What the Blog is Going on Around Here?

Killing Cookie Monster...A Necessary Murder

2011-01-21T05:55:00.000-08:00

"Cookie Monster is going to be called Veggie Monster from now on."

"No!" I protest. "They can't change my beloved childhood memory. Those letter cookies are like comfort food to me."

I guess that's the point though. Those cookies are too much anymore. We've all held on to those cookies, devouring them because we can, sharing the sugary sweetness with smiles and laughter. Things need to change because the scales have tipped...literally.

So, I had accepted Cookie Monster's fate, and headed to Sesame Street Live yesterday with Little Sprout curious about how they'd change things.

The title of the show: Elmo's Healthy Heroes and in true Sesame Street fashion, the writing was witty, the songs were entertaining, and the message was positive. Eat well, rest often, exercise regularly and stay up on hygiene. Cookie Monster even conceded that having an occasional cookie is okay, but that eating the colors of the vegetables and fruits was even better. Balance, discipline and good choices.

"Awesome message!" I thought.

And then...it happened.

The intermission that changed everything for me.

Fifteen minutes before the end of the show, the lights came up, the curtains closed and an announcement was made that there would be a short break.

Bunches of helium-filled Elmo heads made their way to the floor of the arena and the food carts emerged. Children were heard begging their parents for something, and that is exactly what the producers intended. What I could not believe was the rate with which the parents shelled out money for food and snacks, hungry to consume, but oblivious to the fact that they were discounting everything that had just been said.

The snacks offered: blue and pink cotton candy, bags of greasy mini-donuts, colored slushies and enormous glasses of sugary lemonade. Had I gone up to the concourse I could have gotten a large bag of salty popcorn, or processed nachos or a concession pretzel. Candy and cookies were up there too.

I was dumbfounded. My pissed off five-year-old didn't understand why I stood there in personal protest refusing to buy any treat. I eventually broke down because my daughter reminded me I had promised her something. I got an $8 lemonade and was immediately relieved it was more watered down than sugary.

I'm still fired up, and unsure about what to do. I am fired up to eat better, to move more, to rest often, but I think the overall options need to change. People will continue to eat what's in front of them, so what's presented to them needs to be different.

Who is going to step up to make the message meaningful? When is cutting down the size of people's bottoms going to mean more than the bottom line?

Just like everyone else, I want to resist changing Cookie Monster to Veggie Monster, because change is uncomfortable. But a nationwide epidemic of obesity is terrifying, and we should all start making changes...one celery stick at a time.

Paper Words

2011-01-13T06:07:00.000-08:00

It starts with the words. When people say them and then how they cutely misuse them. I’ve tried to write many of them down: the words my kids claimed when they could first form the letters with their mouths. This week has been about paper words. Those book words. The power behind them, the strength within them, and access to as many of them as we can handle.

Book words for our five year old are still the mysterious cryptic combinations of letters on a page. She sees us reading them, hears us creating story and intrigue from them, and she has decided she wants in. She is done with being satisfied with the pictures. Maybe she knows the picture clues are not the whole story. Yes, a picture is worth a thousand words, but the story that can form around that picture starts and ends with the words.

Something happened in her brain this week. The neurons responsible for connecting letters to sounds to words began firing at a ridiculous pace. She fought me for more access, and wore herself out in the process.

“Now I can read like everyone else!” she ecstatically proclaimed.

I am thrilled for her. She has been left out for, well, as long as she can remember. Big Sprout and Middle Sprout have been reading for as long as she has memory. They sit and tell us the stories that have unfolded while they turned pages of their books. Little Sprout: a quiet audience member. She wants to tell those stories too, and I can hardly wait to hear how those words change her.

That’s what reading is, you know. If we let the words pore over us and in us and then we open ourselves up to their transformative power, they shape us. After words, we are something different than we were before we started.

Little Sprout is not the only one being shaped by words this week.

“This is Middle Sprouts’ teacher,” the message started on my phone. “I just wanted to let you know that she has checked out the book Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret. The librarian was not sure you knew she was taking this book home, and we just wanted to make sure you were aware of it.”

Thankfully, I was the one who had encouraged her to get the book…after she explained to me she had heard it was an interesting title. She knows it is a collection of words that is going to open up her awareness about some of those taboo topics

Big Sprout has battled this week with the information that someone wants to change the words in a book he is reading…and loving. He is confused about the movement to change the language in Huckleberry Finn, and I can’t blame him.

“I know not to use the “n” word mom, and I know that it is really disrespectful. But it was a part of life then.”

They are studying the Civil War and reading period pieces as part of the unit. Even he, our ten-year-old, understands why people would want to change the words, but he feels more strongly about defending those words.

“Just because I read them, doesn’t mean I am going to use them,” he argues.

I have to think he feels that way because of the other words that have worked to shape him so far. If it were the only book he ever read, he wouldn’t read it the same way. Thankfully there are hundreds of thousands of words that have found their way into his brain, via books, and the pathways to awareness are as varied as the phrases he has read.

It has been a week about words for my kids…and when I woke up this morning, I had so many of those words swimming in my own head. If I leave them in there, I can hardly function, so I had to get them down on paper…and that changes ME too.

The Thrill...of Defeat

2010-07-29T07:33:00.000-07:00

It was like watching an emotionally charged movie....the kind that brings out the elation of laughter and then later the belly-aching sadness of tears. The thing about our movie..it happened in less than five seconds. It should have been accompanied by dramatic piano instead of the cha-chinging clang and bell- ringing of the surrounding games.

As the ridiculously large claw dragged the pink dolphin out of its resting place, then moved it, in slow motion, across the clear box, I was completely unsure how to feel about it. One of my children, the birthday girl, was willing the dolphin to the hole, standing on the stool with unbridled joy in her eyes. Her little sister, the one who had been trying longer, stood dumb-founded and increasingly slumped with the movement of the claw. Then it fell right into the hole. From my left...enthusiastic jubilation. From my right...agonizing disappointment.

So there we were. Ecstatic birthday girl hugs heroic daddy and traumatized sister finds little consolation from mom. We tried the big claw again...and then it stopped working. Ingenuity took over and I took the happy one, and my husband took the sad one. I talked with my mature middle kid and we discussed how she would have felt if they had stood on opposite sides of that moving claw. She agreed to work with us to support her sister overcome the sadness. Dad took Little Sprout to a smaller claw game.

We found them, just as Little Sprout found her cheering legs. I could not be happier that I married a talented claw-driver. The small claw latched too, and out came the newest member of our stuffed animal family.

Delayed gratification did its work, and both girls were generally pleased with how events unfolded. We don't go to places like this much, and I am glad our kids are not desensitized. I'm glad they felt joy and angst. I am glad they are not among the mindless game-players who sit for hours in the same place acquiring a pile of tickets that gets to be shin high. I am glad that while watching each other, they feel something still. The littlest will learn to cheer for the success of those around her, but what happened to her yesterday was part of the learning process. I hope someday I'll capture her in a photo like the one below...genuinely excited for the achievements... that are not her own.

Thank You Summer!!

2010-07-27T08:18:00.000-07:00

For the festival and fairies and time enough outside. For dirt that covers Little Sprout and siblings side by side.

For four generations together... at church and on a hill

Tranquil, peaceful setting... except for Little Sprout's will.

For Colorado swimming...some time spent on the side

It is what I remember from my summers spent outside.

For hail storms to run through... and helmets for the boys

For girls who scream...excited...no need for store-bought toys.

For slip n' slide and barbecue, for playing in the sun

There is nothing quite as joyful as simple, summer fun.

For random fruit to climb upon, and walls too steep for some

For swings that are the joy of youth... for never-ending sun.

For all of this I'm grateful... for all of this I smile

Summer... I am glad you're here, and I hope you'll stay a while.

No Soup For You!

2010-07-23T07:39:00.000-07:00

I realized I was in for a fight, right about the time the bright orange stuffed animal flew past my head and collided with the inside of the passenger-side windshield.

"I know you need to eat, but you'll have to put your seat-belt back on before I drive you anywhere," I calmly explained to my irate four-year-old.

"I WANT TO EAT IN OLIVE GARDEN!!!" She screamed at me.

In annoyingly calm mommy voice, "I'm sorry sweetheart. You are screaming too loudly to be able to go in the restaurant today."

The hysterical crying started to wane and she sat herself down on the floor in front of her booster seat. In silent protest to my parenting, she crossed her arms and hid down beneath the seat in front of her. We were in a stand-off.

It all started in church a few hours before. Wriggling with frustration, Little Sprout and I made one exit to get her calmed down, but it was a struggle for her to contain the welling emotions. I knew they were coming, I just wished she hadn't needed to blow her cork that day.

We had gone with my mom and my grandma to the Mother Cabrini Shrine, just west of Denver. It was a trip my grandmother had been hoping to take to celebrate the 60th anniversary of her engagement. Perfect time for Little Sprout's emotional release!

We made it through mass. With some of her pent up energy, she sprinted up the 375 steps to the statue of Jesus. I am sure she reflectively pondered the stations of the cross and prayed appropriately at the places for meditation. I just didn't see her because she was miles ahead of me.

We slowed to a jog on the way down, and I did catch her following her brother's lead to kneel at one of the crosses.

They all dipped their hands in the natural spring, and you would think with all the peace and tranquility, at least some of it would rub off on Little Sprout.

By the time we got back to the gift shop, she had lost her ability to maintain composure. The volcanic activity commenced.

Our sweet, precious Little Sprout has incredibly physical tantrums. She was like a bull in a china shop as she gave way to the Tasmanian Devil tendencies. Nothing seems quite as inappropriate as watching a path of destruction in the Mother Cabrini Shrine gift shop. She started her second time-out on the bench just outside the shop and then came screaming and running into the store.

I carried her screaming, kicking and swinging at me to the car to get to lunch. Our ride down the mountain was full of:

"I'M NEVER GOING TO STOP SCREAMING...NEVER....NEVER...NEVER!! I DON'T CARE IF I CAN'T EAT LUNCH AT THE RESTAURANT.!" and so on...

I explained to my grandmother that she was going to be going in to lunch with my older two and my mom, but that Little Sprout and I were going to have to stay in the car. Trying to communicate that calmly, over the continuous screaming out of the back, was tricky.

Little Sprout had calmed a bit by the time we arrived at the restaurant, but the consequence had been set. As everyone else climbed out to go in to the restaurant, I told her she was going with me to get something else to eat and we would be eating in the car. She took off her seat-belt, made a beeline for the door, and I caught her by her arm just as my mom was able to get the door closed.

So there we were, in our stand-off in the Olive Garden parking lot. My mom brought out my salad and breadsticks while I waited...twenty-five minutes...before Little Sprout finally climbed back into her booster and clicked her belt.

What I learned about Little Sprout that day: She needs lots of sleep! She misses her dad. She is angry she isn't able to see him as much as she had expected before we came. She holds in emotion well, but eventually can no longer contain those ugly feelings. She has patience and stamina (something I am sure will challenge me through the years) and, she's got a good arm (she threw that stuffed animal from the third row in my car). Thank goodness she cannot aim all that well yet.

Bra Blog

2010-07-14T07:13:00.000-07:00

It has been months since my last girly-girl transformation update. I have moved too little on the scale to report much. That is...until now.

For my loyal and committed readers (mom) you may remember my conversion from tomboy to-do-list .

Number two on the list was to buy more feminine clothes and number three on the list was to buy a fitted bra. Just adopting an "I am not repulsed by a trip to the mall" attitude has been a challenge. I still get annoyed by some parts of shopping, like in-your-face marketing, and the feeling of inadequacy that overwhelms me when I realize I don't even look the part of a legitimate shopper. I do enjoy time with my girls, though, and I am sure that mall trips will be a part of our time together as they get older. The quest to transform continues...

So, we did it. I loaded up the girls for a day at the mall. I knew in my head, the short list of items I needed for a feminine outfit, and it started with the acquisition of a good bra. My girls are only seven and four, so I did what I could to prepare them.

"Now girls, I have some things I need to buy, and one of the stores we will go in, I am going to get a bra."

Cue giggles and twitters.

"Are you guys going to be able to handle that?"

"Oh, mom, I'll be fine," my seven-year-old said calming herself.

"Yeah, me too!" Little Sprout followed suit.

We started the mall trip with a stop at the girls' favorite doll store. If you have daughters, you know exactly which one I mean. They spent some of their allowance on accessories and we moved to store two. I bought an outfit, with expert and enthusiastic advice from the girls. After lunch and some rambling through the cool parts of the mall, we had one stop left. We all knew what I needed (it helped that the girls reminded me every other minute or two that I needed a bra)

The pleasant-smelling pink store was the destination.

Little Sprout kicked things off by saying, "This store is inappropriate mom!"

"Honey, it's not inappropriate. All ladies need bras and underwear. You'll need one someday too, and this is a nice store to get them."

"I like this store mom!" Middle Sprout encouraged.

The girls stayed relatively composed, that is, until the attendant had to measure me for my bra. I spent all my energy trying to seem completely comfortable. Their laughter could not be contained, and comfort was out the window for all of us.

I changed the subject (kindof). "Hey, should I get an animal print bra or a fun pink one?"

"Leopard skin? That's funny!" As we filed through the exotic drawer. If I was going to spend the money on a nice bra, I wanted it to be fun. I tried on a few. Some that changed my shape so much I thought I was going to poke holes in the wall, and the giddy laughter from my stall was entertaining in and of itself. I moved past discomfort and relished the fun we were all having. It REALLY was fun. I hope when it is time to take my girls shopping for their first bras they will be able to tap in to the sort of enjoyment we had that day.

I chose a light pink bra with black polka-dots. It fits well and puts things back in the places they were before kids sucked the life out of them. I have told Middle Sprout, the one who remains most interested in this fascinating womanly adventure, that we can have a code word, and she'll know I have it on. She walks past me in the morning and simply says (with shifting eyes), "Polka dot?" and I confirm with a nod, if she's right.

Next stop on the list...make-up. I am sure the girls will enjoy that too, but likely with much less laughter.

How to Mark Growth Through Hiking

2010-07-07T07:52:00.000-07:00

Every summer, the sprouts and I hike a local rock. It's an annual tradition that has become more than just a little something we do. It is the first hike we take every summer and the last one we do before we leave. It is a really easy climb that quickly takes us high enough to see the front range including all the way down to Pike's Peak.

We started to do this hike when Little Sprout was less than a year old. She rode in my hiking backpack and I struggled with the weight of her while trying to help navigate the path of the other two. There are a couple steep parts (especially for small legs) but overall it is a really friendly family climb.

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Little Sprout made it the entire way this time, even joking about the tantrum she threw last year. When she was three, she screamed the entire way down. This year, I had to tell her to stop running. There is definitely no hiking backpack for her anymore! What used to be the pinnacle of our hiking adventures is truly just a warm-up now. It helps to get us acclimated to the altitude, and it is the first in a series of hikes that Big Sprout will take, this year, in preparation for his first 14,000 foot climb.

Similar to the door jam in a house, this rock marks the growth of our children. The lizards, chipmunks and rabbits still evoke excitement, but the discussion then moves to the importance of the ecosystem. They no longer hesitate when playing around the bottom of the rock, they climb higher and higher every year.

Castle Rock is important to us. It is the grounding spot that gives the kids comfort. We may float from one living arrangement to another every summer, but Castle Rock remains. It is the tangible reminder that summer in Colorado has started. It also marks the passing of yet another year. The seemingly immovable rocks of Colorado change only minimally from year to year, but the bodies that climb them are grown and different. I love that we can mark their growth this way.

As you can see in the two photos below, the path is similar, but the kids are moving. It is appropriate that the first photo, the 2009 descent, has the kids in the closer foreground. In the 2010 version, they had made it quite a ways down the path before I was able to get out my camera to capture it. They are moving quicker, and I just have to remain on solid ground as I watch them go.

I know we won't be able to do the Castle Rock hikes as a group forever, so I'll enjoy them while they last. It's the growth I must mark in myself, with each passing year.

What the Blog? You Want a Weinie?

2010-07-02T05:24:00.000-07:00

I shouldn't be writing right now, but it is the zen in my chaos. I should be waking the children, getting their little bodies bathed and battening down the hatches before we head out of town, but instead I hide in the solace of my keyboard and procrastinate.

What the Blog? Little Sprout (our beautiful 4-year-old girl) tells the big sprouts that she wants a weinie?

The big sprouts came in howling from the garage yesterday (obviously focused on speeding up our packing)

"Mom!! Mom!!! Little Sprout said that she wants a weinie."

"Oh really?!" My carpet comment for most of the things my kids say.

In walks Little Sprout, most obviously beyond exhaustion (usually the state we get the best humor and stories from her).

"Hey, Little Sprout, tell mom what you were saying!!" The big sprouts were jumping they were so excited.

"I want a weinie!" She smiled looking at the reaction she garnered from her big brother and sister.

"Why?" I asked, immediately regretting giving her a reason to keep going with this line of thinking.

She cupped her hands near her danger zone, started waving them back and forth and replied, "Because it goes jingle jangle!"

They all ran howling back into the garage to do some of their own procrastinating. She then asked later that night (while watching old home videos), "Where am I?"

"Oh, you weren't born yet."

"Was I in your tummy?" she asked.

"No, not yet." I replied.

"How did I get in your tummy anyway?"

I told her I would save that story for another night. We were all too tired for that one!

I am confident that this summer will be one of discovery...at least for Little Sprout...she may not be focused on chores to pack, but she is definitely focused on something. This should be fun!

I Love You More Than Most.....I Win!

2010-06-27T06:57:00.000-07:00

There are moments in our day when the big sprouts forget that they are supposed to hate each other. They are siblings, after all, and they have the same rivalry as any other set of brother and sister. It is the smallest sprout, these days, who offers the balanced reminder that there can be fun in getting along.

I can hardly believe that we nearly decided against bringing that third voice to the table. We had thought about whether the first two sprouts were enough...and believe me, at times they are more than enough...but I am forever grateful that God blessed us with the third wheel to our tricycle. She keeps all of us young, playing those games that the older two would likely have already abandoned. Running through the sprinklers with her still, they become the younger version of themselves...the brother and sister who used to like each other and play endlessly together.

It is Little Sprout's game.
The one that starts, "I love you!"
To which you are to respond, "I love you too!".
Her line is then, "I love you more!"
Your reply, "I love you most!"
and she finishes the dialogue with, "I love you more than most! I win!"

I am not surprised that her game has an element of competition...something she has learned well living in this house. But the important key to winning her game is that you have to be the one to start. You have to say, "I love you" first, or you don't win. The bigger sprouts could learn a lot from the wisdom of the littlest.

Watch Out Tooth Fairy!!! I Think It's a Setup!

2010-06-24T05:02:00.000-07:00

I have to write this quickly, because I fear I may be discovered. I wanted to get out a warning to you, Tooth Fairy, about an insidious plan.

You may know my seven-year-old...you visit her often. You came to see her twice this week, in fact. Anyway, she has been saving that third tooth the dentist pulled so she can put it under her pillow at her upcoming slumber party. I KNOW!! It has to be a trap. It is the only feasible explanation. I wanted to get the word out to you, and since I don't have a fairy hotline to call...I thought I would try the internet. You're online, right?!?

Anyway, heads up! You WILL be called to our house next week. The girls will be on the lookout for you, and you'll have more bodies and pillows to navigate. Put on extra fairy dust so you can remain undetected.

Oh yeah, one more thing. You thought that last tooth you hauled out of here was big...this one is a monster. It is likely the BIGGEST baby tooth I have ever seen. You may need to bring in some help.

Good luck tooth fairy! I'll be pulling for you!

What's the Matter? Wednesday

2010-06-23T16:22:00.000-07:00

At the end of a long day on the Magnificent Mile, Littlest Sprout wanted nothing to do with our photo shoot in front of the Hershey sign. She shares with all of you her unbridled emotions. Enjoy!

Confessions of a Cat Fight

2010-06-22T05:16:00.000-07:00

Littlest Sprout proudly walked up to me yesterday saying, "Mom, Big Sprout slapped Middle Sprout on the bus."

"WHAT?!?" I stopped passing the soccer ball with Big Sprout. "You hit her on the bus?"

"Yeah, like five times," Middle Sprout reported from behind me.

I spun, "WHAT?" turning back, "What does she mean you slapped her five times on the bus? Why?"

"She hit me first! And then she grabbed my face with her fingers and squeezed." A frustrated move that I too have witnessed.

"Hold on a second...both of you inside, NOW! We have to settle this!" I authoritatively demanded.

I took all three sprouts in and sat them on the couch.

Littlest Sprout delightedly asked, "Me too!"

