, but in turn they lose a bit of their youth, their innocence, their dependence on us with each passing day. So bittersweet, but a feeling I wouldn’t trade for anything.

May '12: Goetz Fam of Four

As I rocked P to sleep on the patio the other night, in the dark and hearing the waves crash on the rocks below, singing to her my favorite lullaby—‘You Are My Sunshine’—and as the words echoed out in the patio and eventually drifted to the sea, I smiled to myself thinking how I’ve evolved since the evolution of the condo to Nonna’s Castle. My memories here are a reminder of the person I have become. And the only constant in my many visits to the Castle has been my old friend, el mar. She’s always there, helping me to find tranquility and peace.

Until soon, old friend, until real soon…