Our Unplanned Chicago Vacation

I had just finished packing all my long underwear along with 10 pairs of short underwear because you just never know, when it dawned on me I hadn't checked my phone in a while.

9 missed calls from my husband.

This can't be good, I thought, and it wasn't. Our flight to Denver had been cancelled. Not delayed, cancelled. It was Wednesday at 11 a.m. and the next flight out wasn't until Friday at 1:30 p.m. There goes our ski trip. The one we'd looked forward to for months, plotted and planned for and purchased lift tickets in advance. The one we'd spent a Friday night buying ski pants for. The one I had just finished packing for. Poof. Gone. Goodbye.

I hung up the phone and let out a primal scream. Rob, I later learned, may or may not have punched a concrete wall when he learned the flight was cancelled. (This just in: the wall won). In tears of frustration, I called my mom to vent. The thought of going to work the next day instead of the ski slope was disheartening. The thought of not going anywhere on vacation was downright depressing. My mom was disappointed too. She'd looked forward to this weekend with her granddaughters for a long time. No meddling parents to monitor anyone's sugar intake.

She suggested we go to Vegas, but I'm not really a Vegas kinda girl, plus we've already been there. That's when I remembered the Iowa State men's basketball team was playing in the Sweet 16 in Chicago. I called Rob. He was in, and we decided to make the 7 hour trek by car that night. After several phone calls, and reassurances that we would indeed get a full refund on the plane tickets, lift tickets and car and equipment rentals, our moods were greatly improved and we were off.

We headed east by car and stopped in Bettendorf, where my aunt lives, to spend the night. Aunt Sherry has a framed saying in her kitchen that says, "What do you think this is, a Holiday Inn?" But really her hospitality was better than any hotel. She had hot soup with homemade garlic bread ready for us when we pulled into the driveway, and let us drink her craft beer you can only buy in Wisconsin. Then she fed us ice cream for dessert. If that weren't enough, she then called her daughter who lives in Chicago, and Sarah guided us through booking a hotel in downtown Chicago through Hotwire. We ended up getting a room for two nights for $101 a night. I was so thrilled that everything was coming together I couldn't stop smiling, hence this picture in which I look like I was just released from an insane asylum.

After a good night's sleep, we awoke the next morning to Sherry cooking breakfast. (Take that Holiday Inn.) When my mom text a photo of the girls enjoying their bunny pancakes at her house, we text back a picture of us enjoying our bacon and eggs in the same pose at Sherry's house.

The drive to Chicago was rainy, but we just chatted the whole way sans radio just as we had the four hours to Bettendorf. I think Rob likes to make a game of how long can we make it before we run out of things to say. The answer is between 6 hours and Nicole-can't-stay-awake-any-more.

Our hotel -The Gwen - was ah-mazing. I wish I was getting paid to say it, but I'm not. Thank you, Hotwire. We did have to pay $45 a night to park, but knowing our car was safe and sound was worth it. After we dropped our bags off, we walked less than a block or two to the Eataly. Rob and I were both overwhelmed, so after wandering around for 15 minutes wondering how the place worked, we finally asked someone who informed us there were at least 5 restaurants within the place, each one with a different style. We opted for a meat and cheese bar and of course, wine, because vacation = Thursday afternoon wine consumption.

Our hotel was connected to Nordstrom's (Hotwire, you get me.) so we popped in there and I bought some new shoes and Rob was just grateful they weren't $500 Jimmy Choo heels. He was tired from driving, so he went back to the hotel while I did some more window shopping. I walked by a blowout salon and thought, what the heck!? I'd never had a blowout before so when they said it was only $35, I was in. For those who've never had one, or have never heard of it, a blowout is basically a haircut without the trim, except they spend a lot longer shampooing, conditioning and blowdrying and OHMYWORD, it is relaxing. I am not a massage person, but I loved having my hair blow dried and curled this way. Plus, it meant I didn't have to style it for our date night.

On the suggestion of Sherry's daughter Sarah, we bought tickets to a Second City show for Thursday night called #DateMe. I wasn't sure when I booked it, but we laughed through the entire show, especially when they had one man and one woman in the audience answer 5 things they couldn't live without and then based a sketch off of their responses. This was my kind of date night, highly recommend if you're in the Chicago area. Dinner at Dinotto's beforehand (a quick walk from the theatre) was delicious, especially the salad, and you know it's good when Mr. Lindquist is raving about vegetables.

The next morning we took our time getting ready (quite the luxury for us) and then walked to Cloudgate which was a mile or so from our hotel. It was cold and we are directionally challenged, but we made it and got in on the reflection selfie action. I think we both missed the girls a little bit, knowing that they would have loved seeing themselves in the Bean. Maybe this summer.