"If you want to, but you don't have to, you're not in trouble." I explained.

They never confessed the motivation behind the cat fight, but I could only picture them sitting on the bus waving their hands at each other occasionally landing slap blows.

"Didn't the bus driver stop you?" I asked concerned.

"She couldn't see us," Middle Sprout reported.

My internal picture of this scene almost made me laugh out loud. I know it wasn't a knock-down-drag-out fight, and I can only imagine what it might have looked like to a driver passing by who caught a glimpse of Frank Fighting 2010. A couple hesitant arms flailing at each other with only the tops of very young heads barely visible.

"Did any one see you?"

They admitted that one of Big Sprout's friends was the only witness.

Just then, the phone rang, and the kids thought they had been saved by the bell.

It was their father, and they each spoke to him, not about the incident, but about the other news of the day. Big Sprout answered the phone, so while he was talking to his dad, I asked Little Sprout what she thought a fair punishment would be for Big Sprout.

"He should lose his iPod," she offered.

As he spoke to Middle Sprout I asked Big Sprout what he thought a fair punishment would be, and he thought grounding from electronics for two days would be fair.

The phone was eventually passed to me, and as I reported the ongoing trial, Middle Sprout dove in under a blanket and Big Sprout did not move.

"Big Sprout thinks they should be grounded for two days," I explained.

"Two days?" he chuckled, "I was thinking one. Siblings fight, and it couldn't have been that bad," he assessed.

"I agree," I said, shifting to code-talking mode, "but they know the severity, and this is a self-reported crime. I'm going to defer to their self-punishment."

"True," he agreed. "They represent this family, and they can't be cat-fighting...at least not in public."

Sentence determined.

So, I went from having absolutely no inkling that anything bad had happened, and in less than ten minutes both big sprouts were grounded from electronics for two days. I didn't have to deal with the actual fight, they each took responsibility for their involvement in the altercation, and they accepted the punishment willingly. Maybe parenting is actually happening in this house!

Technology...The New Gated Community

2010-06-16T05:58:00.000-07:00

"We live in a gated community," the up-and-coming couple reports.

"Congratulations!" I say, reacting the only way I know how.

Living by stereotypes...I know what this means. They have arrived. They have accumulated the resources to live in an expensive house with at least a gate for a guard at the entrance of the neighborhood. I suppose I could be wrong, and the gate could be surrounding the local mobile-home park, but I doubt it. The gated communities that I know have large houses, plush yards, evidence of workers (i.e. gardeners and housekeepers) and name-brand cars rolling in and out of the garages. It's a lovely place to call home. There is a sense of security with that gate, keeping in all that is precious and keeping out all that is unwanted.

My husband and I are slowly accumulating resources... (children seem to suck out faster than we can put in) but I don't know that we'll ever be in the tax-bracket that would allow us to live in one of those gated communities. That's okay. We'll find a way to live comfortably and we'll continue to provide what opportunities we can for our children. I am anxious, though. There is another gated community being built. It's a community to which I sense my children need to belong, and I don't want to be on the outside looking in.

The pace with which technology is exploding is mind-boggling. I grew up playing PONG on Atari, and my oldest just saved up his money to buy himself an Ipod touch. The capabilities of his new hand-held device far outweigh the things our first desktop computer could do. The advances in smart technology are overwhelming at times.

We spent last Saturday roaming around downtown Chicago and we wandered in to the Apple Store. It was an experience worth having. The store itself is beautiful, and the access to their machines is impressive. There were nearly 100 Ipads laying around on tables so that people could experiment with them and see what they could do. I instantly wanted one. They are beyond cool.

When we left the store and continued down the Michigan Avenue sidewalks, it struck me, as I avoided eye contact with the begging homeless, that except for the access available in that store, there is a segment of the population who will never own something like an Ipad. The percentage of people around the world who will never know what it is to touch a screen and watch it pop to life is too small to fathom. Technology-savvy people are starting to have their own sub-culture and language and life experiences. Some people in the world will never know any of that.

I recognize the blessings I have been afforded simply because I was born in a country that has the opportunities we do. I have worked hard to be admitted into the technology gated community, and barring any disaster, I plan to stay there, but I can't help thinking about the faces on the other side of the gate...the longing faces who want nothing more than a chance to come inside.

How to care for a baby...Sprout Style

2010-06-09T21:22:00.000-07:00

Out of the blue tonight, Big Sprout piped up from the backseat.

"You know, mom, I think every family should have a baby that stays a baby. You know, like, it never grows up, and it just stays cute."

Chuckling through my response, "Oh really, you think so. You do know, honey, that babies are a lot of work."

"Oh, I know that, but I know the baby basics," he smugly replies.

"I see. That's interesting," I drive on. "I am curious though...what do you think the baby basics are?"

"Oh, you know. You have to feed them and then you have to decide the right time to put them to sleep..."

"Wait, wait, you need to write these down for me," I say as I frantically search for a piece of paper. (I wish I didn't feel like I was always frantically searching for a piece of paper) "I want a copy of this," still rummaging, "but I'm driving." I hand back a folded piece of paper and a pen. The following is the scribbled list of "How to Care for a Baby" by Big Sprout. (I am transcribing exactly the way he has it written)

1. feed
2. right time to sleep
3. help them burp
4. Ki says if you play hockey with the baby you have to take it easy
5. change diper
6. stress
7. play
8. LOVE!!!

I guess he does indeed have the basics....at least on paper.

Life is Messy

2010-06-08T06:05:00.000-07:00

My house is messy. My children struggle to get all the food that sits on the end of an eating utensil actually into their mouths. We don't have a dog, so what falls off the fork, falls to the floor and stays there until someone sweeps it up. They create dishes and dirty clothes. They accumulate stuff and conspire with each other to make sure that each room has some random article haphazardly thrown on the floor.

We get it cleaned up. They help me, and with the three of them at an age where they can ~~competently~~, I mean ~~effectively~~...well, they get it cleaned up, it is only as bad as I let myself think it is. When our oldest was the only baby in the house, I would follow him around and literally put the toys back in the toy box as soon as he dropped it and crawled on. With the addition of each kid, I realized that I was trying to hold back water equivalent to a tsunami. I gave up the perfectly clean house idea.

Similarly, I didn't fight the sparrows this year. Every summer that we have lived in this house I have waged a backyard war against the sparrows who like to build nests under our deck. They would carry in mud, I would smack it down, they would carry in more mud, I would smack it down. I would walk through the back yard with my smacking stick and they would dive bomb me to let me know that I sucked. I would win, and the birds would abandon our deck...all in the name of keeping it clean. I'm not sure why I'm going soft, but I let the birds in this year.

There is one sparrow's nest and two other nests that likely belong to some of the robins who hang around. It's messy. They aren't always accurate in the nest building, and I did have to sweep some of the mud off of the patio. What I had unknowingly prevented in previous years, though, was an aerial show that not only captivates Little Sprout, but I too find myself sitting under the deck, fascinated by the comings and goings of our new house guests. Little Sprout is the one who took these pictures, and because she was using my camera, I couldn't capture the way she tiptoed around the patio, startled each time a bird would poke out of the nest and then swoop down past her. She was so excited.

There are other messy things outside. Planting flowers and collecting what they and the trees shed is messy business. I've concluded anything that has life leaves behind a mess to be cleaned. Don't get me wrong, I look forward to the days when I can confidently update our house, paint the walls and outfit the floor because I know that the children are less careless as they carry their things through the hall. I know my house will be clean and beautiful again some day. I'll be sad that it is no longer messy. I may just keep a box of random things and occasionally spread them out on the floor, because I know when it looks like that, our house is full of life. I'll miss that when it's gone.

A Little Fishy Tale

2010-06-03T05:44:00.000-07:00

It reminded me of a tale I know...with an old man and the sea

A young boy cast his fishing line to see what he could be.

From the dock he threw a cast, determined to reel one in.

He felt a tug of the smallest sort, and that's where our story begins.

He felt that pull and he pulled back, and in the bobber came.

He pulled his catch up to his hands...he had won the fishy game.

It was much smaller than he had hoped, but, hey, his hook had set.

Plus then his cousin reminded him, "That fish can be your pet!"

All Blocked Up

2010-05-26T19:48:00.000-07:00

Seriously?...out of words? How is that even possible? There were so many all day today, and now...nothing? I suppose it could be this stifling pressure that is simply sitting on these bones below my eyes. See...I couldn't even think to say cheekbone, or eye sockets or skull. Really?!? "bones below my eyes?" That's terrible.

You shouldn't be subjected to this. The ramblings of a writer who promised herself that she would write every day and now she is hopelessly wordless.

I know...it's 'cause I'm coming down from the high of completing yet another chapter draft. No, no, that's not it...It's gotta' be because Pappa Sprout is coming home to see us tomorrow. That's what it is, I am hopelessly distracted by the return of my love...

Excuse me...I was laughing too hard to continue, plus when I read those couple of sentences over I saw one of my pet peeves. I pride myself in not using the same word in the same paragraph, much less the same sentence. Damn, I did it again!

This is like drunk driving. Writing while in this frame of mind is downright irresponsible. Someone could get hurt.

This block is because I am plain wiped out.

So, instead of using my words to finish out this profound and life-changing blog post, I will use my favorite quotes from the Sprouts this week.

I think I'll start with Middle Sprout because she is usually, um, in the middle. Anyway, her quote of the week is actually a phone conversation I overheard. Talking on the phone with a friend is new to her, but I am sure the start of a probable lifelong habit. Middle Sprout, "Oh, okay, you want me to tell you the movies we have in our cabinet? OK, we have Bug's Life and Incredibles and Toy Story and..." she continued until she had listed EVERY SINGLE movie we own. No doubt, she will change the world someday.

Little Sprout blessed me with her quote yesterday on the way to her last day of school at this particular preschool. I said, "You know, honey, we are going to be a little early because you wouldn't stop asking when we were going to go." "Oh, that's okay mom, I just love school...and I am not a good patient." It's probably a good thing we have another year of preschool to prep for Kindergarten.

And finally...the coup de gras...Big Sprout was looking over my shoulder at my college yearbook as I flipped through. (No...I don't do that often...I never even bought one...long story, long a new friend of mine happened to be a yearbook distributor in the city where I went to college the year I was a senior, and she just happened to have a copy, so she gave it to me, and I was looking at the pictures) Geesh...you're so nosy. Anyway, he noticed a rather seedy-looking fellow who was lounging on a couch at what appeared to be a college party. He looked as if he had been there a while. I laughed and said, too loudly, under my breath, "Wonder what he was smoking." Big Sprout laughed too and said, "I bet he was smoking weeds."

So with that, I leave the keyboard for the night. I fear I would be useless in my editing and I would have to scrap any draft-writing that I did tonight anyway, so instead I am going to take my stuffy little nose and go to bed. Hopefully in the morning all the blockages that plague me tonight will be gone.

What are you Waiting For?

2010-05-24T06:41:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I think I hit my waiting threshold. I waited patiently for a few minutes until I realized that our scheduled babysitter was not coming, and then I loaded up Little Sprout and prepared for a trip to work with her as an unscheduled guest. I waited for my computer to logon...and eventually realized that it was helplessly broken. I waited for the computer techie people to come save my laptop...this waiting included occupying Little Sprout with the few gadgets I have in my office, and we waited, and waited and waited for three hours until it was time to leave to meet the other sprouts coming home from school, and I simply closed up my laptop and took it home broken. I dusted off our desktop and realized that I had not waited that long for a computer to boot in years. I spent the weekend waiting for webpages to load and the letters that I typed to slowly appear on the screen. I am done waiting. It is truly wasted energy.

I'm ready to let this one go. Waiting makes me angry. It is an act that I do when I am not happy to be where I am doing what I am, and I am impatient to get to somewhere else. In past years, I have spent the days during my husbands' absence waiting for him to come home. I haven't really done that this year. I have chosen living over waiting, and you know what...time goes by much faster! So please call me on it, if you hear that I have waited for anything.

Instead of waiting for the techies to come save me...I pushed Little Sprout in a rolling office chair and she and I pretended we were traveling to the moon.

Instead of waiting for the computer to fire up, I made coffee or wrote notes or refereed squabbling children.

So, being the incessant planner that I am, I have decided to come up with a plan for all the times that I will likely have to wait...

Waiting in traffic will become...rocking out with chair dancing and concert-style singing. If there isn't any good music on I'll just pump my fist to get truckers to honk or make up stories about the people in the cars around me.

Waiting in line at the post office or the grocery store will be devoted to conversations with my fellow waiters and if they don't want to talk, I'll just make up stories about the plans they have based on the packages they carry or the food they are planning to buy.

Waiting in the waiting room or in lines at the airport or for luggage to arrive need to be about more than waiting. It takes energy to be creative in these settings, and it is easy to be sucked into the "waiting" malaise, but I want to make the conscience choice to do more than just wait.

It is not mind-blowing advice to suggest that we should choose a different activity instead of waiting, but that is indeed what I plan to do. Waiting is inactive, living is active, and Lord knows I don't like to sit still. So my questions for the week are: What are you waiting for? and how can you live instead?

Marking a Decade

2010-05-19T19:19:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago today I was waddling around the high school where I taught, scooping up good-bye cards and well wishes. I felt more energized than I had in weeks and I was looking forward to the few days before Big Sprout was due to arrive. I was relieved I had not had a water-breaking incident in front of a class of sophomores...I would have been mortified, but I am fairly certain it would have been more traumatizing for them. Early the next morning...7:30 am...I got up to go to the bathroom, and as I stood up out of bed I thanked God for the puddle that had waited to pool at my feet until I was in my own home.

Baby bag...check. Overnight bag...check. Towels...check. Husband...check. Off to the hospital. The delivery was a story all unto itself, but we survived. I finally got to hold him, I mean really hold him, two hours after he was born and after I was all stapled back together. I'll never forget how that felt and how overwhelmed my heart was. I had no idea, that it would only continue to swell over the next ten years.

That's right! Our firstborn turns ten tomorrow, and this is by far the hardest birthday I have been a part of in my life. It is always those birthdays that end in zero that are supposed to give us pause. I remember my monumental 10th birthday, I looked around briefly when I turned 20 because that is just about how much time I had to look, and when I turned 30, I was pregnant with our third and I definitely knew I was at a monumental year, but I didn't have a lot of energy for birthday introspection. Maybe I'll give it a whirl when I turn 40...but for now, it is the big guy's zero-ending birthday that has brought me to tears all week.

I can't help but to go over in my head how he has changed in the last ten years, but what really gets to me is when I calculate the ways I've changed.

Ten years ago:
I didn't know how to file a baby's fingernails...
I didn't know how scary it would be to have a sick kid...
I didn't know how to change an explosion diaper on the front seat of a truck...
I didn't know how hard it would be to let a baby cry it out when he was old enough...
I didn't know how happy I could be when a toddler's hand rubbed my belly feeling for a new baby to kick...
I didn't know that I could smile that big watching him fish with his dad...
I didn't know there could be a kinder and gentler big brother in the entire world.
and I didn't know that I could love someone this much.

I also didn't know that I would get to his tenth birthday and start grieving what is going to happen in the next decade. I have spent a lot of energy and time, these past ten years, learning how to let him grow. Making sure he started to gain weight, teaching him to apologize when he did something wrong, letting him talk out his conflicts with other kids, letting him fall: on his skates, off his bike, sliding into home. Letting him face real consequences for bad decisions. Although I am not perfect, I do think I have learned pretty well how to best let him grow...but the next decade I will have to learn how it is that I can best let him go. That just makes me cry. By the time we celebrate his next zero-ending birthday he will have had his first date, his first kiss, his first solo drive in a car, his high school diploma, and he'll have college squarely on his mind. That and so many other experiences that I can not yet predict will be how life goes in the next decade. As we trudge through the coming years, more and more, the life that he leads will be away from me, and that is what makes me sad.

It is the way it should be, and standing here in the middle of the see-saw looking at how perfectly balanced I feel between what he has already done and what he is poised to do, I hope the walk down that other side is slow enough that I can enjoy it, just a little. He is a light in our lives and a presence I can hardly imagine being without. I suppose I'll feel more ready when we actually are at that next zero-ending birthday, but if not...it's gonna' hurt like hell. I'm so proud of this decade's worth of work, and I am steeling myself for the even harder years to come.

Happy Tenth Birthday Big Sprout!!

Weather you Like it or Not

2010-05-14T05:40:00.000-07:00

When I report that the four straight days of clouds, rain, and unseasonably cold temperatures has lifted and I woke up to sunshine this morning... you get it. You can hear the smile in my writing. When I read the Facebook blurbs from my friends: "Snow again in MAY!" and "cracked out the rain boots" and "baseball probably canceled for the third time again tonight" I get it too. Weather has such a huge impact on our lives, and I think sometimes we write it off when a conversation starts there.

"It's so surface. All he does is talk about the weather," I can hear you complaining.

And I know, there are people like that. Maybe there is more being said than we hear. I am starting to understand the big joke about the old couple sitting on the porch talking about yesterday's weather, looking at the skies and doing their best to predict how the day's weather is going to go.

Why do we talk about the weather so much? Well, first of all, I think it is the safest common ground for all of us. Or rather, common sky. It is one of the life forces over which we have no control, and we experience the changes in weather in much the same way as the person next to us. Maybe the old people on the porch only need the weather to propel their conversations and their relationships. Maybe they know that, because they have lived through enough weather patterns and storms, that the weather reports say enough.

Rain = Sad
Five days straight of rain = annoyed and/or possibly miserable.
First snow for the winter   = excitement
500th snow in February = enough already
Snow in May = nearing insanity
Thunderstorms = fascination and anxiety

We want to control our environments, and although we cannot control the things that the clouds will do on a given day, working to predict their movements and trying to understand what they are doing gives us back a modicum amount of control. I personally enjoy both the science and the beauty that is the weather.

Last night, at the end of day four of miserably cold and wet weather, there was a crack in the clouds, and I mean crack. The sun shone through the breaking clouds while the misty rain continued to fall. I knew that there was going to be a rainbow. I pointed that out to Little Sprout, after she perked up at the new presence of the sun. She ran around the corner and she yelled, "Mom, you're right, there is a HUGE rainbow in the sky!" It may very well be the first rainbow that she consciously understands. I remember my awestruck realization that rainbows were possible when I saw probably the brightest rainbow of my life on the heels of an impressive Colorado thunderstorm when I was probably eight or nine years old.

So, when I stood in the rain last night with my daughter and gaped at the sky-sized rainbow, it was all I wanted to talk about. This morning when I sense the new energy that has arrived with the sun, it too is all I want to talk about. So when my FB post for the day reads: "Rainbow last night after four days of clouds and rain and glorious sunshine this morning" you get it...and you get me.

Mothered, Grandmothered and Mothering

2010-05-07T09:59:00.000-07:00

Summer 2009 Four Generations

I'm late with my Mother's Day gift for my mom and although my grandma's card was ready to go out yesterday, it is sitting by the phone. Yes, it is only the Friday before the actual holiday, but I know the package I sent yesterday will not get to my mom until Tuesday, and because my grandma's card won't be in the mailbox until today, she won't get hers on time either. I'm losing my touch. I used to be so on top of things. That was...until...I became a mother.

Look what these kids have done to me. I can hardly believe that I am okay with the state of my house on any given day. I used to follow my firstborn around as he crawled and put his toys back in the toy basket so that I didn't have to pick up the huge mess when he was ready to go to bed. Now, I barely even look at the clutter as I drag myself up to bed some nights, too tired to properly brush me teeth. I get to it eventually, and when the toilet in the kids' bathroom looks like it does right now...well, I will likely run a brush around it at some point today too.

If you were to gauge my mothering skills by the way I wake up to my house sometimes, I would surely never win a mothering award. Evidenced in this photo I took just as I wrote this and resisting an urge to pick anything up first. I guess I should explain to you all that I separate mothering from homemaking, and I am much better at the first than I am at the latter.

Our house is not filthy, it is just cluttered. The kids clothes aren't grimy, they are just well-worn. All of it reflects the life that happens here. I'm not perfect at it, but I spend more of my energy and time on the health and well-being of the kids inside those wrinkled and stained clothes. The things we do creates clutter, and then when I am more organized, we spend our energy together getting re-organized: a duty of a mother to teach the kids how to clean up after themselves too.

Every mother knows that the hardest job she will EVER have is to mother the children in her home. There are some common experiences that all mothers share, but each job is unique and challenging because what is bottled in each home is different than the next. We all do the best we can and there is a reason we should celebrate the diversity that is motherhood. That's why I wanted to get out my cards and gifts on time.

