Taking the Tarts When Theyre Passed

Six handmade pizzas were lined up on my kitchen table. It was my daughter, Emma's, ninth birthday and we had invited six friends over for a pizza-making sleepover party. The first floor of our house looked like a hurricane had swept through it: pillows everywhere; brushes, detangler, and hair ties strewn all over the floor; pepperoni, mushrooms, grated cheese and tomato sauce rubbed into the kitchen banquette seat covers.

Everything was going as planned. Except that my younger daughter, Linley, was upstairs in my bedroom with a terrible cold and cough. She was watching TV, a rare treat awarded her since she was not allowed to come downstairs and join the fun. Pizzas in the oven, I went to check on her and found her awake but having real difficulty breathing - she was taking quick, tiny breaths at a rate that I knew was dangerous. I racked my brain trying to remember what to do. I had read somewhere that if your child has croup, you put her in a hot shower to open up the bronchial passages. I got the shower running but Linley refused to get in - she just got more agitated and her breathing got even worse. I realized that I had to get her to the hospital, and fast. In that terrifying moment, I knew that something had to change. I could no longer juggle the three balls that were in play in my life: children, work, and my husband, Jim's, first congressional campaign.

To this day, I ask myself how I could have missed all the signs of what turned out to be an acute asthma attack. I was busy, yes. I'd been working as the Market Editor for a terrific regional design magazine. I loved and respected my colleagues and the magazine, didn't have to commute into New York City, and had an enviable part-time gig. I was the trend hunter, scouring the Internet and stores all over the country for the hot new design trend. The job required a good sense of design and a strong visual memory, something I developed as a child endlessly playing the memory game. It was a fun job: I was surrounded by images of beautiful objects (furniture, fabrics, wallpaper, lighting, tabletop) and when the trend I spotted also appeared in Elle Décor, it helped me feel a tiny bit cool, something not that easy living in Greenwich, CT.

Looking back, I can't remember the exact moment when I first started losing the deep engagement in my job, but at some point in 2008 I started asking myself why I was doing this job. Was this a meaningful way to spend my life? Was it worth all the resulting stress on me and my family? The magazine, relative to the national publications where I'd worked before, paid little and was really understaffed; I felt like I could barely keep up with all the details involved in raising two elementary-aged girls; and, my husband was running for a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives for the first time. Not only that, he was trying to unseat a twenty-one-year incumbent, the last remaining Republican congressman in New England.

My husband approached me about running for the US Congress way back in January 2007. We were sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner when he nonchalantly asked me what I thought about the idea. What did I think? Nothing, of course. I'd never ever thought about it. Who would? I tried to imagine what "running for Congress" really meant. Since Jim had never held an elected office before, he couldn't provide many details. Sipping a glass of wine, I decided that the time was right for a new adventure. This was Jim's dream and I would do whatever it would take to help him win.

Little did I know what I was getting into. Political campaigns are fascinating. They are pressure cookers. They are humbling. They are seasonal. They are exhausting. As the spouse, it was unclear what my role was except that I was in charge of the family life. Acting essentially as a single working mother was lonely, so I started attending evening fundraisers with Jim.

The sad truth about elections is that to win, you have to raise a lot of money. And in the Fourth Congressional District, part of the New York media market, a lot of money means three to four million dollars. Supporters generously opened up their homes and hosted cocktail parties to introduce Jim to their friends - Democrats and Republicans alike. At these events, I had the true privilege to meet many committed, thoughtful people whose strong support for Jim humbled me. I made new friends.

But, walking into a room of complete strangers, hoping to leave a favorable impression so that they would financially support and vote for my husband, was not an easy task. I had to watch every word I said, which was not my usual style. I had to remember names, even if I only met someone for a few seconds. I had to smile and be friendly, even when I was angry, tired, bored or hungry. (Eating at these events was perilous - god forbid I got a piece of spinach stuck in my teeth!) We did this three or four nights a week. On weekends, we attended barbeques, picnics, parades, fairs, walks and runs. We ate fried dough, Irish soda bread, tiny hors d'oeuvres (I am now an expert on local caterers) and too many hamburgers to count.

And then there were the kids to remember. We decided early on that we would try to keep our daughters' lives as normal as possible. They would still go to soccer and lacrosse on the weekends, have play dates, and go to bed on time. We would include them in events that made sense: picnics, fairs, parades. If you ask Emma and Linley what they remember most about the campaign, they'd probably describe with glee the bags of candy collected at parades or the feeling of their stomachs dropping as they swung around on the Ali Baba ride they took, not once, but five separate times this past summer.

That was the fun part of the campaign for them. Less fun was the absence of Mom and Dad. Trying to juggle a part-time job and a campaign meant that I was out many nights, unable to meet them at the bus after school or to cuddle up with them at night to read a story and tuck them in to bed. Jim was out six nights a week. In the blur that was 2008, I forgot how sensitive children are to change. I lost the intimate knowledge of my daughters that I had before work or a campaign came into my life. When friends and family asked what Emma or Linley wanted for their birthdays, I had to guess. I lost my patience and my temper and never had time to sit down and play with the girls - something my six year old rightfully criticized me for. And then there was the asthma attack.

There are moments in life when change comes banging on your door - sometimes thankfully. Sitting on the hospital bed with Linley, anxiously watching her slowly but surely regain her ability to breathe, I knew that I had to drop one of the balls I'd been juggling. Up to that moment, I thought I could be that "super mom," the one who does it all with style, humor and nary a wrinkle, always able to quickly and handily address all oncoming crises; the magician who could pull a bunny out of a hat when necessary. Well, I guess not. Embarrassingly, it took an emergency hospital visit to make me finally see and accept that I was failing miserably at the one job that was mine to do: be a mom who could raise two strong, independent, smart girls with the emotional and physical strength to live a deeply meaningful life.

So, I am grateful that I have the ability to choose to stop working to spend time with my children, support my husband and assess what it means to be the wife of a US Congressman - yes, we won! I am excited to laugh and play with my children, meet with constituents and travel occasionally to Washington, DC. I'm going to try to keep my life in balance but, knowing myself, I'll no doubt eventually grab another ball to juggle because I always have. I credit my grandmother for this enthusiastic approach to life since she gave me the advice to "take the tarts when they're passed, dear." Old fashioned and yet incredibly valuable, this advice has inspired me to accept opportunity and embrace change, chosen or not. Going forward in my new life, thankful for my grandmother's wise counsel, I trust in the undeniable truth that each and every experience, good or bad, will bring with it wisdom and learning, the best anti-wrinkle defense around!