A tale of two sisters

The O'Connor Sisters in 1979

My sister and I have a storied past.  I was five years old when she was born and quite accustomed to my spot as queen of the roost. I was the first child, first grandchild and a first class brat by the time she was born in June of 1976. I hated her.  All I knew about babies being born is that they were "delivered."  So, for the latter part of 1976, every time we passed a mailbox, I asked if we could send her back.  Back to wherever she came from before she arrived on the scene, all precious and cute and attracting all sorts of attention that had previously been devoted to me, me, ME!

I tortured her for years.  I set her up time and again in ways that were at times mischievous, cruel or downright dangerous.  A few examples include the time I painted her and the bathroom in Bain de Soleil (remember that greasy orange "gelee" that turned our fair Irish skin to a crisp?!) and then washed my hands, called my Mom and blamed her for the mess; or the time I took her out of the crib and perched her at the top of the stairs.  Or the time I poured all my Bonnie Bell cologne down the sink and then started crying and blamed her for the tragedy of it all. Kind of crazy, right?  I really didn't like her.

I spent much of grammar school dragging her around by her pigtails -- and then I went to junior high, left her behind and never looked back.  When I left for college, she was in the throes of her Beverly Hills 90210 obsession and a true loser in my book.  But then, somewhere along the way, things changed.  I think it was when I went to visit during her freshmen or sophomore year at Boston College.  We tailgated before a football game and all of sudden, my baby sister was no longer a baby.  No longer a loser.  In fact, she seemed more and more like me.  In fact, she even looked more and more like me as we were both featuring the fashion of the day --  a flannel shirt complimented by the "freshman fifteen."

With the passing of years, we had more shared experiences and of course, the collective memories that only siblings can share.  We offered each other advice on jobs, boys, New York nightlife and life in general.  Somewhere along the way, she became more than my sister, she became my best friend. She was my maid-of-honor and several years later, I was hers.   She babysat for my firstborn and my second as well.  She told me she was moving to San Francisco the week I discovered I was pregnant with triplets.  I was devastated.  I didn't know how I'd get through the juggle of a high-risk pregnancy with two toddlers and a career without her constantly by my side.  But I did.  And for three years, we kept close despite the miles as I counted the days until her return to the East Coast.

She came back in September, with her husband and two year old fella by her side and a baby in her belly.  This time, I got to be by her side the day Maeve was born in November.  I was thrilled.  My sister was back.  I was an Auntie once again and we were all going to live happily ever after.

Except for one little detail.  My sister wasn't happy to be back in New York; as it turns out, she left her heart in San Francisco.  And as it turns out, she is there once again.  This week, she and her family packed up and moved back to the place she now calls home.  A place that is 3,000 miles away.  A place she went once before and I believed would temporary.  As it turns out, I was wrong.  How is it that when this tiny little person arrived on the scene in 1976, I would have given anything to "send her back" and now she occupies such a huge part of my heart that I'd give anything to have her back.  If I had to do it all over again, maybe I'd lay off the Bain de Soleil.  Or better yet, I'd stick her back in that crib so I could keep her close to home forever.

Enjoying Snow Day with five little "cubs"

Many of you are probably familiar with the story of the Five Little Ducks and if so, you may know the story has an accompanying song. It’s kind of a catchy tune (I’m ashamed to admit!) and if you know it, you should feel free to hum along to the following adaptation.

To provide a bit of context, the New York metro area had it's first significant snowfall of the year this past weekend. My heart still leaps when I see those first flakes fall -- and then it sinks just a bit when it's time to wrestle five little "cubs" into snow boots, snow pants, jackets, hats and mittens before heading out to enjoy (or perhaps brave) the elements. Truth be told, snow is no fun for kids. At least not for very little ones. Their mittens fall off, their sleds tip over but still we drag them out in the name of fun. And, in some ways, it is. Our experience this weekend went something like this...

Five little cubs went out one day

Out in the snow and into their sleigh,

The biggest one said “I want to pull”

And four little cubs were left there still.

Four little cubs went out one day

Into the sled and far away

The little girl cub said “GET OFF ME”

She hopped out and then there were three.

Three little cubs went out one day

Bouncing along in their blue sleigh

The one in back cried boo hoo hoo,

We took him out and then there were two.

Two little cubs went out one day

Slipping and sliding in their sleigh,

They were having so much fun,

‘Til we hit a big bump and then there was one!

One little cub went out one day,

Feeling all alone in his big sleigh,

He waved his arms and he smiled a big grin,

And the four other cubs went running back to him.