The cup in the background of my picture is the Mother's Day gift that Little Sprout brought home from preschool. It is uniquely from her with the buttons placed where only my Little Sprout would put them and the real flower that she is so proud she "made" for me. It is a reflection of where she is at this point in her life. My tardy gifts and cards are equally reflective of where I am in my life right now too. I appreciate and adore what it means to be a mother to all of my sprouts, but I also want to acknowledge my growing appreciation for the mothering I have received my entire life.

Mothers take time enough to tend to the hearts of their children, to make eye contact with them when they tell their stories, to hug on them and laugh until everyone is crying. No woman learned to mother on her own, and my thankful heart today beats with gratitude for my mom, my grandma, my mother-in-law and all the other mother's out there who have always put mothering first...even when they had to climb over piles of laundry to do it.

Happy Mother's Day!

Sometimes You Just Need a Daddy Globe

2010-05-04T20:25:00.000-07:00

What is a daddy globe, you may ask. For us it is the garage-sale-need-to-buy-something-for-dad-for-father's-day trinket that Big Sprout picked up last year. It is a bald head in water with what appears to be floating hair. Appetizing, I know! The inscription on the side reads, "Over the Hill and Losing It".

Who knew that it was going to become our replacement daddy this spring.

Last week I heard Little Sprout playing in the playroom. She was talking to herself, and I just assumed that she was playing with one of her dolls or with an imaginary friend. I was close.

"Sweetie, what are you doing?" I inquisitively asked from the kitchen.

"Oh, I'm playing with daddy," she matter-of-factly reported.

That's cute, I thought. I walked around the corner and saw her shaking the bald dad globe to make the hair float around.

"Oh, daddy! That's so funny!" she laughed.

"That's perfect!" I chuckled. "Hey, instead of trying to make a "Flat Daddy" (the idea I had about putting a poster-sized version of my husband at his dinner seat) maybe this daddy can eat dinner with us."

"Sure mom," Little Sprout agreed. "You know though, if he is in the chair no one will be able to see him. We need to put him ON the table."

So, that's what we've done. For the last week, the bald-headed floating daddy has joined us for dinner each night. When we would usually be holding hands and saying grace, two of the kids hands lay on top of the daddy globe head.

I am not sure that the kids will continue to be as attached to the daddy globe as they have been the last week, but Littlest Sprout will probably try to keep him real for all of us. Today, she told me that she was walking on daddy's back. (something that she does with her real daddy). Thankfully she wasn't really standing on the globe. Instead she was rolling the head back and forth with her feet.

So, they may not get to hold dad's hands at dinner or walk on his back when they want to, but the daddy globe can help to distract all of us from the fact that they miss the real dad who is way more than a globe...he is our whole world!

Looking for a Little Harmony

2010-04-30T05:32:00.000-07:00

Harmony doesn't happen by accident. It takes effort and practice and a willingness to get better at your own part only as a complement to the other musicians. More than musical groups need to work like this.

Big Sprout, our almost-ten-year-old, took up the violin this year. He worked through frustrations to learn some difficult pieces, and although he wasn't begging to practice every day, he would. His end-of-the-year concert was last night, and it was a much better performance than their mid-year show. You could actually hear the melody in the songs and the synchronization was better, but since the kids were fourth, fifth and sixth graders, it was to be expected that they were often playing at conflicting rhythms. I had heard the violin part practiced so much, that I knew exactly what they were supposed to be playing, and they were. The problem was that they were so focused on their own notes that they weren't listening to the other instruments, or each other, to gauge whether they were in harmony.

That is an indication of the age of this group, and I get that. As they get older they will be less intent on reading their own notes and they will hear how what they play fits into a larger piece. That is a cool thing to hear. When large bands go marching down a parade-route or around a football stadium, it is goosebump-worthy music. An ensemble of orchestra-members who play together seamlessly is awe-inspiring. I just wish more of life looked like the harmonized musicians.

If you've read my blog for a while you know that we are a sporting family. My husband and I are college coaches and our kids are really active on sports teams. We encourage them to play on teams for the same reasons I love harmonized music. There is something so amazing about the achievements of a group of people who come together with their own individual talents to work toward a common goal. Harmonizing for a group of athletes is messy business.

More and more, kids who play sports are only watching their own notes. Their parents are only listening to their kid's version of the song, and it is harder and harder to get a group to play in harmony. The concern seems to be about how good an individual can get at a particular sport, or how an individual can garner awards and recognition. With all that individual focus the TEAM harmony is lost and the music is just noise. It's easy to hear when kids are off while playing a musical piece, but harder to see when a team doesn't quite have its groove.

Growing up, I played on some really good teams. I also played on some teams that had really great players who did not play so great together. The teams that found harmony, despite a lack of individual talent, did better than the teams that had the all-stars. We may not have sounded that great solo, but together, we made great music, and that group sounded better than I ever did alone.

Time Can Be Magical...and Evil

2010-04-28T05:55:00.000-07:00

Fall 2005

I lost to Big Sprout in an arm-wrestling match last night. No, I should say, Big Sprout beat me at an arm-wrestling match. The worst part is that I was actually trying. I have had head-knowledge that this day would eventually come, but even expectation has not prepared me for the inevitable. The passing of time is marked well by the growth of our kids.
Spring 2010

All of my kids seem a lot bigger than they did a year ago. One magical thing about the seasonal lives that we live, is that I can mark the changes from year to year when my husband leaves for his job. This year is no exception, but the growth that has happened seems even more significant than past years. It has been a big growing year for the sprouts. Physically they have all grown close to two inches, but the emotional maturity, which is sometimes harder to measure, has been profound. The transition to life without Pappa Sprout has gone amazingly well this year, and they are recognizing how they can help with him gone, rather than continually show how sad they are.

It is a far cry from what this house looked like five years ago when Pappa Sprout left for the summer. Five years ago, Littlest Sprout was seven months old, Middle Sprout was three and Big Sprout was five. Only Big Sprout was in school, and well, you can imagine what the day looked like with two really small kids at home all day. They didn't quite understand where daddy was, and there was not an easy way to explain it to them. The daily child-maintenance was intense, and I had not yet found my own niche to de-stress. We were trying to sell a house that we had purchased to fix-and-flip, and I was overwhelmed at times with all the responsibilities. None of the kids were at an age to help, and it felt like I was going to be in that stage forever.

My favorite memory of that year was the night Big Sprout lost to me in a round of "PIG" on a little basketball court. He didn't quite know how to deal with his anger about dad being gone, and losing to mom at a game was what threw him over the edge. He threw a basketball across the street, screaming at me, and then spent the entire car ride home yelling, "I hate you poopy lady! You are the poopiest lady I know!" He ran away to the neighbors fence to commune with the cows for a bit, but he eventually calmed down enough to go to bed.

I remember how distraught I was. I had so little energy to be the parent that I knew he needed, and it felt like it was never going to end. That stage for him has most certainly ended. He walked himself to the bus stop yesterday, when I had to leave a few minutes early to take Middle Sprout to physical therapy. He sets his alarm on his watch at the basketball court so that he can come home in time for dinner, and he takes seriously his dad's instructions to be the "man of the house". Middle Sprout has grown up a ton too. She is turning into the helpful young lady that I knew she could be. She gave Littlest Sprout her shower yesterday and has taken on her chores with gusto. I am grateful for the adjustment of the big sprouts, because Littlest Sprout simply follows their lead. However, this growth is both a blessing and a curse.

Part of me is glad that the never-ending little kid stage has passed, but another part of me is really sad that it has gone so quickly. In five more years, Big Sprout will be fifteen, Middle Sprout will be thirteen and Littlest Sprout will be nine. I anticipate that the struggles will be real, but very different. I may hardly feel aged at all, but the sprouts will be. If I've learned anything from the seasonal reminders of how quickly these kids change, it is that I need to appreciate them no matter what stage they are in, because it too will pass.... and probably before I am ready.

Letters from the last three weeks...

2010-04-24T06:24:00.000-07:00

A lot has happened in the last three weeks, but most notably is the fact that I didn't have a whole lot of time to sit down and write about it. A number of experiences could have easily turned into full-blown blog posts, but instead they have simply become snippets of memory. Here we go...

Dear Mr. Wisconsin State Patrolman,
You looked awfully snazzy when you pulled me over on that highway. Your hat was effectively stiff, your uniform ironed and pressed, and those manners....who can say enough about those manners. You did your job well. I could hardly argue with you about the fact that I was driving that much over the speed limit, and you were too professional in your delivery of my citation that I didn't get to tell you that I was trying to get home to take my daughter to preschool. You should have been more emotional and then maybe I could have mustered up some moving tears. Instead you politely sent me on my way. I hope to never see you again.

Sincerely,
Happy for some tax return money, but sad to give it right back to Wisconsin

Dear Littlest Sprout,
We love listening to you sing, and for the most part we think the four-year-old version of your lyrics are great. We had a little meeting yesterday and we have decided that we should really censor you a little bit. It is probably not appropriate that you sing, "Ho, ho, ho be a lady" instead of "whoa oh oh be a lady". It might offend some hoes. You should maybe go back to singing PINK... you know her lyrics a lot better.

Sincerely,
Your Biggest Fans

Dear Head Lice,
How nice it was for you all to come and visit our home. I know that you were bored staying on the heads of the little classmates at the sprouts' school, and I completely understand your choice to hitch a ride on middle sprouts' head. She does have a pretty nice head. I'm sorry that we had to attack you that way. Please don't take it personally. If the nurse hadn't directed us to go on a hunt-and-destroy mission, you would likely still be living comfortably. If any of you are still hanging out in there...your days are numbered, and tell all your little friends that as pleasant as that head of hair looks...it is hell on earth for your kind.

Sincerely,
Mom turned ape-bug-seeker (no eating involved)

Dear Spring,
You rock! Your outfits are amazing, and what is that perfume you wear? You have been incredibly generous to the Midwest this year. More sun than rain, more warm temperatures than cold, and an awesome early display of sprouting life. I'm not sure how you have managed to keep the bugs sleeping, but I'm grateful. It makes up for past wet and soggy springs, and it makes this washed out weekend acceptable. Keep it coming.

Sincerely,
Grateful Sun Lover

Dear Dirty Bathroom,
Please stop yelling at me!! I know you need a good cleaning, and I will get to you today. Haven't you noticed, when I look in your mirror, those ridiculously dark circles under my eyes? Haven't you made note of the fact that I've been squinting at you at 4:15 in the morning? That's too early for people to be up. So when I should be massaging your counter with cleanser and brushing your toilet with vigor, I have been sawing logs. I promise to be more attentive...if you promise to stay clean!!!

Sincerely,
Almost Fully-Rested Maid

Dear Dandelions,
You suck! Although littlest sprout thinks you are gorgeous and she brings a few of you to me every day, and then of course I must place you in a small flower vase, I want you to know that I loathe you. Can't you see that we don't want you? That aeration was not intended for you. Those seeds we threw down are meant to crowd you out, and when I go around pulling you from the root, I hope you sense the seething anger in my heart. I don't want you in my yard. I'm sorry if you got some mixed messages because I blew so many of your seeds around when I was a kid....I didn't know what I was doing!

Sincerely,
The Budding Gardener

Volunteer to be Involuntary

2010-04-20T12:24:00.000-07:00

"I didn't know I was pregnant."

An unfathomable admission, but apparently possible. It's amazing to think that, after conception, what happens during a pregnancy is so involuntary for both the mother and the baby. An embryo can gestate for nine months, without parental intervention, and come out a full-term baby. Of course it is not advisable for the mom to remain clueless about that additional life, and to keep living like nothing is happening, but life is possible outside of awareness.

I don't think most humans like to simply succumb to the involuntary miracles that make up the human condition. We are control freaks. We want to manage and micro-manage and configure our lives. We are the only living thing on the planet that exhibits this level of manipulation. I am struck by the power of the human mind to attain the level of control that it does. We are a conscientious bunch, and with intellectual awareness comes an innate desire to keep at bay all the habits that might remind us that we are a miraculous animal. There are a number of human experiences that are involuntary, but with age and the right training you can teach yourself to stifle the involuntary reactions that are purely human. It comes down to goosebumps, crying and laughter.

A number of animals get goose bumps. There are theories about the use of a goosebump, but the general consensus is that the animals who have fur rise on the back of their neck when threatened are responding involuntarily with goosebumps to a "flight or fight" scenario. Porcupines offer the best example. The raised fur warns the enemy and triggers an appropriate reaction in the fur-owner, plus it realigns the fur to better protect it during a potential attack.

Human goosebumps happen in similar times, although not necessarily at a level to alert a predator. We get goosebumps when we are scared and cold and generally when we need to make a decision to stay and fight or to run for it. I am fascinated by the fact that I could not find a scientific explanation for why we get goosebumps when we hear that high note in the "Star-Spangled Banner" or while we are watching a mind-blowing display of athleticism. That is a purely human phenomenon. I do think, however, you have to be open to letting yourself feel the emotionally-driven goosebumps. With body language of crossed arms and a stoic attitude, I am certain you don't get the full pleasure of an episode of goosebumps.

Similarly, emotional crying can be controlled. Most men have taught themselves to keep from tearing up when they see something moving, and although women cry more, with enough effort they can remain dry-eyed too. One of my favorite scenes in the move City of Angels happens between a perplexed angel (Seth) and a human doctor played by Meg Ryan (Maggie) as they talk about the reasons people cry.

Seth: Why do people cry?

Maggie: What do you mean?

Seth: I mean... what happens physically?

Maggie: Well... umm... tear ducts operate on a normal basis to lubricate and protect the eye and when you have an emotion they overreact and create tears.

Seth: Why? Why do they overreact?

Maggie: [pause] I don't know.

Seth: Maybe... maybe emotion becomes so intense your body just can't contain it. Your mind and your feelings become too powerful... and your body weeps.

The doctor's initial description of crying explains what happens physically, but it doesn't explain the why. Crying happens for lots of reasons, but the emotional tears are reserved for humans. Crying out of pain happens for all sorts of animals...including people. Emotional crying, however, does not happen for other animals the way it does for humans. We cry when we are happy and when we are sad, and often when we are fatigued or stressed. Stress and sleep deprivation knock down defenses, and I have seen that firsthand the last few weeks. I am more run down, my hands get cracked and dry from eczema, my body retains water and cortisol, and I can just tell that I am off. When I am stressed and tired, I cry sooner too...because I cannot control myself.

As I've gotten older, I have learned to tap into that emotional crying weakness more often. Scientists may not know why we cry when we are emotional, both ecstatic and devastated, but they do know that there are positive reasons why we should let ourselves do it. The body releases harmful toxins when it cries, and they have found that those people who allow themselves to cry more often have fewer ulcers and other stress-related problems. So my response to my 9-year-old boy when he tells me that I cry too much, "Oh honey, you're just jealous."

Then we laugh.

Baby Laughing

We laugh at the unexpected and the surprises and the silly. We all know how great it feels to have a laugh-until-you-cry-and-then-almost-pee-your-pants session, yet there are still the reserved among us who can only muster up a chuckle. Belly-laughs leave you vulnerable, and it is scary to think you are the only one who may laugh that hard, but with the known health benefits of a good laugh, how can you sit quietly? Laughter reduces stress hormones and increases the level of positive hormones like endorphins and neurotransmitters. People who are able to see the humor in a potentially stressful situation have been more successful in recovery from trauma, illness and injury. Laughter is so good.

It all is. All of those things that are innately human and involuntary need to stay that way. We need to let ourselves be our own natural best. To cry when we need to cry, to laugh when we need to laugh and to notice the goosebump moments and embrace them. The burst of human emotion are such miraculous gifts that we have no right to try to control them. So sign me up for everything involuntary.

Block Plan Living

2010-04-15T09:19:00.000-07:00

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --

I took the one less travelled by,

and that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

"Your college decision is not permanent," I lie. "If things don't work out, you can always change your mind."

It's true that high school seniors can eventually transfer if the initial college they choose turns out to be a bad choice, but I think I may have underestimated the permanence of that first big adult decision. It's April, and this is the month that many of the soccer recruits I have come to know over the last six months are making a final decision about where they will be attending college next fall. When I was a senior in high school, I knew well before April that I was going to go to Colorado College, but what I didn't know was that Colorado College was going to become such a permanent part of who I am.

For those of you who are not CC alums, you may not fully appreciate what it is to live on a block plan, but let me try to explain. Students at CC take one class at a time. The class lasts for 3 1/2 weeks and for minimally 3 hours Monday through Friday. It is an intense way to digest a semesters' worth of material, but the focus is on one thing at a time, and thus one final at a time. When the class is done, there is a Block Break that lasts from Thursday through Sunday, and then the next block starts. Students take 8 blocks a year, although there are some classes that are two concurrent blocks long. It is definitely not your typical college semester-plan, and I'm starting to realize that it has sculpted everything about my life.

Yes, I met my husband there, and of course the children who have joined us are a bi-product of our marriage, so undoubtedly my time at CC started the family that is now my life. I do think, however, that the block plan style of living has had an even deeper impact on the way we operate. We're still on the block plan...it's just a much larger version of it.

Our life on a yearly basis is made up of three blocks and a block break. At the end of this month we will start the longest and hardest block of the year. From May through September, my husband is intensely focused on his "Work Block". He runs Renaissance Festivals, and that means that he leaves home to head back to Colorado for the summer and Pittsburgh in the fall. Because of that, I have had to adapt, and that part of the year is my "Single-Parent Block". As the kids have grown, it has become easier, but it is still an intense block for all of us. We do eventually join my husband in Colorado, but the intensity of his job is not conducive to much family time.

I have to say, however, that I have also been able to immerse myself in my writing during the "Husband-Working Block". When my husband is home, I want nothing more than to hang out with him regularly and laugh often. When he is gone, I shut myself up in my room and I don't feel guilty about spending hours writing.

Block two starts when we return from Colorado. This block includes my work, and unfortunately overlaps the Pittsburgh section of block one, but it is a truly enjoyable part of my year. It is the intense college soccer season for the team I coach, and that lasts from mid-August through mid-November. There is an intense need for childcare coordination and scheduling, but it has gotten easier with practice.

Once the "Husband-Working Block" and the "Wife-Coaching Block" are done, we head into the "Freezing Hockey Block." That third block is when my husband telecommutes for his real job and coaches college hockey in the afternoons. He and I can do regular breakfasts, workout during the day and then get the kids shuffled everywhere they need to go. All three of the kids want to skate and play next year, so that block will be busy with ice rinks, and frozen ponds, skate-sharpenings and practices. It is my favorite block of the year.

Then there is Block Break...Frank style. When the "Freezing Hockey Block" is over, we have some time in March before my spring season and before my husbands' departure. Just like in college, we absolutely make the most of our block breaks!

It is definitely not the typical household, but just like CC, atypical can be great. We soak up the variety that each block brings, and we have the luxury of saying that the block will eventually end. We trudge through those blocks that are difficult because we know they are not going to last forever. We can see the new block on the horizon and the block break out in the distance. It is not a lifestyle that suits everyone, but what I wonder is whether my husband and I would live like this had we not made the decision to attend CC? Who am I kidding...if either of us had chosen not to go to CC, we never would have met, and I can hardly fathom what my life would be like. College decision... schmollege decision. It doesn't really matter, right!?!

Wilt thou fan me on facebook?

2010-04-12T21:02:00.000-07:00

It had to have been easier for him, right? Shakespeare was able to simply embrace his genius and worry about writing. For him it was about the quill and ink, the storytelling and characters and getting the plays ready to present on stage as soon as possible. He didn't have to build an online platform, upload scenes on youtube, twitter his mind-blowing tweets in less than 120 characters, update his status regularly on facebook, or religiously follow the blog posts of fellow writers.

I envy him.

Sure, it would have been hard to have had to write everything by hand. To pore over each letter in hopes that the ink would outlast the creative inspiration and that the wick of the candle would burn the entirety of a writing session. He may not have had internet or word processing to ease the process, but he had the glorious experience of complete immersion in the presentations of his writing. The plays were written, sometimes collaboratively with other poets, sometimes with scenes that had been changed the day of a performance, but always with words as the center. It is no longer an option for the modern writer.

If he were around today, I do wonder how Shakespeare would handle the modern media battle.Would he be writing poetry or screenwriting for the next blockbuster? Would his work be presented on stage or online? Would he find his niche with novels or would he be satisfied with regular blog posting? I wonder. I suppose what is most interesting is the fact that a man who has been dead since 1616 has over 35,000 fans on his facebook fan page. He is popular and his writing is read all over the world. Not because he is good at building an online profile and not because he navigates the web well. Shakespeare is still popular because the writing is genius and the words will eternally retain their power.