Anyway, we checked out Macy's and bought some Garret's popcorn before it was time for lunch. (I loved that it was time to eat or drink every couple hours!) On the recommendation or Sarah's daughter Alicia, (this family is all about hospitality) we ate at the Chicago Athletic Association hotel's The Game Room, which was vintage-y with gastro pub food. I proceeded to kick Rob's backside at shuffleboard and then we put on a performance of worst game of pool ever for everyone in attendance. Seriously, I got the giggles we were so incredibly bad. Taking mercy on the crowd, Rob finally hit the 8-ball in but he had scratched on the break, so technically, I think I won! Gotta love technicalities.

After a post lunch nap, we got ready for the Main Event, the Iowa State Sweet 16 game. We took an Uber to the United Center with Stanley, the worst Uber driver of all time. He bragged about his musical comedy show the entire way there, yelled in frustration that he was lost, and made us late, yet Rob humored him and took a selfie. If you see this man in an Uber, run far far away! He's probably fired by now.

At last, we met up with our friends, and fellow ISU alums, Jamie and Sarah. Jamie and Rob were college roommates and we had a great time pre-gaming with them despite the long lines at the bars. This is about where the good time ended because the Cyclones forgot to show up for the game.

Thankfully there was beer in the suite, and we were able to drown our sorrows somewhat while we waited for a comeback that never came. The seats were amazing though, and Cyclone Nation never gave up. This was what we came for and even though we left disappointed, we still had a great time getting to see friends and cheer on the Cardinal and Gold together! Thank you again to Jamie for scoring us some amazing seats!

A bad game and too many beers led us to UNO's pizzeria where the waitress informed me a deep dish pizza would take 45 minutes to make and they were closing in an hour. Challenge accepted. I struggled to stay away until the pizza came (9:30 p.m. bedtime here) but I made it and the pizza was worth the wait. Check that off the bucket list. The next morning we headed home, but not before stealing a baby ketchup from the continental breakfast before we left. They also had mini honey, so we were able to check souvenirs off our list. :) It's the simple things!

Til next time, Chicago. Thanks for the unplanned hospitality!

And just in case you were wondering if these little girls missed their mom and dad, I think the bunny cake and colored eggs answer your question... thanks to Grammy and Papa for being you!

33 Years and 33 Months

When I turned my lucky number 33 in September, I thought "this is the year I": finish my thesis, workout 6 days a week, maintain a spotless house, read more books, write one book and maybe even solve world peace in between binge watching Parks and Recreation (love you, Amy Poehler) and now Fuller House (damn you, Mary Kate and Ashley). Anyway, age 33 is half over and here I am, with none of the above accomplished save for the Netflix episodes. Coincidentally, my precious 2 almost 3-year-old just turned 33 months and it got me thinking how I view myself and how she views herself, which I'll tie together at the end. Until I reach my point, here are the similarities and differences between 33 months and 33 years old.

At 33 months, Gabrielle Grace struggles to wake up each and every morning. This little night owl sings herself to sleep each night for at least a half an hour, hence why she assumes the form of a teenage boy at 7:30 a.m. the next day. At 33 years old, I'm an early bird whose friends are worried if I'm awake past 9:30 p.m.

At 33 months, Gabby refuses to wear "wiggly pants" which is anything but snug leggings. At 33 years old, I wish it was acceptable for me to wear wiggly pants to work.

At 33 months old, she still can't spit out her toothpaste, so I brush her teeth and she swallows most of it. She wants to use the floss sticks even though most of her teeth don't even touch. At 33 years old, I'm so over flossing, except for the night before my dentist appointment.

At 33 months, she squeals with delight every time we see a school bus on the way to preschool and longs to ride one again after her last field trip. At 33 years old, no thank you.

At 33 months, she wants to hold my hand as I walk/she hops into her classroom each day. At 33 years old, I hope this never ever ends and think I should start holding my own mom's hand again.

At 33 months old, her thick and beautiful, long blonde locks are the envy of most grown women. At 33 years old, my stray grays are just not that cute.

At 33 months old, she can and will bust a move in the toy aisles at Target. At 33 years old, I embarrass my husband when I try the same thing.

At 33 months old, Gabs doesn't like scary movies and covers her eyes if a suspenseful part comes on. At 33 years old, I do the same thing. We also ask a similar number of questions during feature-length films (Who is dat? Why? What's gonna happen? Huh?)

At 33 months old, she wants to wear her swimsuit (or birthday suit) around the house at all times. At 33 years old, oh hell no.

At 33 months old, she cries easily. The other night when she finished having her moment she said. "Look mom, no more tears are coming out!" At 33 years old, I have the same leaky eye problem.

At 33 months old, she hates having her hair combed and cries before I even touch her head with the pik. At 33 years old, I would pay someone to brush my hair for five minutes.