The end!

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A good dose of Granny Wisdom

Note: This is NOT my Granny but, the "I told you so" look is definitely familiar!

After spending some quality time with my grandparents last weekend, I realized that over the years, I've absorbed a fair amount of what I like to call "Granny Wisdom" -- little nuggets of tried and true advice that are worth sharing.  So, without further ado, here are some great "Granny-isms" that I do my best to remember... and hope you will too!

If it ain't broke, don't fix it.  This little gem is a challenge for me but I know I'd be wise to take it to heart. For starters, consider our 3-year old triplets, who are still in cribs. My husband and I have a healthy debate about when to move them to beds.  People have commented (in a not so flattering way) "They still fit in cribs? Isn't it time to take them out?!" But, here's the thing, they are HAPPY in their cribs.  Why take three happily contained tots and set them free to wreak havoc around the house -- morning, noon and night?! The Granny solution? Don't. Leave them in the crib!

Another recent relevant example is our minivan.  The lease was up in December and in the midst of end of year mayhem at work, holiday mayhem at home and the typical chaos of our crazy lives, we decided to spend some time car shopping.  We seriously spent hours attempting to jam our family of seven (and 90-lb dog!) into a Ford Flex, Honda Pilot and several other mid-size cars.  You know what we ended up getting? Yep. Another mini-van.  The moral of the story?  Stick with what works and you'll save yourself a lot of time and headaches!

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Tissues are like Amex -- don't leave home without them! Ever. You know what's neat about Granny?  She can be dressed to the nines -- silk blouse, sparkling jewels, pretty flats and a matching handbag and you know what's stuffed up that silk sleeve?  Tissues!  And you know who didn't have any last Sunday as snot oozed from several tots battling a winter cold? Me.  Guess who came to the rescue?  Granny! This is an easy one.  Keep tissues everywhere -- in your car, your bag, heck, even your sleeve!  If you don't, you'll end up as my kids often do -- using their sleeve (or worse yet, mine!) AS a tissue. Ew. Don't do this.  Buy stock in Kleenex and stock up for the season!

Say yes to treats.  So, there we were in church last Sunday.  It was me, my 90-year old grandparents (ok, Granny will be 90 in April but close enough!) and the triplets, who were behaving quite nicely.  Not a peep out of them.  I really wished that Des and the other kids were there to witness this angelic behavior but they were busy with another obligation. Suddenly I noticed a minty scent and upon closer inspection, realized that all three little fellas were happily sucking on Lifesavers.  Granny had slipped them a sweet right under my nose... which couldn't help but notice the pleasant scent of peppermint wafting through the aisles.  She gave me a wink and mouthed "Why not?"  Why not indeed?

I'm not sure what other tricks my Granny has up her sleeve but, after raising six kids (five boys and one girl!), I know she must have more... and I, for one, intend to find out! God knows I could use all the help I can get as I juggle the ins and outs and ups and downs of parenthood -- and I'm truly grateful to have my Granny and her doses of wisdom to help show me the way.

Nicknames for kids - decidedly Irish or universally irresistible?

Do you have nicknames for your kids? We do. Lots of 'em. So many that I fear they may be causing some issues with our identical triplet boys. But, to be fair, let me start at the beginning.

When Liam, now seven, was born, he was a real snuggle bug. It was the winter of 2004/5 and during those long, cold, dark months, he spent a lot of time snuggling in and scootching up my shoulder in that way only a newborn can. You know about scootching, right? It's that wiggly way babies nuzzle in, up and over your shoulder; it's really quite pleasant to experience, especially when the wind is howling and the temperature is falling. This sweet baby maneuver earned Liam the nickname of "Scootie" in addition to an original little ditty we'd sing to him that went something like this: "Ooh, ooh, Scootie, ooh Scootie-Loo.


Ooh ooh Scootie. Ooh Ooh, we love you!" Sleep deprivation can do strange things to you and this was definitely one of ours. I'm sure Liam is grateful to have outgrown the Scootie nickname but, the standard was set and his four other siblings are now suffering the consequences.
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-----------------For Ciara, it's not that bad. When she was first born, we called her "Bitsy" because she seemed so itsy-bitsy compared to her big brother Liam, who was almost two at the time. As the months passed, she turned into "Little Bitsy Burps A Lot" because, well, she burped a lot and it sounded like a cute doll name and she seemed like a cute little doll. When she started to talk, she couldn't say "Ciara" and it came out like this "Ciaga" -- pronounced like this: "Key-Ga." Somehow, that one stuck. We all call her Ciaga. Which has line extensions including: Ciaga-Loo, C.Loo, Lucy Loo, and LuLuLemon. Don't ask. It just happened.