In line with how Shakespeare has always inspired me, I did a little experiment this weekend. I went back to my poetry...the hand-written kind, and I made an attempt (albeit a rather poor one) to voice what I think Shakespeare might say today. To all of you well-read Shakespeare experts, I apologize for my hack job, and yes, I know it is not in pentameter. My computer was acting up...while the tv blared in the background...and my cell phone was ringing off the hook. Next time I'll pull out the quill and ink, light a candle and unplug everything.

'Tis greater to be fanned than to be followed

Though both give needed weight to labored words.

At night I toil with quill and pen to save them;

Ideas...some profound and some absurd.

I am but a mere blink if no one knows me.

If stories go unheard...have they been told?

'Tis not that I can help but try to tell them;

The stories of the meek... the wild... the bold.

The words; they are the true unfailing comrads

For them I'll suffer through what I must do.

To upload scenes onto the youtube webpage

To tweet and link and blog...I'll suffer through.

But know the words are why I'll often visit,

The pages and the words from friend and foe.

'Tis how I know my life's been lived with meaning

And where I'll put the words and let them go.

Tomboys are the Real Sissies

2010-04-08T09:21:00.000-07:00

It has been about a month since I started my slow conversion from tomboy to girlie girl, and I wanted to update you on my progress. I'm not doing so well. Sure, I've done my hair and put on clothes other than sweats, and I've made an effort to apply make-up in the places it is supposed to go, but I'm pretty sure that people can tell I'm just a tomboy in dress-up clothes. When I sat down to list the activities that would likely move me from just pretending to really pursuing full girliness, I started to get a pit in my stomach. One, it would dip into the college funds we have set up for the kids, and two, it would hurt!

Women are masochistic! Think about all the things we do in the name of beauty. High heels are the most ridiculous foot accessory. Not only can you not do any sports in them, but I for one, can hardly walk! Then there is the waxing. I do pluck (my eyebrows), so I can put up with small amounts of pain, but the thought of the full brow waxing or the upper lip rip...ahh! Don't get me started on the bikini wax. I start to well up a little bit just thinking about it! Botox, implants, make-up tattoos, piercings, laser hair removal, and liposuction are all part of the full transformation, and I'm not sure I'm up for it.

I'm starting to wonder if I might have gotten into the game just a little too late. Maybe if I had started in heels as a five-year-old, I would be able to play sports in them by now. If I had done child beauty pageants instead of soccer tournaments I would know how to apply make-up, accessorize effectively and walk like a lady. Can you teach an old tomboy new girlie girl tricks? Maybe, but I am finally declaring that I may not want to be as girlie as the girliest of girls.

As a result of these revelations, I have come up with a spectrum of girliness, and my new goal is to just move further down the scale knowing that I am NEVER going to reach the pinnacle.

I hope I will eventually land somewhere between girl and girlie girl. I enjoy so many of the things that girlie girls do. Manicures, pedicures and massages rock. I enjoy having someone do my hair, and one of my new favorite things to do is sit and chat while femininely sipping my coffee. I do hope, however, that I'll start to enjoy shopping. I hate to shop, but I know that in order to move up the girlie scale, I am going to need to improve my look with newly purchased items. I just know that I don't want to spend money on something that brings me pain. While I may actually try the eyebrow and lip waxing, I am doubtful that I will adopt any other pin-pricking activities. I am admittedly just a little too wimpy. I guess it helps that I have a standing date with someone who will take me out in sweats and a baseball cap or in heels and a dress. For him, and for me, I still feel compelled to make subtle improvements so that when I do put on the heels, I actually look like I know what I am doing.

Being a girl is hard, adopting a girlie girl lifestyle is harder, but as a self-described tomboy, I am too stubborn to give up. There is lots of work left to do, but the process has been both fun and eye-opening, and I will of course keep you updated

Hope for the Lazy Parent

2010-04-05T20:05:00.000-07:00

What a relief! Smart people say that it is okay to be a lazy parent. I have occasionally used the excuse of fatigue because we have too many children, but now I can justify just letting the kids roam wild because studies say it is better for them in the long run.

Alison Gopnik, a professor of psychology at the University of California- Berkley has discovered, through her research, that young children learn more from each other than they do from structured adult instruction. Her assertion is that a child's brain is wired to develop through free play, and when adults intervene with that process they are actually stunting the growth of the kids.

So, now I have something to cling to when I get the glaring I'm-a-better-mom-than-you looks when I take my kids to the playground. I let my kids play. I let them fight (argue) with each other and occasionally with the other kids they meet. They know better than to come whining to me, because my usual response is..".you guys work it out." They have my permission to come get an adult opinion if they have tried all of their strategies first, and there is no middle ground. I let them lose when they are playing games, and if there is an element that they cannot scale on their own, I will often tell them that if they can't get up it...it wasn't meant for them. I let them make the mistakes that Gopnik argues they are wired to experience. She has found that the mistakes and the freedom are what makes the connections for kids in their development. Who knew that the experts were the kids themselves?

I've never really been that parent who jumps in and controls a playground conversation, and I have occasionally been annoyed by the hovering parent who does. I want to tell them, "they'll work it out, just give it a second." Now I know that those parents who jump in are taking a chance to learn away from my kids, and I wonder if I might have to get up off my observatory post to say something; not to the kids, but to the parents. I hope not! As long as there are no punches being thrown and the rocks stay where they are supposed to be, there is no real need for adult involvement, and I hope the word gets out to all the adults that we have scientific permission to get back to hanging on the outskirts. The kids have got it. They'll be fine...no, better than fine...all they need is for us to get out of their way. They need to play, and we need to let them.

Postcards from Spring Break

2010-04-02T06:24:00.000-07:00

It has been a glorious three weeks...okay, I'm lying a little, but it has been a pretty good break with the three sprouts home from school, Pappa Sprout done with hockey, and some time to actually bond as a family. There have been snippets of experiences that I felt would be best shared in short letter format, so here it goes...

Dear Pappa Sprout,
I love that you love to do projects, and those stairs to the dock look absolutely amazing. I do wish you would have warned me, however, that I would feel like my heart was going to explode out of my chest when I watched you put the dock in... you know, the one that should have been put in by three grown men...I am glad that the torn material was your waders and not the skin and muscle that is just scratched and terribly bruised.

Dear Lake Wildlife,
You know who you are. You trumpeter swans... you eagles...you loons...you ducks...you geese...you other diving bird with the mohawk that I don't know your name...you little bird that flew into our big picture window...and even you turkey vultures. Thank you for the amazing production the last few days. It was well-choreographed, highly entertaining and a huge part of why our kids love going to the cabin.

Dear Elderly Cabin Neighbors,
I am glad that you are okay. I hadn't realized that your dog took a walk on a moving iceberg, and got stranded out on the lake. I would bet he was glad to see you when you got out there on your inflatable boat to rescue him. I do hope he is not too traumatized by witnessing both of you falling out of the boat as you went to grab him. Thank goodness you were all in the boat by the time the fire truck arrived.

Dear Next-of-kin to Mr. Squirrel,
I am sorry I smooshed your friend. It was totally his fault though. He broke the agreement. The one that says, once you start crossing the road you need to just keep going all the way to the other side. He started across the road, I slowed, and then he changed his mind about what his job was supposed to be and he turned back around... right into MY wheel. RIP Mr. Squirrel.

Dear Mother Nature,
You were awesome these past few days. Really?! Seventy-five on April 1st in Minnesota? Way to go! You did a great job at the cabin too. Phenomenal full moon, warm enough weather to let us watch crashing icebergs, and time outside without coats. It just about makes up for the bitter cold you put us through in the winter. Thanks!!

Dear Lady Jogger without a Sportsbra,
I commend your efforts for being out there running. I appreciate that what was in your covered stroller was probably a really tiny baby, and you are back out exercising again. Take it from me...running while you are a newly nursing mother is a bad idea. The bras don't fit like they used to, and the tatas don't stay where they should. Taking nursing boobs out for a jog is painful for you...and your boobs. Take it slow. Your boobs will thank you.

Ride Along

2010-03-29T10:26:00.001-07:00

“I’m so glad I’m four!” Little Sprout excitedly proclaimed as she walked in an embrace with her big sister.

“I’m so glad too!” Middle Sprout said as she turned, smiling at me. The kids were bounding ahead of me, toward Little Sprout’s first roller coaster. She stood proudly at that measuring stick. Legitimately flat on her feet, but convincingly above the line.

We all knew what she was so excited about. For four years, Little Sprout has watched life happen. From her car seat. From the stroller. From my arms. But most importantly, from the side. She was along for the ride, but unable to be part of it. She has recently been allowed to be thrown in the mix, and it is thrilling to watch.

Anyone who has three or more kids can relate to the drama that plays out in most families.

I brought home kid number one and, aside from the terror of having no idea what I was doing, I had time, energy and intense interest in watching EVERY stage of development and growth. I remember, vividly, filing his fingernails for the first time. Fascinated by the tiny fingers and inexplicable cutting power of those all-too-flexible nails. I documented him sitting up, lunging to crawl, actually crawling, cruising on furniture, taking his first step, learning to eat with a spoon and so many things in between.

Kid two came on the scene, and although it took more energy, I was still able to note the big changes. And although, I didn’t document as much, not as many pictures or journal entries, each milestone was noted and celebrated with her big brother. “Look…she is crawling. Look… she is standing up. Look…she can pull your hair.”

By the time kid three came on the scene, there was just too much activity in the house to notice the milestones. I realized how much I had missed when I saw Little Sprout walk into the kitchen one day, grab down a box of cereal and walk to the cupboard to get herself a bowl. “When did you learn to do that?” I thought.

It’s not that I wanted to miss her milestones, but that is the unfortunate lot of the third kid. The third kid doesn’t get to be enrolled in all the mommy and me classes, or have every moment documented along the way. The third kid gets to go to the activities for the first two kids. They get to take naps in the car and they learn to eat all sorts of places that are not their high chair. They know, at a very early age, what they cannot do…because only the big kids get to do it.

Finally, the playing field is starting to level out. With the change from winter to spring, we have discovered how much Little Sprout has grown over the last five months. She is big enough to ride her sister’s bike now. She is big enough to ride in a booster car seat. She is big enough to ride the roller coaster at the Mall of America. But most of all, she is no longer just along for the ride.

Let's Talk about Sex ...Maybe?

2010-03-26T07:25:00.000-07:00

It is happening in fits in starts in our house. Not the sex...but the talking about sex. Our oldest, Big Sprout, will be turning ten in May, and he is wise to the ways of the sensual world. Our conversations with him (now let's be fair...they are really MY conversations with him) have been happening since about this time last year. He doesn't want to talk about it every night, but when there is something that relates to that topic that he wants to clarify, he usually pulls me aside and says, "Hey mom, I need to talk to you before I go to bed."

The initial talks included correcting the misinformation from classmates and friends, clearly explaining the mechanics and answering the questions. Always followed with a reminder, "Now you know...sex is for making babies, and you really don't want to be making babies until you are grown and married." Talk over.

One of my favorite questions happened post-warning.

"Okay mom, I know. I do have one more question though," he looked confused. "I understand how this whole thing works, but there is one thing that I just don't get."

"What is it, hon?" I said, bracing myself to supply more detail.

"What do the boobs have to do with it? I know they have something to do with all of it, but I just don't see what they have to do with making babies."

Great question, I thought. What in the world do the boobs have to do with it? I stammered for a second explaining the functionality of the breasts post-baby, and he interrupted me and reiterated.

"No...I know that, I am talking about during the....you know...during the...making of the baby."

"Well, as far as the use while...um...making the baby. Well, um...." and then it came to me, "I know how I can explain this. Remember when we were at the zoo (totally the reason I take my kids to the zoo!) and we saw that male peacock?"

"Yeah, I remember," looking even more confused. He was trying to connect the boobs to peacocks and then to sex and I was sure I was the best mom ever.

"Remember what I told you about his REALLY colorful feathers. What did he use them for?"

He sat for a second, and then the light of understanding came clearly to his eyes. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. "He used the feathers to attract the female."

"Yes," I nodded with the now-you-see-the-connection-right-buddy nod. "Well, I guess you could say that women use their boobs the same way."

"Oh! I get it now." And then the slightly embarrassed giggle followed. I can only imagine the misinformation he shared with his classmates after that one!

No, I'm just kidding. I honestly don't think he talks about it too much with his friends, but if he did share any feathery details after that conversation, those kids have grown by nearly a year by now, and any confusion they still have about sex is completely not my fault.

I do have another challenge on my hands, however. Last night, while watching NCAA basketball, one of those commercials came on with the disclaimer that if you have your erection for more than four hours go to an emergency room. I love how they reach their target audience. Anyway, Big Sprout scooted over close to me on the couch, and because his sisters were sharing the recliner they couldn't hear him ask,

"But mom, the people are so old?" I hadn't really been watching the commercial, so I had to glance up to see what he was talking about. He continued, "they would be dead by the time their kid was in college," he calculated.

I laughed. My teaching had reached my pupil. Now I had to correct the information that I had supplied.

"Oh. It doesn't matter if they're old," I laughed with him. "And I am definitely going to write a blog about this...is that okay?" thinking as I said that, that maybe he could read my explanation.

So here is my explanation:

People are interested in sex their entire lives. They think about it and learn about it well before they should be doing it, and after the baby-making phase has come and gone, well, they still do it. It is an expression of love and should always be done in love. So I stick by my original instruction, " "Now you know...sex is for making babies, and you really don't want to be making babies until you are grown and married. And then, I want to add, when you are grown and married and you are done making babies...then you are simply making love."

This post has been approved by Big sprout.

Key Word

2010-03-25T09:09:00.000-07:00

It's time. I have resisted it...made excuses to avoid it and put a ton of things in my own way to keep it from happening. It's a wrestling match that I've been having with myself for years. Control the words. Harness the words. Pass them out in small parcels, but carefully. I've become bored with caution.

I knew when I was seven that words were powerful. I remember, vividly, the red Annie diary I kept. I wrote about the boys who ran from me and the heartbreak that only a seven-year-old would know. I wrote sentence after sentence, empowered by the freedom that only letters can provide. The best part about that diary was that I could lock it up and keep the words safe. I think part of me has continued to write like that: locking away parts of it because I'm more comfortable that way. I am ready to unlock the diary.

Those of you who know me may be confused by this revelation. "You write all the time, and you've shared everything all along," I can hear you saying. That's true... and untrue. I have shared the true stories, using the words to control how they have been shared. I have to finally admit, however, that I have been holding out. Locked away have been stories and characters. They are the unreal kind, and the kind that can potentially take on a life of their own. They are of my sole creation and terrifying to explore. Terrifying because there is not the safety of the truth. Scary because it makes me vulnerable.

When people read stories, the true kind, they have an emotion about one part or the other. They either react to the story or to the writing that creates it. If I couple the two together, and present both the story and the creation, any rejection falls firmly on me. I'm ready for that. My approach has changed over the last few months and I have started to recognize when I write for writing's sake and when I write to just get words out there.

I'm going to give my energy to writing for writing's sake, and I am going to unlock that world I've avoided. My non-fiction proposal still floats out there, and now that I am feeling pulled toward new projects, it is Murphy's Law that I will be pulled back to finish that book. If that happens, I will do that, but in the meantime, I am putting the key in the lock and letting the pages fall where they may.

As Markus Zusak wrote in The Book Thief (truly one of the best books I think I have ever read), "...there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing."

Competitive Cleaning

2010-03-23T09:37:00.000-07:00

"Hey Mom! I said I was going to clean the playroom! Big Sprout is cleaning the playroom so I can't! You need to stop him!" Middle Sprout yells at me.

"Just help him, you can get a bead too!" I remind her.

Yes, it is another form of tattling, but one that I have been able to nip in the bud, and to be honest, I love that they are fighting about this.

It has been a miraculous few days in our house. Traditionally with our long breaks (we are on a three-week spring break right now) I have struggled with keeping structure and sanity. The kids, although acting the way that kids should, get to be sooooo annoying. Annoying to each other...annoying to my husband....and eventually the whole thing starts to annoy me. I was a high school English teacher, and I really never had a problem with classroom management, but something crazy happens to kids when they are bottled up in their own home with their siblings. I've tried sticker charts, I've tried elaborate flow charts, I've tried a marble jar, I've tried privilege charts, I've tried dry-erase boards, I've tried bribing, I've tried yelling and screaming and I've even tried silence. All of those strategies have moderately worked, but not anything like these Decision Beads.

I cannot take credit for them. It was a craft that my kids did at church, but they have responded so well to the adaptation we've made here in our house, that I will definitely keep using them.

Here is how they work: Each kid has their own set of ten beads. There are a number of things that we have deemed "Bead Worthy". Here is the list:

Hygiene bead- brush teeth, brush hair, get dressed and shower/bathe without complaint
Room maintenance bead- make the bed and pick up the room
Set the table before a meal
Clear the table after a meal
Do the dishes
Sweep the kitchen floor and hallway
Clean the windows
Put laundry away
Clean the playroom
Take out the trash
Empty the dishwasher
Yard work x 20 minutes
Practice the violin x 30 minutes (a Big Sprout bead)
Exercise for 30-plus minutes
And anything that mom or dad needs help with that the determine is bead worthy

When one of those tasks is completed it is worth one bead for the older two and two beads for Little Sprout. They then slide the bead(s) to the end of the string to mark the completion. The goal for each kid is to get all ten beads moved by the end of the day. When that happens they earn $1 for the day and they are in good standing for privileges.

Good standing for privileges means that if we have an impromptu plan to watch a movie, or go get ice cream, or go to the park...as long as the kids are moving beads in the right direction, they have full participation. When the kids know that we are going to have a big privilege like a water park...the expectation is that they will have a certain number of days with ten beads. Any number they fall short of ten is worth five minutes out of the pool.

There are, unfortunately, "Bead Busters" too:

Whining
Fighting
Talking back
Rude attitude
Disobedience
Tattling

Taking part in any of the "Bead Busting" activities will warrant one warning, and if the behavior doesn't change, it results in the loss of a bead.

This system is working well for a number of reasons for us. Our kids are competitive, (likely the reason they fight so much with each other) so they want to be the first one to get all ten beads moved. Another reason it works is that there is freedom of choice. There is not an assigned chore for each kid, because they can choose which "Bead Worthy" activity they want to do, and if they choose to cooperate to get any of the tasks done, they speed up the process, and they can all earn a bead.

There have been some bumps so far, like convincing Big Sprout that handing his sister a napkin at dinner is not a "Bead Worthy" activity, but it is starting to really work. Chores are getting done, fights are curbing faster, and it is a relatively maintenance-free way to hold the kids accountable. I think I should make my own set of beads, and I am going to move one every day for making the good decision to use these beads in the first place!

To See or Not to See...

2010-03-22T04:49:00.000-07:00

What can a four -year-old see through her missing grandfather's binoculars? This weekend she saw eight bald eagles, a stump in the ice and when she turned to look at me, she aptly reported, "Mom! You're so big!"

It's a significant event when the world outside can be brought closer through the magnifying power of binoculars, but it is a bigger deal than that for me. See, those binoculars belonged to my dad. I know with one hundred per cent certainty that he has no idea that we have them, and I have to keep convincing myself that he would have no problem with the fact that we are putting them to use. I know in my heart of hearts that if I hadn't taken them out of a small box of my dad's belongings, they would likely have been lost years ago.

I snatched them, with other nostalgic items, when I helped my uncles to clean out one of the apartments that my dad left behind. Through the years, he has left other apartments behind, other boxes of belongings. Some of the boxes were saved by family members, but I know that other boxes of things have likely been lost forever. I knew then, what I know now: that my dad has no real need for binoculars,(or the chess board that I am using to teach my kids how to play) but that doesn't make the recent use of those things any easier.

I couldn't tell you the last time he used the binoculars. I only remember how he used to use them when I was a kid. My dad would take them to Broncos and CU Buffalo football games. I remember the black electrical tape that still holds the case together, and I can picture his younger, stronger hands opening the case to let me hold them...and look through them. I wanted to see what only the binoculars could show me. I worked at getting the two separate circles to join together so that what I was aiming at could be singularly focused. I couldn't do it very well as a kid, but it worked flawlessly for me this weekend.

So much has changed since my initial attempts with those binoculars. Well, for starters, I was the one sharing them with my own kids this weekend. My dad has been lost...and then found...and then lost...and then found again...over and over. I took the binoculars from him thinking I would just protect them for him for a while. He has not yet given me a reason to give them back. I wish more than anything he would call me up, screaming, that he wants them and that he has a million things he wants to do with them. I know that that is never going to happen. No one knows where he is right now. So, I emotionally cheer on my kids when they get the binoculars to work and something glorious gets bigger for them.