At 33 months old, she loves hide and go seek, though she hides in the same spot 90% of the time (behind the curtains). At 33 years old, I still find this game fun.

At 33 months old, she and her sister are both suckers for the Funny Face at Village Inn. At 33 years old, I would never even think of stealing any of their pancakes!

At 33 months old, she cannot wait for her birthday party and the "jumping castle" that will go along with it. At 33 years old, I will take advantage of the jumping castle when everyone goes to bed.

At 33 months old, she love finding Easter eggs, but thinks my hiding spots are lame. I tried to take it easy on her, but she proclaimed, "Mom, you forgot to hide this one!" At 33 years old, I find it's even more fun to be the hider!

At 33 months old, she is super into any and all mascots. At 33 years old, I'm pretty partial to Cy.

At 33 months old, she loves me to tell the story about how she peed on me right after she was born. At 33 years old, a good urinary mishap is still surprisingly funny.

At 33 months old, she can sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." At 33 years old, her dad has brainwashed me to say "Cubbies" instead of "Home Team" too.

At 33 months old, she's a major mommy's girl. At 33 years old, so am I!

At 33 months old, she may have said the F word already. It was my fault I asked her to rhyme something with the word "truck." Duh moment. At 33 years old, I plead the fifth on my use of this word.

At 33 months old, she has an unmatched sense of adventure. At 33 years old, I'm done with that. You can find me holding everyone's belongings at the exit of the roller coaster.

And finally, even though at 33 years old I still think I should be doing or have done so much more with my time, it's a 33 month old that teaches me that motherhood is an everyday accomplishment in and of itself. The other day I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. In the video below you can see her think about it for a brief moment and then say with complete certainty: a mom.

It was a lightbulb for me that what I'm doing here is already enough. I don't need to have a book under my name, a master's degree, a clean house, a killer body or ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD to feel successful. I'm not saying it's not important to challenge yourself (and eventually finish that damn thesis for the love of all things holy), but I am saying that it's important to recognize that because certain things aren't checked off your to do list doesn't mean you're a failure. It means that you're busy being a mom. And that's really all children want us to be.

Faith's First Sleepover

I don't care if it's a tooth, a word or a step. There's simply nothing like a "first" milestone to force the reality that your once tiny baby is a full on kid.

For me, the 5-year-old's first sleepover was just that. I thought I had more time before she requested to spend a night away from home, other than with relatives. I'm pretty sure I was at least six years old before Sara, a blonde girl in my first grade class, asked if I wanted to have a slumber party at her house. I'm sure I had fun, but the only thing I remember is not being able to fall asleep because I missed my mom so badly. I distinctly recall lying there in my sleeping bag in Sara's living room, the hall light on so it wasn't pitch dark, and the unmistakeable ache to go home to my mom. Now I may have been a mommy's girl, but I did have a little pride. I kept my mouth shut and eventually fell asleep. The next morning I woke up and realized it wasn't so bad after all. Sleepover success.

So when Faith and her friend Brynn, who lives just down the street from us, cooked up a plan to have a sleepover at her house, I made sure to tell Faith it was OK to miss me and that if she wanted to come home in the middle of the night that would be just fine. I envisioned the call and me showing up .2 seconds later like Batman on the doorstep.

Now you might think this was planting a seed of doubt in her mind. I worried that too, until she looked me in the eye and gave me the 5-year-old equivalent of "there there." She may have patted my head as well.

But talking a big sleepover game and walking one are two different things. I wondered if I might still be receiving a batphone call in the wee hours of the morning. Until I started receiving texts from Brynn's mom, Carrie. First, this picture:

Now does that look like the face of a girl who is distraught from missing her mom? No, no it does not. Which made me happy. And a little sad. Faith is now identifying with her peers more and more. It was bound to happen and I'm glad it has, but sometimes there's no reasoning with a mom heart. Just as I was thinking it was nice not to have to listen to the other end of the karaoke machine, I got another text.

And in case you thought I was the only one "dealing" with my daughter's first sleepover, Mr. Overprotective chimed in.

She had her friend's mom check her breath for freshness! Dear lord! We started doing this at home because we felt she might be half assing her toothbrushing when we weren't looking. It was not something I expected her to ask of a non family member at a sleepover. But the more I thought about it, it makes complete sense, as does her request to read books at 7:45 and go to bed. We expose our children to routines and rituals at home and then send them out into the world where all they have is what they know from experience. As parents, we give them the base and they take it and apply it (sometimes a little too perfectly) to life as they go. I find myself learning to trust her and the parenting job we've done (and are doing) more and more as I have less and less control over her interactions every day. It's not easy, but it's times like this when I realize she is listening, she is getting it and she does understand that fresh breath is important. But we must talk about who is on the list for the checks. Thanks for taking one for the Lindquist team, Carrie! I suppose it's my turn next.