Sleep deprivation still reigns supreme. The bad news is that as this five year old hops on the bus and heads to kindergarten, we are waving good-bye to our sweet Ciaga-Loo. The good news is that the kids at school all call her Ciara; she can say it, spell it and knows without a shadow of a doubt that Mom and Dad's silly nicknames stay at home.

Unfortunately, the same can not be said of our identical triplets who, at three years old seem to already have some identity issues brewing. We consistently dress Kevin, Declan and Cormac in red, blue and green to help folks tell them apart; this backfired rather dramatically when Declan started to tell people his name is "Blue" . You would think given the challenges that these guys face, walking around town with identical little faces, we would stay true to the names we gave them. But alas, that is not the case. I find nicknames just too irresistible and as such, Kevin has become KooKoo Bear, Declan is Duckling and Cormac is MacMac. But wait, it doesn't end there, there's more!

For Kevin, KooKoo Bear has several iterations, our favorite of which includes pretending to page him, like those announcements you hear in the airport. "Mr. Bear? Is there a Mr. Koo Koo Bear in the house?"

He thinks it's hilarious and so do we. Our little Duckling (formerly known as "Blue") tends to take things relatively in stride, including the occasions when we quack at him, assuming that he must speak Duck. For the record, he does not and seems to find our antics and quacking less amusing by the day. Last but not least, there is MacMac. He was born last and came into the world as "Baby Mac." Not to be outdone by his identical siblings, he was a chow hound from day one and clearly committed to becoming "Big Mac" on the fast track... which of course led us to all sorts of fun including the occasional "Mac Snack Attack", "Mac & Cheese" and the final grand evolution to "Macaroni" which, of course, culminated in our admittedly absurd paging game: "Mr. Roni? Is there a Mr. Mac A. Roni in the house?"

Is it sleep deprivation? Are we insane? Do all parents have numerous strange nicknames for their kids? I don't know. All I know is that yesterday, Kevin came home from preschool with some “artwork” that said "KooKoo" on the back. Apparently the teacher tried to write "Kevin" and he indignantly insisted "my name is NOT Kevin. I am Koo Koo Bear!" Um, Houston, I think we have a problem. I hope it's one he outgrows.

But if not, I beg you not to make fun of my Koo Koo Bear. If you do, prepare for the wrath of his loyal back-up unit because if there's one thing I can say about Scootie, Ciaga, Duckling and MacMac and KooKoo, it's that they stick up for each other... which, I suppose, is at least one thing we’ve gotten right in this hazardous, sleep deprived world of parenting!

New Year's Resolutions... or life long ambitions?

Like many of us, as a New Year dawns, I am prone to make resolutions – promises, both small and grand, that I make to myself to be better, do better, do more. As I look ahead to 2012, I decided to look back to this time last year and share what I wrote at the dawn of 2011. It makes just as much sense now as it did then. And for the record, I survived turning 40 but still long for a weekend away… all of which will make sense after you read this…

This year, as I teeter on the edge of 40 and ponder what 2011 may hold, I’ve decided to rethink my resolutions. I’ve decided that since there’s an undeniable pattern in my annual goals (exercise more, save more money, find time for date nights!), why limit them to a calendar year? Why not think of resolutions as long-term ambitions? Maybe it’s a cop out. Maybe I’m letting myself off the hook by lifting the 12.31.11 deadline but, on the other hand, maybe I’m giving myself the chance to truly be a better person and lead a better life. It is with this hope, intention and optimism in mind that I share with you my goals for 2011… and beyond.

I would like to yell less and listen more. I’d like to really listen, to actually hear what my children and my husband have to say. To take the time to digest and respond to their comments, thoughts and requests with more than my typically breezy “yup, uh-huh, sure” or “what’d ya say, hon?”

I’d like to be more present and less distracted. To live in the moment. To savor the moment. To recognize that it’s not always necessary (or productive!) to fold the laundry while helping with homework and assisting with puzzles and Lego creations. To realize that the homework, puzzles and Legos matter far more than neatly folded towels! To remember that multi-tasking has its limits and ultimately, gets in the way of really listening, being present and living in the moment.