Those binoculars are safely shelved at our cabin right now, but I will likely bring them with us when we go to Colorado for part of this summer. There is a lot to look at there too. Also, if, by chance, no one has been able to find my dad by then, maybe I can station myself at a possible stomping ground and just look through those lenses for him. Maybe he could come into focus...just one more time. I'd love to see him again...even if it is on his terms.

I want to thank him. I want to thank him for the memories my family was able to make this weekend looking through those stolen binoculars. I want to thank him for the genes he contributed to help make our great kids with whom I get to share my life, and I want to tell him that there is still so much in the world worth looking at.

March Madness....Frank Style

2010-03-18T08:22:00.000-07:00

True, we are a hockey family...but that is by default. Actually, no, I take that back, it is my fault. If I had been paying attention and fallen in love with a basketball guy, we would most certainly be a basketball family. But, you can see how that story ended up, and I am destined to spend my life in sub-zero arenas at the crack of dawn.

Believe me, I've tried. We have three basketballs and I take the kids out to work on their dribbling. Big Sprout can actually shoot hard enough to play horse and around the world with me, and I have not given up hope that someone in this house will beg to play basketball. I take them to watch their friends play, looking for a spark of interest, and I would do everything I could to make basketball happen if they asked. I played basketball growing up, starting in probably third grade, and through high school. I even played for one year in college. A big part of me could argue that basketball was the sport I loved, but soccer was the sport that took me the furthest. So I have never fully abandoned my passion for basketball, and each year about this time, I get excited about the NCAA basketball tournament.

I admit that I know very little about the teams who have toiled and worked so hard to be counted among the sixty-four, but I will become an immediate fan at the first tip-off. Everyone in our house filled out a bracket this year...my attempt to recreate what my husband and I have occasionally experienced in Vegas. Nothing is quite like Vegas during March Madness, but we will make the most of it here too.

Middle Sprout picked her teams based on the names. If the name of a team sounded like or was the name of a friend of hers, or a place she knew...they got the nod. Her final four picks are: Northern Iowa, Wisconsin, Minnesota and Saint Mary's.

Little Sprout made her picks similarly, high-fiving her sister each time she accidentally picked the same team. She belly-laughed at the Butler match-up.

"Butt-ler?!" she picked.

"Yeah...maybe their mascot is the Butts," Big Sprout chimed in.

"What about between Sam-Houston and Baylor?" I asked Little Sprout.

"Damn-houston!" She giggled. We corrected her, and she has Sam-Houston winning it all. (One of her friends at school is named Sam)

Big Sprout was much more methodical. He studied the regional rankings and tried to pick who sounded like the strongest team. The mistake too many of us make who don't really know these teams. I know my bracket will be wrong and I'll excitedly cheer for teams I didn't even know existed, but that is the joy of March Madness.

March Madness rocks because of the comebacks...the last-second wins...the multiple overtimes and the emotion that comes with all of it. These college basketball players are the best players to watch. They have skill, talent and an unbridled passion for a game that I still love too. Some drama, for sure, but for me it is not at the disappointing level of the pros.

No, I am not going to tell you my picks yet...but I'll let you know who makes out the best in the Frank household. For now, we are preparing for the beginning of our weekend as a basketball family.

"Go, Butts!"

O'Everybody and O'Anybody's Irish on St. Patrick's Day

2010-03-17T20:07:00.000-07:00

"You'll be a McGuire tomorrow guys!" I excitedly told the sprouts last night before they went to bed.

"Will I feel different, Mom?" Little Sprout worriedly asked.

"Oh, maybe a little," I laughed. "You'll be more excited than usual, but other than that, you won't feel too different. Just make sure you find something green to wear right when you wake up so that you don't get pinched." I light-heartedly poked her.

Her worried expression returned and she said, "Pinch me? Who would want to pinch me?" She sounded panicked.

"Oh...don't worry honey! It's all for fun and you'll be in green, so no one is going to pinch you."

She relaxed and her eyes softened. She smiled with anticipation and she and I had finally arrived at the place I had hoped to be when I brought up the topic in the first place.

I love St. Patrick's Day! I want my kids to love it too, and each year I try to remind them of some of those fun genes I have passed down to them. They are a more diluted version of Irish than I am. They are 1/4 Irish, I am 1/2 and my dad is 100 per cent Irish. It was a sad day for me when I had to learn how to write Frank instead of the glorious McGuire that I had adored growing up. Don't get me wrong... I am very glad to be married to my husband, and to have his name, but Meagan Frank just doesn't have the same Irish ring.

So for one day a year, every person in our house is a McGuire.

In celebration of the day, I took the kids to St. Paul for the St. Patrick's Day parade. Who knew there were so many Irish people in Minnesota? So many, in fact, that I didn't find a parking space for nearly forty minutes of driving around and not until after the parade had actually started. I'll claim Irish luck that the spot we found was literally THE last spot in THE last garage I had agreed to try. We walked four blocks, found a small spot on the curb and watched the parade roll by.

There were green men and decked out strollers.

Flying leprechauns...

and a green-haired Elvis

Bagpipes, firetrucks, candy-throwers, dancers and bands.

But most of all there were groups of families and friends who walked behind a banner identifying themselves as the Irish among us.Growing up, not only did I go to the St. Patrick's Day parades in Denver, I was in a parade or two. I remember the matching sweaters and kilts my sisters and I wore and the scratchy hay that was our chair on the float. I had fun at the parades, but I never fully appreciated the holiday until recent years.

I'm proud to be Irish...not just because we throw great parties and laugh intensely at foolish behavior. And we do laugh...a lot! (maybe it's not such a good thing that we give ourselves so many reasons to be laughing) I'm proud because the Irish are a hard-working, hard-playing bunch. I think of scrappy tempers, boisterous conversations and smiling eyes. There are days I curse my Irish temper, but without it I truly feel I wouldn't have the passion I have for every other part of my life. I hope our kids will appreciate the parts of their personalities that were celebrated today.

Our cornbeef and cabbage dinner was fabulous, and the Killians has been a good way to end my Irish celebration. I am glad that I don't have to wait an entire year to be a McGuire again because our clan may not have had a sect marching in the parade today, but a whole bunch of us are gathering for a five-year reunion in July...and I can hardly wait.

Top o' the Morning to Ya'

2010-03-17T08:03:00.000-07:00

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Here is a cute Irish joke to set the tone for the day. I will post later about our day as McGuires.

An Irish political prisoner escaped from jail by digging a

tunnel that emerged in a school playground.

As he emerged to the open air he couldn't help shouting at a small girl,

"I'm free...I'm free."

"That's nothing," she said scornfully; "I'm four."

Please Pass the Snake

2010-03-16T19:32:00.000-07:00

This photo captures the moments just before my husband handed Big Sprout the garter snake that had eluded both of them for the better part of fifteen minutes. It was the third of three snakes that had emerged from the crack in our concrete on the front porch. A sure sign of spring and evidently a rite of passage too.

My husband had wrangled the first one, spurring courage in our oldest to follow suit. Big Sprout went after the second snake until he realized that she was quite a bit bigger than the first one and a whole lot more pissed off. I expertly determined that she was the mom, and the two smaller snakes that had come out of the hibernacula (my vocab word of the week) were her babies. I truly have no idea, but that was my way to feel less uncomfortable about the fact that there were snakes coming out from under the porch!

Snake two came up in a striking motion toward Big Sprout, and as the girls ran screaming down the driveway, my husband stepped in with the long stick and his gloves to grab her by the tail. She fought the capture much more than the first one did, and as she thrashed around, Big Sprout gingerly put out his hand asking if he could carry her to the marsh. My husband brought her closer to hand her off, and her sudden movements quickly changed my son's mind.

As my husband was depositing snake two in the marsh, Big Sprout worked up his courage again to go after the smaller remaining garter. His enthusiasm flushed the garter out and after two failed attempts to grab it, the snake disappeared into the large bush off to the side of the house.

"Hey, did you catch that last one?" Hubby asked as he came back around the front of the house.

"He's here in this bush, dad. He's right there! I see him! I see him! He's going your way!" Big Sprout enthusiastically reported.

Big Sprout flushed and Hubby scooped. The third snake was captured and the handoff was imminent.

"Can I take this one down to the marsh, dad?"

"Sure buddy. Come on over here, and I'll hand you the tail."

Despite the fact that Big Sprout nearly dropped the snake...twice...he finally had it and he bravely walked it away from the house. From father to son the snake had been passed, and with it a new confidence that hadn't been there before those three snake heads poked out from the concrete crack.

Just Give me the Control-top Panties!

2010-03-16T05:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a lesson in control. A reminder of how little I have and a challenge to attain much more than I want. It was the Monday at the start of our three-week spring break, and I had to play mom the whole day. That is a role that has some annoying tendencies, but I guess I have no choice but to keep playing my part.

"Children...will you please join us for a family meeting."

As we sat in the playroom/ husbands' office I reminded our oldest (at least five times) to stop rocking on the footrest of our rocking chair.

"Hey, Big Sprout, can you PLEASE stop throwing that ball against the wall so we can talk about life for the next three weeks."

I tried to control the meeting, so that I could get a handle on the schedule for the day and for the entire break. It sounds like I want control, but what I really want is for life to just happen and to enjoy the trip along the way, but because I am the mom in the house, apparently that is not an option. Through the morning, a series of instructions for any and/or all of the sprouts seem incessant.

"Hey, turn off the tv and take your laundry upstairs."

"No...you cannot have a snack, you didn't even finish your breakfast."

"When do you plan on practicing your violin?"

"Did you brush your teeth...this week?"

"Please take your shoes off BEFORE you track mud through the whole house."

"Stop grabbing your sister." "I don't care if she grabbed you first."

It's this crazy battle between acceptance of the many things in life over which I will never have control, and having to step in as the one in charge because I am totally supposed to be in control. I don't want to be "controlling", but if I don't take my job seriously, people could deem that my kids are "out of control", a designation of which I would never be proud. So I do what I can to "get those kids under control" and it rings in my ears like the nagging I cannot stand...but apparently I can't avoid.

"Big Sprout...you need to put your helmet on for our bike ride."

"We're not riding that fast," he argues. "I've gone without it before," pointing out the mistake I made letting him ride helmetless ...just around the lake.

"I know, but your sister needs to have hers on and that way you can ride even faster," I try to convince him, while in the back of my mind I remember a lifetime of riding bikes without a helmet.

He reluctantly straps the helmet, and I have gained control again. That is... until he decides to ride, with the posture of Eeyore, less than a mile an hour. I completely get it. I understand the angst of children as they grow through the necessary presence of parental control because they want desperately to be in charge of their own lives. I want that too, but that only happens over time...a part of life even moms can't control.

So I take control of the things I'm supposed to, and when that backfires...well, I open a bottle of wine. I didn't have control of the fact that schedules collided and Big Sprout was supposed to be in two places last night. It wasn't in my control that a church commitment had precedence over that district hockey game for him, a game I thought was supposed to be on Tuesday. And I definitely had no control over the fact that the team lost the game, ending their season. I didn't have a thing to do with the ending of the season, despite my son's argument that it was my fault, and that is about the time that I went to uncork a bottle and call in the relief mother to finish out the day.

I couldn't find anyone to take my place...and the sprouts were all in bed anyway, so I sat with hubby, sipping that uncorked bottle of wine (out of a glass of course!) laughing heartily at the movie Hangover. My job as a mother has no substitute, and I wouldn't want one, but because it is my job to claim and accept responsibility for practically every aspect of our kids' lives, I am totally taking credit when something goes well!

The Prodigal Sun Returns

2010-03-14T20:24:00.000-07:00

The clouds lifted today. After seven straight days of clouds, the sun broke through and burned them off. It wasn't supposed to be sunny today, but there will not be a hint of complaint from me about it. For the first time in probably 6 months I took a walk in just a t-shirt (I had pants on too)...and I didn't even have to pretend that I was warm enough. The sun-filled walk was the concluding activity to the time that my oldest and I had to spend, just the two of us. He rode his bike and I walked behind, but I think I'll count it as a walk together.

I don't get much time alone with my son. He is almost ten, and the older brother to two younger sisters, so my time is often crazily divided among the three of them. At the start of our twenty-four hours together there was not much said in the car. I must have missed when he started to be too big to simply chatter. He talked to me, but with a reservation that I had never really noticed before. I had to be more creative than usual to get him to talk about much.

He was better after he had a workout at his practice, and we enjoyed our dinner while watching basketball and eating wings. It became a bit more comfortable and the conversation brightened. As a special treat for our date night, and to fulfill a promise I had made to him, we went to the movie Avatar. We both loved it and continued talking and joking all the way home.

This weekend really was a homecoming of sorts. I remember, vividly, the night before my first daughter was born. Her brother and I had been running around the baseball bases during our pretend baseball game and I picked him up to look at the horses on the other side of the fence. He was so small then...just two...and I remember gentle tears rolling down my cheek as I hormonally reflected that he and I would likely not be alone much again. I was right.

It has been a long time, and he changes a lot between the times that we get to spend alone together. It will be a challenge, I am sure, in the next few years as he continues to change and I am even less important to him as a companion. I am challenged to welcome him home each time he returns...no matter who he is when he arrives.

I know that it is no accident that the reading and the homily at church today were actually about the Prodigal Son. I left challenged to live with the joy-filled heart of the forgiving father and offer open arms while running to greet a fallen child. When we exited the church, we found ourselves bathed in sunshine that hadn't been there when we went in. It was awe-inspiring and a reason to take my actual son on a walk around the lake...even if that meant I just followed behind him.

Can women be both creative and competitive?

2010-03-13T13:55:00.000-08:00

I think I must be going through a growth spurt. Can that still happen at age 34? Maybe there is a psychological development that happens the year you turn 35, and that is the reason for deep thoughts by yours truly. Okay, so you know that I am on this "remember you are a girl so act like one"- kick. I think it has triggered an area of my brain that hasn't been used before, and now out poureth the questions.

What are women generally into?...now asking this question is not meant to categorize or alienate or stereotype or any of those things that are definitely taboo. I appreciate the complexity of humanity, and especially the feminine portion, and I am open and willing to accept that no one person is simply defined (ok disclaimer done)...but what are those activities that are most often associated with women in our culture? Of the things I decided that are more by and for women, women seem to be more interested in creating things.

When I think of those things that are utterly girly, I think of frilly dresses and done-up hair. I think of Martha Stewart...flower arrangements and a five-course meal. Women enjoy crafting and scrapbooks, baking and accessorizing. Women do make-up and nails and the beauty of a space is generally the woman's responsibility. Gardening and care-taking, nurturing and multi-tasking.

Some guys are great at these things, and some women (like me) suck at a lot of them. Not because I want to suck, because I don't, but I think that because I went the competition route, I never really learned how to do or fully appreciate the creative stuff.

Build it..... or break it.
Cooperation versus competition.

Relationships based on cooperation and creation can make and build great things. Relationships steeped in competition are difficult and often counter-productive. Maybe the problem with society is not that women have gone back to work and the children are raised differently than they used to be, but maybe, just maybe the problem is how and why women are in the work place to begin with. We are there because we are competing more than we are cooperating now. Seventy years ago, when women rarely worked outside of the home, the collective female energy was just that, collective and more singularly focused.

Back then, the focus was to achieve more opportunities and just look what amazing and driven women "created". Women now have the opportunity to be and do anything we want. For me personally, I thought that what I wanted was to compete and battle and win every chance I got. The problem is that now I don't have that circle of women friends that I might have had if I had gone another route. The women I played with and against through the years on my sports' teams are mostly just acquaintances now. There are a few close friends, but not many. Too much carried with us maybe, from when we battled for playing time, or when I was asserting my competitive nature more than my cooperative/nurturing one.

The movement on behalf of Susan G. Komen is a great example of what can be created with collective energy. We need more of that. We are smarter now, we have more opportunities now and we can change the world in amazing ways. Women have spent a lot of time inserting ourselves into the man's more competitive world, and we have proven that we can absolutely do it. I fear that the cooperative creativity may ultimately suffer because competition has started to make its presence known in everything we do. We compete for higher sales of make-up and cooking items and fragrant candles. We try to have the biggest and most popular websites and businesses. Competition is necessary, and many women would not be where they are without the drive to compete, I am just wondering if we might not build even bigger and better things if we weren't competing against each other.

Hmmmmm.....I wish I were a kid......Hmmmmm

2010-03-11T14:14:00.000-08:00

I want to be a good mom... I really do. I wake up each morning thinking about how I can be the mom our three sprouts deserve. I would bet that 90 per cent of my energy, thoughts and time revolve around maintaining, feeding, appropriately clothing, emotionally guarding and effectively preparing our kids for life and its pitfalls. It's only occasionally that I have to seriously think about whether I am achieving my mothering goals. Today was one of those occasions.

All three of the sprouts had school today, and that means that our littlest was at preschool. She goes two days a week, and we have been thrilled that she loves it as much as she does. She has become more and more excited when she knows she has a school day coming up, and until recently I saw that as a great thing.

"We are helping her spread her wings," I proudly remarked, softly wiping tears away.

Okay, so I never really said that, and I am not that sentimental about it, yet, but I have noticed her growing and changing the last few months. What I am not sure about is if the growth is an indication of our success as parents, or yet another example of our shortcomings.

Littlest sprout is the funniest person in our house. She is random, and her timing is truly hilarious. I am going to learn a lot from her. About two weeks ago she started meditating during her lunch.

Absolutely true account:

Sitting on her stool, eating lunch, she put her fingers together and closed her eyes.

With long, drawn out hums she started, "Hmmm....I am eating my sandwich.......Hmmmmm......I have nothing to do today......Hmmmm....I wish I was at school today.......Hmmmmm......I'm still humming.......Hmmm.......the end."

My husband and I, who are often both home for lunch, laughed with and at her for her meditation, but there was a definite twinge of guilt. She is our third, and the first kid who hangs out at home with us at the age of four. When her siblings were her age there was always another kid in the house to play with. Not for her. My hubby and I try. We take turns playing games with her and doing puzzles and going through school work, but we are not children, and we do not provide what only kids can. Endless silliness.

So, I started to schedule more playdates. More outings. More reasons to be distracted from the fact that she misses her brother and sister. It works to keep her from asking incessantly "What am I going to do now?" So, until the phone call from her teacher today, I thought things had gotten better, and she thought I was a good mom.

"Hi, this is Miss Teacher, I am just calling because Littlest Sprout just isn't herself today. She says her tummy hurts and she is looking like she might just need to cuddle up for a nap at home."

"Oh, sure," I compassionately respond with eyebrows of concern, "I can be right there."

As I head to put on my shoes and bring home my little sweetheart...the phone rings again.

"Um, hi, this is Miss Teacher again, I was just telling Littlest Sprout that you were coming to get her and she said that she wasn't going home."

Laughter first and then, "so she doesn't want to come home, huh? I believe it. Do you need her to come home?" Picturing the temper-tantrum-drag-out.

"No, she isn't running a fever or anything, but she says that she wants to stay with her friends."

I hang up laughing at the picture in my head of an ornery four-year-old with hands on her hips refusing to have to go hang out with her parents. She already thinks we are not cool, and we have a really long time to be the last people she wants to hang with.

"She's happily spreading her wings," I comment to convince myself. Hmmmmm.....I think I'll take up mommy meditation....hmmmmm

Bottled Laughter

2010-03-10T13:42:00.000-08:00

Maybe it really is too gray to be creative...or funny. It is the second day of a four-day rainstorm that everyone I ran into today knows is supposed to drive our moods. It seemed like the people I encountered had taken a pledge: we, the people, of rain-soaked (still dirty-snow-covered) Minnesota, do solemnly swear that this weather sucks the life out of us and we are going to withhold laughter for a nicer day.

I am not sure why I want to laugh really, really hard today. Maybe it is the crazed spring fever laugh that sounds more maniacal than genuine that feels the urge to come out. But a good laugh does wonders, and I know that is what I need. Lots of funny things happen in this house on a regular basis, but now, when I need it the most... nothing is really all that funny!

We had an average and uneventful day, mimicking the drab weather. So, I better do something about this. I wish I had a clown costume that I could put on. Complete with wig, red nose, face paint, an obnoxious pair of overalls and big shoes. I would love to just walk through the mall. No performance. No attempts to scare small children, just go from store to store, peruse like nothing is happening, buy anything that looks interesting and walk with bags to the next store. Then maybe I could buy an ice cream cone and sit on a bench with my legs crossed and slowly lick my frozen treat.

But since I don't have a clown costume, and my kids are going to be home from school in like twenty minutes, I need something else for a chuckle. Oldest sprout has a hockey game tonight....one of those that I am supposed to seriously think is like the most serious and important event of the week. (please note sarcasm...he is 9 and I wish the tone of his "games" felt way less serious than they often do). I fear if I do something to give myself a good laugh, one (or several) of the parents will think that it is not that funny at all, and I could cause more seriousness as a result.

So, I guess I will just have to have some internal laughs until I can get a good flick on later tonight so I can laugh this off, and I promise that I will report if anything actually funny happens between now and tomorrow!

Working it all out

2010-03-08T19:25:00.000-08:00

My Shopping Advisor

Strenuous workouts are out. Shopping is in.
Conversations on a run are out. Chatting while sipping tea is in.
Burning major calories is out. Trying not to burn a new recipe is in.
Scheduling my rest day is out. Planning a walk is in.
Climbing trees is probably out. Planting trees is definitely in.

So, things have had to slow down for me over the last couple of weeks, and I am starting to appreciate the new things I get to do because of it. It's not simply a coincidence that when my athletic prowess came to a screeching halt (okay...so it halted years ago and it has just taken this long for my head to catch on) that I am finally invested in pursuing more feminine activities. I've lived my world in the male-dominated sporting and athletic arena, and I feel like I am visiting a foreign country. The only problem is that I don't know the language, and everyone knows I am a tourist.

I took my four-year-old shopping with me the other day to buy a new pair of jeans. I wanted fashionable and comfortable, and definitely girly. I walked into an extremely trendy store and I am pretty sure silent alarms went off in the headsets of the employees.

"Intruder...intruder...NOT a shopper!!! Everyone look at her with the "Pretty Woman" stare."

Right about the time I started filing through the clothes at the second rack I realized that I was being watched. I glanced up to see three of the employees, folding clothes at three separate areas, staring at me with a look of disgust.

Panic began to set in and I literally started to sweat.

Thinking to myself..."what the hell does the 30L mean or the 34 r? Since when did womens' pants start sizing like men's? I have no idea what size I would be of these." I look up again, and it is absolutely obvious that these women can read my mind, and they are annoyed that I'm even thinking it.

I started to shift my eyes around the store, and I realized that I was the oldest person in there by probably 10 years. It's not that they knew I couldn't shop, they just knew I didn't know WHERE to shop...and it definitely wasn't supposed to be there. They knew better than to greet me and it was much easier for me to slink out with my daughter, resigning myself to the fact that I will likely not be in a store like that again until my daughters are old enough to be trendy. Maybe if I was a more seasoned shopper and looked comfortable doing what I was trying to do, I could have gotten away with shopping there. Not as a novice!

When I went to a different store that was better suited for me, I was able to ask the questions I needed about the sizing for pants and I learned how to convert the European sizing to the numbers that I had always known. The employee was incredibly helpful, and I was impressed when she offered to start a room for a different woman in the store who had piles of clothes on her arms.

"Sure, your room will be right back here, and your name is on the door."

I think I might have had an "I don't usually shop" sticker on my back because she didn't ask to start a room for me...she let me find my own way to the dressing room and she never asked my name. Maybe when I go in next time, I will go without a kid on my arm and I will pile with a ton of clothes to see if the reaction is different. I started sweating...again...as I hurriedly tried on the clothes, because I was starting to think I didn't belong there either.

I have likely burned more calories shopping and curling my hair in the last week than I have been able to burn lightly working out, because for me, I am learning a new language, new techniques, and new strategies because this whole girly girl thing is still "work" for me.

Conversion of a Tomboy

2010-03-03T08:44:00.000-08:00

I just finished three laps around the house with a book on my head. That's what proper ladies do, right? The last few days I have conducted an experiment and I have "done my hair" every morning. That may not seem monumental to most women out there, but for me, it is extraordinary. I am in the process of converting from tomboy to lady, and it has been an interesting journey so far.

I should probably tell you a little bit more about how deep-rooted my tomboy tendencies are. My flashes of childhood memories include: playing football with the boys at recess, sitting inappropriately in a dress on the bottom bleacher at a concert, being confused with a boy because my Dorothy Hamill haircut didn't make me look much like Dorothy Hamill, playing basketball on a boys' team through sixth grade, beating a guy friend of mine in a basketball three-point shooting contest in middle school, being the first girl to buy a guys letter jacket because I thought the girls' jackets looked lame, choosing a soccer or basketball game over a dance or a date and choosing my hairdos based on what would be least disruptive to competition.

Now, don't get me wrong, I did actually go to some dances and I wore dresses when I went, plus I eventually grew my hair out to be really long, but I have not had a whole lot of practice at correct make-up application, or how to dress in clothes/shoes that are both comfortable and fashionable. I seemed to be feminine enough in college to garner the attention of my husband, and a few other boys along the way, but I am NOT what you would consider a girly-girl, and I have spent quite a bit of time the last few days exploring why.

When you spend as much time as I did, "playing with and against the boys" you learn a lot about what makes guys tick, and I know that is why I am more comfortable watching sporting events with guys than I am hanging out with the women who attend. For the first time in my life, though, I want to move camps, and I am truly unsure how to do that gracefully.

I was the girl who made fun of the girly-girls (arguing that I could probably beat them up anyway), but I am starting to understand why I might have been so adamantly tomboyish...and it is time to embrace a change.

God has blessed me with arguably two of the most girly-girls in the world, and I am fascinated by how comfortable they are in their own skin. My littlest notices shoes and clothes and the combination of colors that was completely lost on me. Then she comes down to twirl for her dad, and I understand the difference between the two of us.

My dad... encouraged football, teaching me running patterns in the backyard.
My husband... sings and dances with his girls.
My dad... was only around if I was playing or he was coaching a sporting event.
My husband... goes on daddy/daughter dances, drives the girls to choir, coaches their teams and tells them all the time how cute they are....plus that he loves them just the way they are.
My dad, as he struggled with his own demons, likely didn't realize how much I was working to get his attention, and I was unfortunately gifted to keep doing it.

Of course I am thankful for how being a tomboy has taken me so many places, but I am ready to embrace more of who I have always been.

So, yes, it is awkward to give myself permission to do my hair, and to shop for cute clothes (I am used to workout clothes and not always matching), but I want to explore that buried part of who I am. I wrote down a list of things I would like to do to adopt a more feminine image, and my husband started reading it to me on the phone yesterday when he thought it was my grocery list:

Do my hair every day!
Buy some colorful and fashionable clothes (I hope I know what I'm doing)
Get a fitted bra (I own two bras that kindof fit, and otherwise I wear sportsbras)
Invest in real make-up (with colors that actually go together)
Walk like a girl (practicing with a book if I need to)
Sit like a girl (remembering that I am not on a basketball bench waiting to go in)

He admitted that he would be excited if I could find all of those things at a grocery store. I looked....no luck. I'm going to have to work to break my own habits. Some habits are harder than others to shed, and this is going to be a real challenge for me, but I am up for it. Plus, as an aside, I will punch anyone who has anything mean to say about it.

Timing is Everything....And the Sunshine Award Goes to...

2010-02-27T22:14:00.000-08:00

This has been a hard week for me, and the intrusion of something nice could not have been better timed. It's just when I think I am at my lowest, when I get a gentle nudge of positive reinforcement, and I start to think that what matters to me might actually matter to someone else too. I want to thank Sandie, at http://bumplesfamilyfirst.blogspot.com/
for giving me this Sunshine Award for both this blog and my Choosing to Grow-Through Marriage blog. I think in my heart of hearts that writing, and moving others through writing, is what I want to do with my life. I don't know how that is all going to come together, but I trust that it will, and when I am recognized by another gifted and talented woman, it inspires me to keep working.

It takes time and energy to build positive connections, and I am thankful for the many amazing contacts I have made along this journey so far. In recognition of how sunshine has been shared with me, I would like to recognize, and similarly award the following blogs:

http://hollybowne.blogspot.com/

http://unscriptedlife.com/

and http://kitchenwindow-sunflower.blogspot.com/

There is something amazingly powerful about the internet, and the beauty that women spread because of it is truly awe-inspiring. It is only right to continue moving forward with a heart full of gratitude.

Sometimes God's Answer is NO

2010-02-25T20:19:00.000-08:00

I don't think I have spent my life praying for the ridiculous or the absurd, but I admit that I have often prayed for divine favors that are just not going to happen. I've been like an insolent, selfish child making demands for things that I want, but that I guess, as I walk away with head down and shoulders slumped, I don't need.

My prayers too often sounded like this:

"Lord, please take away the parts of life that are hard."

"Lord, please keep our family perfectly healthy and happy."

It's not that I think God isn't listening, but I think, and especially recently, that sometimes God's answer is simply "no". I imagine that, just like I know my answer to my kids' pleading for extra cookies just before bedtime is not going to be what they hope, He listens to my pleadings patiently, knowing all the while that the answer is no. He knows about the plan for my life, and even though I still think I'm in control, it is the selfish child in me who wants to orchestrate the plan alone...and starting with my pleadings.

Lately my prayers have been even more specific:

"Lord, please make this pain go away."

"Lord, please give me a clear and distinct sign about what you want me to do with my life."

Today was arguably one of my worst days in a while. I anxiously anticipated the MRI report from my doctor. I wanted to know the information so that I could start making plans to make myself better. It wasn't the report that I had expected, and some things are going to have to change in my life. My back is not in good shape, and some of what is wrong, cannot be treated. I have two bulging disks and a number of mildly herniated disks., indicating a condition I have likely had since childhood. The MRI did not take pictures of the upper part of my back, but the report suggested that in all likelihood I have similar herniated and compromised disks higher on my spine.

"So, what does that mean?" I asked.
"Well, it means that when you exercise strenuously, you are going to hurt, and you are suffering from a flare-up with your bulging disks."
"Oh, I could have told you that, but we can make it stop hurting right?"
"The pain can be managed, but it is dependent upon what sorts of things you do, if you are ever going to be without pain," she looks at me knowingly.
I sit quietly for a minute.
"So, I can run right?"
"You can, but it's probably not a great idea. Swimming would probably be good for you. Walking. Yoga. And try to avoid anything that you have to twist because that is going to make you hurt the worst."

I make mental notes of the things I do that include twisting: soccer, hockey in the basement, golf, tennis, aerobics.

I cried my way home, talking to my family about the fact that I am not going to be the golf/tennis playing senior citizen that I had hoped. Beyond that, I know that I can no longer keep trying to do the things I have always done.

My mom pointed out that I have writing to fall back on if I cannot do what I love to do physically, and I reluctantly agreed. The physical and the philosophical are both such important parts of who I am, that I don't want to give up on either.

I think to myself, "well, maybe this is the sign I've been looking for as an answer to my question about what I should do with my life."

Then I came home to find rejection letter number two for my book proposal.

Awesome.

Ok Lord, so your answer about an easy fix to pain relief...no. A clear sign about what to do with my life...no. But I know in my heart of hearts that God's answer does not end there. I know he is whispering..."not now, but I'll tell you what you need to know later. Just trust in me."

Surprise!

2010-02-24T08:55:00.000-08:00

http://www.hulu.com/watch/16388/saturday-night-live-surprise-party <

If you haven't yet met Sue, the over-enthusiastic surprise party planner, you need to check out the SNL clip. She is a riot, and I ashamedly admit that I closely identify with her. I don't gnash my teeth or rub my hands raw in anticipation, but I absolutely love planning surprises. There is something about orchestrating a situation where you know that the end result is going to be joy-filled or happy, and watching it unfold for the unsuspecting recipient, makes me giddy.

As luck would have it, I have had two opportunities, in the last month, to surprise our kids with unexpected visitors. Both my brother and my sister have had to come to Minnesota for work, and for each visit, I wanted to do something special.

One activity that we often do with our kids is a clue hunt. We have played this game to celebrate holidays, to liven up birthday parties, and sometimes just for fun. The kids love this game. I give them a clue that leads them to a specific room in the house, and then they have to hunt for the clue that will take them to the next room. It truly does not take long to get it set up, and when the kids were home full time, we would often play the game over and over, simply moving where the clues were hidden. We started out by drawing pictures of the rooms, to writing the names of the rooms, and now we are at the stage where I give them hints, but they have to figure out the clue. At the end of the hunt there is always something fun, or sweet-tasting, and I love watching the kids run from room to room.

We set up the clue hunt game when my brother came, and we hid him in the master closet as the final surprise. Our littlest sprout was home when my brother got to the house from the airport, so we were only able to put the clue hunt together for the older two, but little sprout was "Sue-like" in her excitement about setting up the surprise. It was cute!

For the uncle surprise, there were six clues and the fifth one led the kids to the laundry room. My husband, little sprout, and I followed the kids into the room, and right on cue, my brother dropped the last clue down the laundry chute. I so wish I had been filming this clue hunt because the perplexed and anxious looks of our kids was absolutely priceless. They knew that everyone in our family was standing in the laundry room, and to watch the light come on that there was someone else in the house, was really fun. The clue that came down the chute was: "Come and get me!"

The kids still didn't know who was housed upstairs in mom and dad's closet, and middle sprout was visibly nervous about the unknown. (totally in line with her personality...she is a kid who thrives on predictable) Oldest sprout sprinted up the stairs, and after cautiously opening the door, he leaped at my brother and knocked him down in his excitement. The other two quickly followed, and the dog-pile in the closet was totally worth the planning.

Now, with the additional visit of my sister, I couldn't just let it happen without some sort of surprise, but because we had already used the clue hunt, we had to be a bit more creative. She was expected to arrive at our house at 6:30 pm. Middle sprout had a hockey practice that ended about that time, and I used the practice as an excuse to get everyone out of the house. We dropped off dad and middle sprout, and then I took the other two to get haircuts. Right before we left the house I set up three bowls in the kitchen, three chairs in the playroom, and I unmade all three beds upstairs.

My sister and I texted the final arrangements. She let herself into the house, dished up two bowls of ice cream and made it look like she had eaten a third. Then she hid herself in big sprou'ts bed right when we got home.

"Okay guys," I said, just as we were pulling into the garage. "I want to play a little game. I am going to go in for a second, and then when you come in I will have your assignments. It is an impromptu skit, and I want to film the story."

My kids love being filmed, and conveniently we have been filming random things the last few days, so it was not a huge give-away. My sister had dished the ice cream, and I stood at the breakfast counter as the kids came in. I put them each in the right chair, and then I handed them a small piece of paper that had their "lines" on them.

Littlest sprout (with some reading help from dad) said, "Someone has been eating my ice cream."

Middle Sprout said, "Someone has been eating my ice cream."

And big Sprout finished, "And someone has been eating my ice cream, and it's all gone!"

I moved them to the playroom and put them in the right chairs.

"Someone has been sitting in my chair," Littlest Sprout said. She had just read the story at school that day, and she was grinning with anticipation (of the story).

"Someone has been sitting in my chair," Middle Sprout added, comfortable in the "performance".

"Someone has been sitting in my chair, and now it's broken," Big Sprout dramatized, pointing out the broken arm of the chair.

As we ran upstairs to the beds, Big Sprout said, "I bet there is someone still in my bed!"

Middle Sprout said, "What?!" now nervous about the unpredictable part of this "pretend" story.

Littlest Sprout was still clueless, but excited about her next line as she jumped in her bed.

"Someone has been sitting in my bed," she said.

"Someone has been sleeping in my bed too," Middle Sprout anxiously chimed.

And Big Sprout fell on the floor crawling toward my snoring sister forgetting his lines, but once again dog-piling on the surprise.

They each recounted when they figured out that there was someone here to surprise them, and I couldn't contain my Sue-like excitement. It is a great way to interject something fun into lives that often get to be entirely too routine.

Cross-Country Skiing Lands Thirty-Four-Year-Old at the Doctor's Office

2010-02-18T18:34:00.000-08:00

The conditions could not have been better. A sky full of sunlight, a gentle breeze, and a fresh coating of powder covering an entire lake of open skiing that was just waiting for me to go on it. I was nervous the poles and the skis would be too long, but they actually fit pretty well. I hooked in my feet, that were snugly wrapped in boots that were entirely too comfortable to be ski boots. I guess technology has come a long way since I actually strapped on a pair of boots and skis.

I had my husband snap a few pics before I headed out on my next great adventure, and sliding one ski in front of the other...I was off.

My hair was blowing in soft waves from around my face. (note the picture) I was gliding effortlessly through the snow placing poles down in perfect sync to the alternating skis and the more comfortable I got, the faster the movements became. The powder made it difficult to explode into sprint speed, but I was working up a sweat. About five minutes out from the ice-fishing crew, I glanced over my shoulder to see how far I had gone, and when I turned back around, in mid-stride, the tips of the skis congratulated one another and took me down.

Mind you...it had taken me five minutes to get about 3 football fields away from my family, so I was not moving along the snow as fast as my effort might have indicated, and I was well within visual contact. I lay in the snow for a moment relieved that I hadn't decided to learn half-pipe snowboarding, and I got on my elbow to get up. That was when I remembered that I have been nursing a bad back...one that flares with immobility every few months or so, and it was absolutely not going to let me up off the ice from a sideways position.

"Fine," I thought, "I'll just get up from my knees."

Like I said, it has been a while since I have been on skis, and I don't know how, but somehow I forgot that it is physically impossible to get on your knees (except from a sideways position) with skis on your feet. The front...and then the back....and then the front of the skis do not bend at the whim of a flailing ex-athlete.

I lifted the poles up and put them into the snow to see if I might be able to pull myself up from the ground with upper body strength. Note to self: You need your back for EVERYTHING!!

"I need to get these skis off," I brilliantly assessed, and I reached for the back button that I remembered from my downhill skiing days. No back button. YOU ARE CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING YOU IDIOT!!

Oh, so there must be a button on the front. Here, I'll just push down on that button at the front of my boot...I just have to lean forward here... no move the ski that way, oh jeez...why did I put on so many layers...almost got it...crap, there goes my back again. Maybe I can get it with my pole. Look the pole reaches it, now all I have to do is get my back into it (oh yeah...back is starting to go into spasm)

So while the poles were flailing and the skis were whirling around like helicopters, my family noticed my turtle-on-the-back positioning. As heart-warming as it was, I have to say I was not all that thrilled to see my nine-year-old running through the snow toward me. The snow rescue by my son was not going to happen...not on a five-minute cross-country ski stint. I found a position that worked to get the ski off and then I was able to get up and get turned around back toward home.

My son stopped halfway...my victory in this epic battle. I caught up with him as we headed back. He told me that he was worried about me and that dad thought that I had hurt my back.

"No, my back is okay," I lied.

I was just going to file my accident report with my husband, but as soon as I got back to the ice-fishing tent, our littlest emerged soaked on her entire right side. She had stepped into the ice-fishing hole, and my morning cross-country ski adventure was brought to an end.

I did manage to get back out on the lake for a wonderful 40-minute ski trip complete with music from the ipod and light snow showers. It felt great, and I am looking forward to at least another outing or two this year, and of course multiple trips next year.

Cross-country skiing is awesome, and something that I feel a thirty-four year old should be able to do whether it is on a competitive or on a recreational level. My back issues have become too severe to ignore any more, and I want to enjoy learning new activities like this one, and I really hope I can figure out what's wrong so that I can do what I need to do to get it fixed.

Thirty-Four Year Old Teaches Herself to Cross-Country Ski

2010-02-11T12:11:00.000-08:00

Okay, so it hasn't happened yet, but it will. I have carried around a free pair of cross-country skis for almost five years, and I actually got myself together this week to get them outfitted for use. I drove to a part of St. Paul that I hadn't been, climbed over a five-foot snow bank (skis in hand) and made my way back to the back of a small (tiny really) cross-country ski specialty shop to get bindings and boots.

Sure, the skis are probably a foot too long for me (most certainly fashioned for the use of an extremely tall man) and I will likely have to hold the poles in the middle of the shaft so that I do not throw out a shoulder, but I am going cross-country skiing this weekend.

We have a trip planned to our cabin this Sunday and there will be groups of people ice-fishing and another group ice skating. I am too antsy (and logical) to sit on a chair pulling a fishing line in and out of a frozen hole. Maybe I'll change my mind if I actually witness a fish emerge from said hole, but for now, that is not my choice of activity.

As for the possibility of ice skating, I hold dear the fragile connection of the ligaments in my knees and ankles, and I am pretty sure I would tear something if I tried to skate for any length of time.

Last time on the lake I took a long walk across the water, a bucket list activity if you have never done anything like it, and I started thinking about that free pair of skis that have occupied the corner of our garage for entirely too long. I will ski across the lake this weekend, and I am excited to try something totally new.