I’d like to be more grateful for what I do have rather than longing for what I do not. I’d like to truly appreciate the little things that matter and stop yearning for the big things that don't. I’d like to start each day with a smile and end it the same way. I’d like to be a better wife and more patient parent. I’d like to instill my children with a sense of confidence in themselves and respect for others.

I’d like to set a good example – something I’m not always prone to do, especially toward the end of the day when I’m as tired and hungry as my five little “Cubs”; I’ve been known to try to outshout them just to be heard and trust me, this doesn’t work. Not to mention, it does nothing for your esteem to know that you’ve stooped to the level of a pre-schooler!

Come to think of it, perhaps I’m resolving to simply stop acting like the many pre-schoolers who inhabit our home. All I need to do is be a better listener, focus on the task at hand and take time to appreciate (rather than sweat!) the small stuff… including, for example, all the arts & crafts projects our little Cubs create. If I’m lucky, this year’s projects will include a few nice birthday cards wishing me a Happy 40th and I'll be perfectly happy with just that. Although, of course, the party and weekend away would be nice too! :)

Christmas with five tots: The good, bad and merry!

In the days leading up to Christmas, people often said things like "It must be great to have all those kids on Christmas!" Or, "Wow, Christmas in your house must really be something!" It is great to have "all those kids" on Christmas (and the other 364 days of the year!) and this year, our Christmas really was something. Something like this.


It started at 5:15AM because little Mac couldn't find his "Wawa" and was wailing like a madman. That smelly, soggy "Wawa", as it turns out, was right underneath him the whole time. With that crisis solved, we sighed, rolled over and said a prayer that we would fall back asleep until sunrise. No such luck.


At 5:30, Liam appeared in our room. You might think he was there because of the excitement of Christmas and anticipation of opening his gifts but alas, that was not the case. As it turned out, the reason for his pre-dawn appearance was a bloody nose. A very bloody nose.


It was about 6:00 when that nose stopped bleeding and Ciara got up to pee... and ask if it was time to open presents yet. This reminded Liam that it was indeed Christmas and started the frenzied repetition of "Did Santa come? Can we go downstairs? Did Santa come? Can we go downstairs? Did Santa come?" You get the idea.


We managed to hold them at bay until about 7:30, which was no easy task. Liam and Ciara took a peek downstairs and scampered back up announcing, as if with a megaphone, that "Santa came! Santa CAME! SANTA CAME!" These whoops of joy awoke the triplets -- all of whom, until then, had been peacefully slumbering with their respective WaWas.


What happened in the next two hours is unclear. Perhaps because my husband and I were so tired, we couldn't see straight -- not to mention the fact that it was especially hard to see through the flying gift wrap, bubble wrap, boxes and tissue paper that blew across our living room much like last year's Christmas blizzard blew across the Northeast. It is also possible that our memories of the gargantuan gift opening are vague because our camera batteries died at roughly 7:32, just as the kids were coming down the stairs. I'm not sure how it happened, but Christmas Day dawned without a single AA battery to be found in the Lyons Den; next year, I'm putting batteries on my list for Santa!


At around 10:00, we were putting away dishes from our Christmas Eve dinner and getting ready for breakfast; as I reached up to get the silver chest out of a cabinet, a stack of dessert plates came careening down onto my head, shattering on the floor around me. Needless to say, this just about shattered my Christmas spirit. And, my scalp.


With that mess cleaned up and pancakes and bacon on the table, we all enjoyed a merry breakfast. All of us except Ciara, who suddenly looked flushed, dazed and confused. Out of nowhere, the poor girl spiked a fever of 102 and was whisked off to bed. Where she slept for two hours. Leaving me to wonder, "any chance I could spike a fever and get a two hour nap out of the deal?!"


By around 1:30, Ciara was up (and pumped up with Tylenol) and we went over the river and through the woods (well, over the river, anyway!), to my parents house, where we had a truly wonderful time. It was a remarkable, memorable and magical Christmas with generations of family visiting and exchanging gifts. It was really very Norman Rockwell. The fire was crackling, the music was playing, the kids weren't fighting, it was all good. Very good. And very much the way Christmas should be.


Of course, this little reverie was abruptly broken when we returned home; Declan had a fit because he couldn't find his Hexbugs, Kevin peed on the rug and a quick glance in the mirror informed me that I received a zit the size of Texas for Christmas. Oh well. Such is life. And I will take it. All of it. The good, the bad, and the merry. Because really, on Christmas and every other day of the year, life with "all those kids" will undoubtedly have ample bits of good, bad and merry. And I, for one, wouldn't have it any other way.