I don't know if this is going to become my next greatest thing, but it will be something that I can say I did, and who knows, I may really enjoy it. A friend of mine in Colorado wisely commented one time that, "in order to keep living life to the fullest, you need to find something each year that you want to learn how to do. If you run out of things to learn, you might as well be done."

I may not actually learn how to cross-country ski proficiently, but I hope to at least learn how to maneuver monstrous skis from car, to store, back to car, to cabin, to feet and hopefully to the other side of the lake.

I will report back next week with pictures and evaluations.

Make the Driving Age Younger

2010-02-04T17:38:00.000-08:00

The Frank family calendar sits on the corner of our kitchen counter-top, and two days ago I updated it for February. As I moved through each week I realized that the days for February are awfully colorful. Red for my husband, blue for me, green for Nate, orange for Haley and purple for Kiana. It looks pretty, but what it really means is that we are outrageously busy this month. A keen observer would note that there is hardly any purple, and that is partially purposeful. That poor third kid is barely scheduled for anything but rather she is toted from event to event for the older siblings. It is not because she does not want to be doing something, it is because we do not have a third driver to get her places.

We knew this would happen. When we were contemplating having that third kid, we talked about how we were going to have to give up our man-to-man defense for zone coverage. What we didn't anticipate was how the zone would work to physically get each kid to where they need to go.

I had an enlightening dream the other night, however, and so I think I have come up with a solution. In my dream, Nate was driving in a beautiful little go-cart, complete with helmet and padded bumpers. He was waving at me with a huge grin as he was heading off to practice. His bag and stick were hanging on the back of his tiny car. In the dream I felt not an ounce of trepidation. I was elated that I was free to take Kiana to something just for her.

I have not yet checked in to the legislative requirements for starting a petition, but I am pretty confident that there will be a number of families, especially those who have more than two active kids, who would support a proposal to have the driving age designated for eleven-year-olds. If Nate is able to get his license by the time he is eleven, that will be perfectly timed for the inevitable scheduling of our littlest, and it will solve so many problems (in our house at least!)

Relax...relax. I know what you are thinking...but I have thought of that too. What in the world would they drive? The auto makers are struggling right now, and when they start the "small car" line to deal with the demand of the younger drivers, it will most certainly save the economy too. I modestly admit that this is by far one of my more brilliant ideas!

I know that the science suggests that the sixteen-year-old brains are not even developed enough to be driving cars safely, and we give them licenses, so really, what difference would it make if the brains are just slightly less developed than those hormone-crazed teens?

The positive arguments for the younger driving age generally outweigh the negatives for me, and when our lives become a bit less busy than they are now, I will pursue the legal route to get the driving age lowered. Looking ahead at our calendars, it is probable that I will finally have some time to make some headway with this in about....6 years or so, and by then...Nate will be 16 and....well, I guess I wouldn't have to do it then. Oh well, it's still a good idea.

Peacefully Disconnected

2010-02-01T19:33:00.000-08:00

My computer broke Friday. I turned it on and the screen of DEATH was holding my documents and my life hostage. No matter how I held it, what buttons I pushed or how nicely I talked to it, the blue screen simply stared back at me with a mocking tone. I was forced to travel to my son's hockey tournament without my computer. That meant no private internet surfing...no writing...no social networking...no emails. Nothing. All the things that I was looking forward to doing on my mini-vacation were not possible because my laptop was frozen. I felt practically paralyzed and alone. Frustration didn't change the color of my screen so I had to think back to what I ever used to do with my time...before I had my laptop.

I relished the quiet time to read as the kids were falling asleep in the hotel room and I took an incredible two-hour nap between games. I went swimming, worked out, hung out, ordered room service and looked at Lake Superior from the warmth of the hotel lobby. I survived!!! No wait...I thrived. It was a wonderful and relaxing way to spend a couple of days, and I didn't feel the internal clock begging me to get online...to check those emails...to update blogs...because I couldn't.

I could have used the computer to write, but I liked the pace of the weekend without internet. Sometimes I wish I could just unhook on my own and stay disconnected. In my heart of hearts I know that I will have a hard time doing that when my computer is back up and running.

I delivered my computer to the equivalent of the laptop emergency room this morning, and I am confident that it will be up and running in the coming days. In the meantime, I have stolen a few minutes on my husband's computer to stay connected, and I am sure I'll keep doing that until I can be connected on my terms, but my new goal will be to be as peacefully connected as I am when I am disconnected.

Baby News

2010-01-26T13:34:00.000-08:00

I got something exciting in the mail yesterday. It wasn't even just a letter, it was a whole package. I love getting news in the mail, and surprise news is even better. I didn't recognize the return address, but that didn't matter. I slit tape and hurriedly opened the cardboard box. The first thing I found was a letter, and out of polite habit, I read it first before diving into the rest of the box.

"And now, life with baby begins."

I read with an ear-to-ear grin.

"The birth of your baby is one of the most important moments in your life," I continued, as my smile slid into a perplexed expression that took over my entire face.

I stopped reading and let my eyes shift back and forth as I tried to remember whether I might have actually forgotten this most important moment. I hoped that the letter might have some more information, so I kept reading.

"And with the arrival of your little bundle of joy come feedings, and lots of them."

My confusion transformed to complete panic and I threw down the letter, letting newborn maternal instincts resurface. I ran through the house checking under couches and searching through covers on the beds. I opened closets and dumped out the laundry baskets. In each room I ran into one of my three kids, ranging in age from 4-9, and they each queried about what I was looking for.

"Apparently, we just had a baby," I said breathlessly,"...I think maybe I forgot about it, and I guess it might be hungry."

They each shrugged off my ridiculous ranting...as if they were kindof used to it, and I continued with my search. The effort was futile, and after silencing any noise in the house, I sat for a moment to see if I could hear the newborn cries of a hungry baby....nothing.

Then it hit me...maybe the baby was in the box!

I ran back to the counter, where I had left the package, and I quickly opened it. I held my breath as I reached in and discovered the two cans of formula that had been packed inside.

My husband came in as I pulled them out, and he commented, "is there something you're not telling me?"

"I don't think so...Have you seen a baby around here?"

"No" he said tilting his head in curiosity.

"Was I pregnant at all the last nine months and maybe I was just too busy to notice?"

"No, I'm pretty sure I would have caught that one," he said.

"Oh...okay," I said letting the anxious tension fade from my shoulders.

"I guess there must have been some sort of mistake...whew. I knew we were busy, but why in the world would the Similac people spend all that money to send me formula, unless they knew important baby news?"

"There isn't any news... right?" my huband hesitated as he asked.

"No," I hugged him. "Barring any real baby surprises, we are still just a family of five. Except, you know what," I let my arms extend as I leaned away from him, "we are now a family of five armed with a couple cans of formula in case a wandering baby ever actually does show up on the doorstep."

Good news came in the mail yesterday...it was just meant for someone else.

Maintain ICE (In Case of Emergency)

2010-01-25T20:36:00.000-08:00

We made an emergency trip to the cabin today. Racing both time and temperature, my husband and I climbed into our snowpants, our sorrels and our hats and gloves so we could save our outdoor rink. It is only the end of January here in Minnesota, and there is entirely too much winter left to give up on skating at the cabin. So we sent the big kids off to school, loaded up our littlest, and drove the hour to the cabin for our workout.

While we strained under the slushy, wet snow,the kind that would turn into rockhard chunks of immovable ice if left unattended, I started thinking (because that was easier than singing through heavy breathing).

Anyway, I thought about how outdoor ice maintenance was a good metaphor for life. There are some parts of maintaining outdoor ice that is in our control, but for ninety percent of ice creation, we are at the mercy of forces much larger than we are. Ice happens at 32 degrees fahrenheit, and there needs to be a stretch of weather cold enough to make the freezing happen. If it gets too cold, the ice will break off in brittle pieces. In order to smooth it out again, you'll need to flood it with a fresh layer of water. If there are drastic changes in air temperature, and the ice you are trying to maintain is on a body of water, you will absolutely end up with a crack or two. If there is a snow storm, you need to shovel and if there is a wet rainy, sleet storm, like what we had all weekend, you may have to make an emergency rescue. And, eventually the sun will warm and the ice will melt...ending the winter fun.

Life lessons on the lake:

Waiting for freezing temperatures....live with patience, if it is worth it, it is worth waiting for.

Brittle ice that is too cold breaks....some things that you work for may not go the way you want, but buck up and do what you need to do to fix it.

Flooding with water to smooth it out...sometimes you just need to get a fresh start, so don't be afraid to start over.

Cracks happen...expect that life will throw you jagged curves and while you are skating, just know that is where you need to jump.

Keep the shovel handy...when you get dumped on, don't spend a whole lot of time looking at it, just move it out of your way, so you can get back to doing what you want to do.

Emergency rescue...sometimes you need to drop everything in the name of something you love.

Ice does melt... so make the most of every day you are given.

I don't ice skate, but everyone else in my family does, and my kids equate winter at the cabin with skating and boot hockey. The outdoor rink that we maintain there is a huge part of our recreational time together, and it is something that keeps them moving and makes them smile.

Stealing from the recently released movie Tooth Fairy "If you love something enough, it is never a waste of time." I don't love outdoor ice, but I do love what it does for our family, so I will never consider my time shoveling and scraping as a waste of time.

Pullin' for Purple

2010-01-21T17:54:00.000-08:00

On the eve of arguably the biggest football weekend for Minnesota Vikings fans in nearly a decade, I am sure that it seems appropriate that I would write about the "Purple People Eaters". I am cheering for them this weekend, because any other choice would be disastrous in this house, but the Vikings purple is not the purple to which I am referring.

This week has been an interesting one, in the political arena, and I think it is fair to say that I am officially rooting for purple. I don't think that I am the only person pulling for purple since the presence of independent voters in this country continues to rise. Those of us who are neither red, nor blue, but rather a mix of ideologies from both sides of the fence.

"You have to choose sides!" I can hear the chants of staunch Republicans and dedicated Democrats. "You can't sit there...if you are on the fence you are not really for us and you are not really against us...and I don't know how to yell at you... or with you."

It has gotten so noisy in this country, and it sounds like the noise is only going to increase with next November's election when corporations and unions have free reign to financially support political ads, even attacking ones. It is a cacophony of emotion without objective listeners.

The President of the United States needs to be a purple leader. Picking out the most dominant pigment from blue and red arguments and melding them in a way that they both still recognize their color in the newly created hue of purple. It is not just an attack on the current administration, because we have not had a purple leader in recent history.

We need courage, and I am starting to be more convinced that that courage needs to start on the ground level. That courage looks still and sounds silent. It is not popular to listen. The side with which you are aligned gets uncomfortable when you are not yelling, but rather listening and considering. I may very well choose the quietest candidate in future elections...as long as what they whisper rings true with my principles and beliefs.

People who have known me for a long time, know that this straddling the fence approach to life is not a new one for me. When asked which football team I support, I reply, "I just like football, and I enjoy great games." Even my husband gets frustrated with me when I express my boredom over a Viking blowout. We are a country who loves taking sides, evidenced in every football arena around the country on any given fall Sunday. The problem with taking sides when it comes to legislating this country is that people in blue see people in red as the enemy, and vice versa, and when they are enemies they can hardly work as a team.

I will take sides watching the game this weekend because it is fun to go through the emotional ups and downs of a football game. Plus, it is just that, a game. We need the leaders who are currently taking sides at the political game, as fun as it may be to play, who realize that it is no longer recreational fun when this country needs jobs and healthcare and leadership that listens and doesn't yell.

Laundry Masters Unite

2010-01-21T14:13:00.000-08:00

I did it! I actually achieved the seemingly unachievable. I share this accomplishment in hopes that my successes are of encouragement to others out there who have a dream. Never, ever give up.

The laundry is done! I mean all of it…and at the same time.

It has been almost ten years since I had every piece of laundry in our house clean at the same time. Ten years of never-emptying baskets. I got close a couple of times when I thought it was all done, and I would find a straggler sock under one of the kids’ beds. I got over the heartbreak of being so close, so many times, and I had almost resigned myself to the fact that it was never going to happen.
That was until, as if inspired by a greater good, I found the motivation to continue pursuit of my dream.

It started a few weeks ago, and each week I have built up my efficiency. One week I did a load a day, but I quickly realized that there was always a load waiting for me by the end of the day. I tried the Monday laundry day approach, but there was too much going on in the house and the clothes that were folded that day were not put back in drawers until Friday. With the one day of laundry method I was too tired to put all the clothes away at the end of the day and I had piles of dirty laundry waiting for the clean clothes to leave the baskets they occupied. So I was forced to do something drastic…but sometimes crazy works.

I woke up at 4:30 in the morning, armed with a plan and a decision that I was not going to be denied. I went to gather the clothes from everyone’s baskets to put the plan in motion. As soon as everyone was up and ready for school and work, I stripped the beds and sheets and spent the rest of the day washing those things. I put the clothes away as they came out of the dryer and when everyone returned to the house I could not stop the momentum of my goal and I simply took the clothes right from the kids’ arms and legs.

The kids eyes of anxious anticipation was surprising, but I know that they are just too proud to speak. They can’t believe that I would go to all this trouble to keep their clothes clean for them, and it leaves them with awestruck admiration. Nate even tried to call 911… I’m sure to announce the good news that I had accomplished my laundering goals, but I modestly told him, as I wrestled the phone from him, that he need not make such a big deal of it. As the children hid in their rooms, with strict instructions not to touch the sheets or covers, for fear my nearing achievement would be thwarted, I waited for my husband to contribute his threads to the last load. He didn’t seem to have any trouble giving me his clothes, but I think he thought I was after something else. Huh? Go figure.

Anyway, I just finished pulling out everyone’s clothes from the dryer and putting them away. I have bribed the kids to stay without clothing for just a few minutes while I celebrate this victory. I just showered…air drying so that I wouldn’t dirty a towel, and now this celebration can commence.

If you would, could you indulge me for just a moment? Let’s toast a cup of coffee to this grand occasion. I am, admittedly, dressed. It is a clean outfit against my clean skin, and I am shivering with anticipation for this momentous occasion. I am lifting my glass….Won’t you? I am trying hard to contain my enthusiasm…

Oh crap! I just spilled all over myself....

(Side Note: No children were harmed in the fictional creation of this story. They have never gone naked in pursuit of an impossible laundering goal…and, since the arrival of our third child, I have never actually finished the laundry)

Guilty Pleasures

2010-01-15T19:41:00.000-08:00

No school for the Franks today and I feel awful about how great the day was. I slept in, under the new comforter and in the warmth of our heated, clean and spacious home. It's not fair that I put our kids out in the backyard to ice skate and sled while I exercised in the basement and listened to music. We took our pick of what food we wanted for lunch and then I dropped Nate off at a friends for a day of tubing, movies and an overnight party. The girls and I had fun shopping, doing crafts, going out to dinner and watching a movie, while my husband rode on the bus with his hockey team for a weekend of games.

I've had trouble today fully enjoying all of it because there is such a spotlight on the devastation in Haiti. I cry watching the images and the only way to make it any better, is to turn off the television. I feel guilty about doing that too, because I feel the same way when I avert my eyes from a homeless beggar on the corner. I help the ways I can from here: donations, packages and prayers, but when catastrophes like this happen, I hate the helplessness. I want to go pick up a boulder and move it out of the way, or comfort a crying baby with a hug and a song. I, of course, can't do that and I can't really stop doing the things that are the great parts of my life either. So I am stuck, and I have to come to terms with this battle.

The hype of the media will eventually fade, and the third world conditions that exist there, and other places in the world, will continue to exist, but not in my living room. I know enough to know that the conditions in Haiti are exasperated by the earthquake, but that it was in pretty dire condition before the quake. Why does it take something that costs so many lives to finally get people moving? Myself included.

At some point, I know I will go back to blissfully living my life without a "real" worry, but maybe I'll take with me more gratitude for my blessings. I'll hold my kids tighter and not take for granted the little things that make my days great. I accept the fact that I cannot effect change on the entire world, but I vow to make a difference in my immediate world. I want to stop averting my eyes when I am forced to see desperation, and I pray for the courage to do something when it needs to be done. That is the point, right?

May God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

It's that wisdom part that seems troubled right now. I just get mad that I can't change the bad things that happen, and I am hardly of any use to anyone when I let myself get stuck in that anger. I do hope that this weekend and the coming week are full of more positive and funny than dark and desperate, because I am not that great at embracing both at the same time.

Thank God My Dad's in Jail...Again

2010-01-13T19:00:00.000-08:00

It is easy to think that that title is a joke, but I assure you that I am legitimately and wholeheartedly thankful that my dad is sitting in the county jail tonight. He has done nothing to me and in all likelihood he has probably not done anything too terrible to anyone else either. My gratitude is not because some awful man has been taken off the streets, but rather that a frail, unhealthy and stubborn man has a warm room and three square meals a day...plus he can't get to any alcohol.

Don't get me wrong, I wish more than anything that he were well enough that jail wasn't the better alternative, but that just isn't the case. The worse alternative is living on the fourth floor of a sketchy hotel when he can hardly walk. The worse alternative is having a choice to use the little money he has in his pocket to buy alcohol instead of food. The worse alternative is worrying that he'll fall down outside and freeze to death overnight.

It is sad and tragic and a reason to be overcome with negative emotions, and I am probably going to have to seek help to figure out why I can't help but to laugh about how ridiculous all of this still is to me.

I should explain that my dad has battled alcoholism for nearly 30 years. There have been days and weeks and months of sobriety, but for the most part, he has shuffled from VA hospitals, to shady apartments, to park benches, to emergency rooms, to jail cells, to sketchy hotels, to nursing homes and sometimes back to places he has already been. It is unbelievable to me that addiction can be so consuming, but I've seen firsthand what alcohol diminishes and what sobriety can reinstate.

My dad was put into guardianship of my uncle when it became apparent that he could not take care of himself. When sobriety cleared his brain, the brilliant lawyer in him realized that he could fight for his rights, and he won. The guardianship was revoked and he was free to live on his own again. It didn't take long for the alcohol to cloud his judgment enough to land him back into a guardianship, but this time it was that same uncle accompanied by two more of his brothers, and me. The four of us were co-guardians for time enough that he got sober. The sober lawyer took us all to court, and the guardianship was revoked...again. There was a third guardianship put in place by the state, and the poor social worker assigned my dad's case was not quite prepared for the fight she would have on her hands when he sobered up enough to take her to court and regain his independence, for a third time.

So it is no wonder that no one took on guardianship last year when he was found on death's door in one of his shady hotel rooms. We all knew what would eventually happen when he got sober again, and we've learned the hard way that we can't win the fight.

So,my brother, along with my uncles (one who is ex-SWAT and has a pulse on the police beat, and the other, a retired surgeon, who has an in with the emergency rooms)and the third brother who was the original guardian, take turns checking in on my dad and encouraging food and better living conditions. That's all the family has been legally allowed to do. Those of us who live far away from my dad, well, we sit praying that he'll just get locked up somewhere. At least when he is locked up, we know where he is and we know that he's safe.

So, if anyone has suggestions about what can be done with an aging alcoholic who tests at genius level when sober and will fight your pants off if you try to help him...I know an entire family who is amazingly still willing to try anything.

Remembering the Past...And Needing to Retire

2010-01-12T19:41:00.000-08:00

I am a field trip nerd...

The bench rattled beneath me as the lightning and thunder crashed outside the little window on the wall. Terrifying sounds of wood splintering and glass breaking happened in the small, dark space that was filled with five kids and two adults.

Haley and I sat through a tornado today. It wasn't actually a tornado, it was a tornado simulator that was supposed to recreate what it would have been like to be in an F4 tornado in Fridley, Minnesota in 1965. It was a tornado that really happened and the voices telling the story were real survivors of that storm. Haley screamed, and I hoped to God I would never have to actually endure a storm like that.

That room wasn't the only room in the Minnesota History Center that changed my perspective today. We walked through the Greatest Generation Exhibit, and I got excited when I recognized knick-knacks and appliances that resembled those of my grandparents'. I wanted to stand and read every photo description and story, but I was in charge of 2nd and 3rd graders who didn't have the attention span that I did. We whizzed through the Ben Franklin exhibit, where I got to see his REAL bi-focals, the chess set that he REALLY played with, and a whole host of other things that I am sure are really cool, but I didn't have time to investigate. There was a playroom that was the big grain elevator...something I knew nothing about, until today. And there was the celebration of the 150 years that Minnesota has been a state. We ran from place to place. Aside from the loud and energetic class groups that walked through the exhibits today, the other visitors were likely members of that Greatest Generation.

It was then and there that I decided that I need to retire. There are truly too many places I want to go and things I want to see, and if I don't retire by the end of next year, I will never see all of it. My bucket list is already too long to complete, and I am looking for a get-rich-quick scheme so I can feed my field trip addiction. I know I can go as a chaperone to places like the History Center and I should probably tell you: Nate's class goes next week, and guess who is chaperoning? That's right...yours truly!

And the Wanna-Be-A-Good-Mom Award goes to...

2010-01-08T20:34:00.000-08:00

I want to win, so this is my fair warning to all other potential applicants. This is a new, totally made-up and completely irrelevant contest to see who is the most inept, seasoned mother who really tries, but who often falls short of "Mom of the Year." Think of it like the Darwin Award... without the unfortunate, untimely death of the winner.

I had one of those days today where I caught myself posing like a mom, but when I looked harder realized that I wasn't doing that great of a job. Like when I was holding my four-year-old by her ankle and lowering her down the back of the dryer so she could retrieve some clothes that had fallen there. She brilliantly requested to have herself turned around so she could grab them with her feet.

Or, when I was so happy about the hour and a half I spent ironing the patches on the Brownie vest and after double, triple and quadruple checking the troop number, ironed them on in the wrong order. For any other moms who ever do this, they can be melted off and re-ironed.

My resume', for those of you thinking that you may have what it takes to outdo me, extends much further than today. Like yesterday when I took the kids to the local Great Clips to get their haircuts. My girls, my beautiful girls, who are stuck with a mom who doesn't even comb her own hair, took off their hats to the horrified looks of the hairstylists. Both girls looked like they had just stuck a fork in the electric socket and, having survived the jolt, retained every particle of energy in their hair.

"Do you condition your hair?" One of the stylists asked Haley, as I cringed for her honest response. "How about brushing it?" I thought to myself that I have requested that she do that... at least a couple times.

Let's just say that we walked out of the salon with tamed hair and a bag filled with about $40 of moisturizing shampoo and conditioner. I guess it wasn't just a winter thing.

It really is unfair to my girls, and I guess my heavily-haired boy too, that I don't really care about hair. I mean, I do care about it, and I enjoy having it on my head, but even after spending a ton of money on my own, it ends up in a hat or pony tail anyway. That is why I have vowed to NEVER-EVER-UNDER-ANY-CIRCUMSTANCES-CUT-KIANA'S BANGS AGAIN. She is the one pictured, and that is what her hair looked like TWO months after I tried to be a good mom.

So, that most definitely will put me in the running for Best Wanna-Be-A-Good-Mom of the Year. The absolutely defining moment of my parenting prowess, however, came over Thanksgiving break. Kiana, who is now thankfully wiping herself, had told me, as usual, that she was going to the bathroom and that she wanted me to come help her. I got to visiting and got entirely caught up in a totally unimportant conversation, when I heard a blood-curdling scream from the bathroom. She had probably been in there, on the pot, for nearly 15 minutes, and I never heard her cries for help. You may call that abuse and neglect, but I call it tough love...and now she doesn't even need my help any more.

***Don't worry...we save simultaneously for college and counseling, and as confident as I am in winning this contest, I do truly try to be a good mom.

Signs, Signs Everywhere are Signs

2010-01-06T19:00:00.000-08:00

I almost stepped on a crow the other day. A cawing crow was sitting outside on the sidewalk and completely ignored the fact that I was walking straight at it. It finally flew up to the fence, but that couldn't have been a good sign right? I wondered what he might have been trying to tell me...

"Careful!! It's icy!"
or

"Hey...do you know where I can find some food?"

Who knows how black crows got a bad rap, but I took it as a sign of warning. Just after seeing the crow, I ran into someone with whom I have had an incredibly strained relationship. We both pretended that everything was fine and that our last conversation, that was so, so, soooo uncomfortable, really didn't happen. That was what the crow was trying to tell me.

"Watch out! It's coming!!"

It worked out fine, but right after my surface conversation ended, I knew immediately that the crow had prepared part of my psyche for the chance encounter. I was grateful and a little weirded out.

Then, that same day, I was scheduled to go to a local coffee shop and bakery, and I was already thinking I was fated for something with a visit there. I should probably tell you what happened to make me think that the visit was going to be more than just lunch.

Over New Year's Eve weekend, I drove from our cabin into town to get some work done on campus. I stopped at my favorite coffee shop, Cravings, only to discover that it was closed down. I was so sad and of course worried about an impending headache, but I got my work done quickly enough to get back to the cabin before my caffeine addiction caused me any trouble. New Year's Eve, I was talking with a friend who had come over for the evening, and I was talking about how my favorite coffee shop had closed.

"I don't want to go to the big chain coffee place...it is not buckaroonies. Where do I get coffee now?" I asked her...she is local and I commute.

"Oh, there are a couple places. There is that little kiosk that, I think, has the best coffee in town."

"I'll have to try that. I've heard it's good."

"Oh, there is the Golden Leaf Cafe' too, have you heard of that?"

Actually, I had. I noticed the building on one of my drives through town and I was struck by how cute the outside was and how creative the name sounded. It had been a blip on my radar, but it was on the side of town that I rarely visit.

That was the end of my coffee house investigation, or so I thought.

Sunday, January 3 I was coaching the soccer clinic that we run on Sundays in the winter, and at the end of the clinic, one of the moms, who is also a friend of mine, came up to me carrying a business card.

She handed it to me and said, "Hey, I just stopped by this place while you were doing the clinic, and I had mentioned where I was, so she asked me to give you her card. I don't know her, but she is hoping to maybe do a promotional deal for the kids, if you're interested."

I looked down at the card and it said: Golden Leaf Cafe. I couldn't believe it. Yes, it is a small town, and it is not really that big of a deal, but I tend to read in a lot to coincidental events.

I took the card and every part of me became interested in visiting this place that had been the topic of discussion twice in three days. So that is how I ended up scheduling a lunch at the Golden Leaf Cafe.

Driving from campus to the cafe, I passed the newspaper office where I had worked for five months. It was a short stint, but a memorable and important one for my writing. I thought about pulling into the parking lot to visit my editor, but remembered that I had some actual work to do on campus, so I pressed on to the cafe so I could get my lunch.

As I pulled into the parking spot at the cafe, I noticed in the window a pair of women talking. I recognized one of them immediately...it was the editor from the paper where I had worked. I jumped out of the car, interrupted their conversation briefly to hug her and we talked quickly about the progress of my book and life with my three kids. It is always great to see people with whom you will always connect, no matter how much time and life can separate you.

Sauntering up to the counter, to order my lunch, I am struck by the creative energy in this place. There is a small area for gifts, a menu of feel-good items that includes scones, cookies, pasties, paninis and a long list of teas and coffees. I order some tea and a pasty, introduce myself to the owner and find a seat near a window. I am browsing through a magazine when Elena, the owner, pulls up a chair to talk about the options for promotion with the camp.

The entire time we are talking, I cannot help thinking how perfect this place is, and how the space seems just right for hosting a book reading tea party. We finish our conversation about the soccer clinics, and I move the discussion to whether they ever host events.

She gets me out of my chair and shows me to a back room that is in the preparation stage for events such as mine. We are standing in the room, and everything about it feels right. Then, seemingly out of the blue, Elena starts talking about how things used to be in her native Ecuador.

"Every day at 4 o'clock, you were welcome in anyone's home for tea. There would be a long table filled with delicious pastries and the women would gather to drink tea and to talk. It was the gossip talk about who was sleeping with whom and who was having affairs. Us girls would quietly sip our drinks and nibble on our treats. We dare not say anything because if we did the women would scold with a finger and say, 'I was not talking to you.' So if we wanted to get the gossip, we stayed quiet and just listened."

I am floored and fascinated by this description. I asked about whether men were ever present and she told me that the women didn't work, so the 4:00 tea was women and children, but the men would gather at their place of work for a 4:00 coffee break.

The Golden Leaf is a perfect place! For six years I have periodically attempted to recreate a tradition that I feel is slowly disappearing. With the research for my book, I brought women together for "tea parties". I was tired of getting together with other women under the stipulation that I buy something at the direct sales parties. I wanted just to get together to talk, and the success of the parties tells me that I am not the only one who feels that way. Women rarely gather just to gather, and it is not a good thing.

I will be back at the Golden Leaf Cafe, and I hope to set up a couple tea party readings this spring. I realize that everything that happened to me that day could be purely coincidence, and I could be seeing what I want to see, but if seeing what I want to see makes me feel like I am in the right place at the right time, I will continue looking for signs with my jaded glasses.

No Sweat

2010-01-03T21:15:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows us knows that we are arguably one of the most competitive families around. My husband and I are both college coaches, and all three of our kids are incredibly active. We schedule most of our lives around game and practice schedules, and for the most part I think it is a fabulous way to spend our family time, and all of our money.

I have been extremely excited for our youngest to get into the mix like her siblings. She has been chomping at the bit for probably two years and I just know she is going to love competing as much as the rest of us do. There have been small signs of her passion for sport...like the time she hauled off and slashed Nate in a family hockey game in the basement. She got a penalty for that one. Or...there was that time that she hit Nate across the face in the backseat of the car because I told her she was going to take a nap when we got home.

"I know, Nate...I will wait until you are out of arm's reach next time."

Oh, and then there was the time that she ran full speed across the room and tackled Nate to the ground at his knees. It was a brilliant take-down. Cataloging her track record I think I'll encourage Nate to wear his hockey gear when he is just hanging around the house.

There are also the multiple times through the day that I see Kiana running around the downstairs loop: entryway, kitchen, playroom, entryway, kitchen, playroom...Sometimes she has a ball on her foot, and sometimes she is timing herself while she counts out loud. I should stop her to tell her that there is a number between 15 and 17, but I think her teachers will be better equipped to pass that information along.

Ki loves gymnastics, and in an effort to save some of our sport money, we enrolled her in a little less rigorous program this winter. It is not as intensive and if she were any other kid, she would be thrilled just to be hanging out with her pal who is also enrolled. Oh no! Not our Kiana. She has commented on more than one occasion that she cannot do somersaults at this gymnastics and she wants to go back to the place where she could "jump to the sky on the tramp-o-thing!"

The first soccer camp she attended took place at the indoor bubble in Stillwater, MN. She was in her shinguards for four hours before the practice was supposed to start and seemed happy the entire time, but when it was over she came storming off the pitch with that crazed look in her eyes.

"What's wrong Kiana?"

"We didn't even have a game with goals! I hate this soccer." I started immediately drafting the letter of apology to the first opponents she might face in whatever sport catches her fancy.

With all of my kids, I hope they find a sport that suits their personalities and their gifts, and I don't think I am too far off with my assessment when I say I think she would make a heck of a hockey player. She likes to hit, she likes to go fast, she is not afraid of falling, and then the heads of her opponents are already helmetted. That has to be a little less liability for us right?

She is around hockey a lot, and she has been on skates for a couple years now, but she always gets pretty frustrated that she can't keep up. She is getting much more proficient at skating, and our last outing on the ice she sprinted from one side to the other, only stopping at a bank of snow on the other side. She has never really wanted to slowly take on anything, and I know she will seem much less angry at the world when she can channel some of her aggression in the positive sporting arena.

In his perfectly presented parental encouragement, my husband suggested that Kiana might like to try playing hockey, like her sister and brother.

"Oh no dad. I'm going to play figure skating, because I don't like to sweat!"

Rebel without a clause

2009-12-29T07:37:00.000-08:00

Ok, cheesy I know, but I am most obviously too far removed from all of these words that I love...and I miss. I didn't realize that the last time I posted on a blog of my own was back in July. Excuses have been too easy to come by and the de-railers (AKA children) are insistent upon giving me another reason (right now!) to stop typing and to attend to their needs. The mother in me expects that I get up from this chair, shut the laptop and continue chipping away at the incessant chores that are still here even after I spent ten hours yesterday laboring. The writer in me wants to quietly slip out of the room, with laptop securely hidden under my arm, and find a secluded room where I can hide. The filthy bathroom comes to mind...or the back of my closet...

Shoot! It didn't work...they found me, and I probably couldn't have lasted much longer with their incredibly effective flushing tactic "Mom!! Mom!! Where are you?!! Mom!! MOOOMMM!! Mom, we need you!!!"

Ok, I have tried a new strategy, but it is going to cost me $5 for each of them after they are done. Oh well, can you really put a price on solitary time to write?

I've come to a conclusion, and I am unsure I'll ever be able to pay the bills writing, but to be honest, I am starting not to care. I tried, through the summer, to self-promote and diligently finish the proposal for my marriage book. The proposal package is done, and the unwitting publishers will start to get my reams of paper soon. I will, of course, be thrilled if someone picks it up and wants me to keep writing about it, but I am starting to lose the momentum to self-promote.

SHHH! Don't tell the publishers because that could preclude me from being picked up. What I mean by that statement is that I am bored with having to be just about marriage. The experts (probably just the loudest talkers) have suggested that if I have a twitter account, and a website, that the material I put out there has to be devoted to marriage topics, if that is the focus of my book. GAG!!! Yes, the bulk of the book is about what I was able to discover about marriage, but I think more important to me was what I discovered about myself. Let's be honest...all I really want to talk about is myself anyway because everything else just bores me. Just kidding! But seriously, I find it too narrowing to be forced to write about only one aspect of my multi-dimensional life. Yes, I am married, and too happily to be of interest to the masses. I have been searching for drama the last few months, but damned if the things that I found in my research actually worked!! We're both faithful, selfless and generally focused on the good of the family. Why in the world would anyone be interested in hearing about that?

So here I sit...needing to write, but rebelling against instruction that it has to be about a singular topic. That is not what writing has ever been for me, and I miss just writing to write. This site: "What the blog is going on around here?" is my new oasis. I want to be here often. I refuse to conform to a "New Year's Resolution" that I will write daily and that I will cover X, Y or Z. My quote for the day is: "When we cease to cling to our own expectations and conclusions and begin to flow with life, then we begin to let God's life live in us." That would be cool! I'll let you know how it goes...

How Not to Kill a Guinea Pig

2009-07-22T08:43:00.000-07:00

Before I tell you this story, I have to explain that in no way do I think that it is funny that there is a legitimately sick guinea pig with a real family who is struggling with how to best help her. I am not an animal-hater nor someone who regularly pokes fun at her friends, but as things unfolded yesterday for a family that we adore, it was impossible not to see the humor in their situation.

We had scheduled a dinner with our friends last evening, and when she called me to coordinate details about the meal, she got distracted by what was happening on her end of the line, and I heard, “No…no, don’t do that…you are ruining what I spent all that time setting up. Just close the garage. No…you have to close it!”

She came back to the phone and explained, “ Oh, I’m just sick about this. It would cost us $75 to put down this guinea pig, and she is just so sick.”

“Oh no, what’s wrong with her,” I asked.

“Oh, she has this tumor the size of my fist, and she has had it for almost six months. She is six and a half years old, and we really didn’t think she would make it this long. The vet told me that it will only continue to grow and then abscess. I just can’t let it suffer through that.” She sighs.

“I’m so sorry. So what are you going to do?”

“Well, I’m trying to put carbon monoxide into its cage. I have the hose hooked up to my car and I just spent the last half an hour with the lid closed and the car running. My son just lifted up the lid and let out all the gas that was probably in there,” she explained exasperated.

“You can’t just let it go out in a field or something?” I naively ask from the perspective of a previous guinea pig owner, whose pigs didn’t live longer than three years.

“Oh, that’s just too cruel. She would get eaten that way, and I just can’t do that to her. She’s been in a cage her whole life.”

I see her point, but I’m still trying to visualize this contraption that she has described. We work out our details for the dinner, and I wish her luck with her euthanizing adventure.

When we drive up to their house, I see the remnants of the days’ drama. The hose is attached to the tailpipe of the car and the other end is closed underneath the garage.

We learn that my friend is not very good at killing animals, even in a merciful capacity. The guinea pig is still alive, possibly more sluggish, but hard to tell. We discuss the disturbing image of the hose/tailpipe combination and we talk about the fact that they were lucky that their neighbors did not call the police. It cannot have looked good with the hose hooked up to a running car and slid under a closed garage door. We imagined the conversation with a policeman answering the call:

“No, officer, we are not suicidal…just homicidal.”

“Excuse me?” A confused and concerned officer would respond.

“Oh, you see. It’s for our guinea pig.”

After we abandon that angle of discussion, we move to the part of the conversation that includes the fact that the guinea pig is still alive. It is probable that the exposure to the gas has only left the pet with a really bad headache and has not effectively poisoned it. My husband offers another possible side effect.

“You do realize that you may have just cured the guinea pig.”

“What?” my friends look at him confused.

“Well, who knows, maybe carbon monoxide is like chemotherapy to guinea pigs and you just gave it a dose to shrink its tumor.”

We all know the science behind that comment, but it makes us laugh anyway.

My friend’s husband asks about the technical aspects of the contraption, and we all realize what must have been the problem. The hose was hooked up to the tailpipe, but not sealed. Some carbon monoxide was probably getting into the hose but not at a concentrated enough level to be lethal.

I am certain that the fate of the guinea pig is one of a peaceful departure, if my friend has anything to say about it, and she can only be commended for her kind-hearted, pet-loving approach to putting her pet down. It is nothing to be ashamed of if you are an ineffectual pet killer, and she has proven that there are certainly ways NOT to kill a guinea pig.

Chickening Out

2009-07-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

I swear on a stack of Bibles that this really happened to us tonight…because really, who can make this stuff up?

“What do you want for dinner?” I unenthusiastically ask.

“I don’t care. What do you want for dinner?” My husband echoes with indifference. “Do you feel like Chinese?”

“No!” The biggest yells from the backseat, “I just had Japanese for lunch.”

“I want a restaurant.” The littlest voice pipes in from her car seat.

“You just want chicken nuggets…and we have some of those at home.“ I point out.

“No, I want a restaurant,” she insists.

“What are you going to order at the restaurant?” I query.

“I want…(dramatic pause) chicken nuggets.” She answers honestly.

So, the decision is made that my husband and I are going to get something for us and we would cook nuggets for the kids at home. We pass a sign on the highway for a chicken joint that we used to frequent, years ago, but we often laughed about the fact that they never really had the chicken that we ordered.

“We’d like the 8-piece chicken meal, mostly drumsticks please.” My husband yells out the window.

“Spicy or mild,” the box squawks.

“Mild, please.”

“So 3-piece chicken meal?”

“No, 8-piece meal with mostly drumsticks please.”

“A 2-piece meal?”

“No,” he looks over baffled at me as I try to stifle my giggles. “An 8-piece meal with mild drumsticks.” He enunciates.

“Come to the window please.” The frustrated woman requests.

As we drive around the corner, we cannot help but to laugh at how ridiculous that attempt at a fast-food order was. We get to the window and the woman pulls on her headset explaining that she cannot hear very well. We place our 8-piece order once again and she leaves the window for a minute.

“We only have 3 pieces of chicken right now. It will be 12 minutes for the rest of the order.” She explains.

“I think we should just go get something else.” I lean toward the car window to say.

My husband thanks me for making the decision to abandon the ill-fated trip to the chicken restaurant that too frequently does not have chicken, and we belly laugh all the way back to the highway. As entertaining as our attempt to get chicken was, we are back to our dilemma of needing to find some food for dinner. We head toward our temporary condo home and eventually decide on another fast food restaurant that is one of our favorites. It is known for its chicken bols and burritos and we get excited about our change of craving.

The kids and I stay in the car as my husband heads in with my order. I find myself talking with the kids and I realize that my husband has been gone longer than would be expected. I glance toward the door and I don’t see him headed toward the car, but I note that there are a lot of people in the restaurant. I chat a little longer with the kids and then, sans husband, I look back at the door and I find him silhouetted by one of the windows.

I joke with my oldest, “If they are out of chicken, I will absolutely die.”

Several more minutes pass and eventually my husband emerges with a bag of food and a look of utter disbelief.

He shakes his head as he gets back in the car, saying, “Well, I’m not sure what we’ve got in here, but the good news is, I didn’t pay a dime for it. Unbelievably, they ran out of chicken.”

“What? You have got to be kidding! That is nuts!” I laugh.

My husband told me that he had ordered our dinner and when it was apparent that they were not going to have enough chicken for our order, the restaurant employee offered my husband beef instead, and now, completely out of principle, he told the worker that we were really planning on being able to have chicken for dinner. After he was told that he would have to wait ten minutes, the manager informed my husband that our dinner would be free, and for all the effort that we went through for our chicken, it only seems right.