Some Thoughts on Our 15 Years Together
Look what I made.
Headed for 15 more years. And then some. Photo credit: Robin Winkles Photography.
Not the tall one, but those two smaller people. I did that.
Oh, okay. The tall guy helped, too, kind of like that person in study group who always manages to get away with contributing the poster board or offering to go have the presentation bound, but doesn’t actually do any real work? I’m not saying Mark’s role was insignificant – in fact, we would have failed this project without his, uh, part. What I’m saying is that his role in the people making, well, it was less involved than my role in the people making.
Now, though? Now we’re in this thing together. Making people is no walk in the park, at least after the initial phase of the project (Which did not take place in a park. I feel the need to point that out.). There is at least some napping involved in the making phase. But raising people? Dear lord. It’s a marathon, every day, and sometimes more than one marathon a day. And not so many naps.
I’m so grateful for this man who runs alongside, who is in it not just for 26.2 miles, but for the ultra distances and extreme trail runs. Metaphorically, that is. But you know what? If I asked him to train with me for 70.3 actual miles, I think he would. Because he’s that guy.
I’m grateful for this man who lets me dream, and even dreams right along with me. This man who encourages me to write, and who supports my frequently injury-riddled sporting endeavors. This man who knows that if we’re very blessed, the children will grow up and become independent, contributing members of society. And we can sell the crap out of our house and travel. I’m grateful that we both want to keep sharing adventures, even after this first enormous one has (sort of) ended.
Of course it never ends. We chose to bring the small people into the world, and even though they will grow up one day, we’ll always be their parents. So I’m grateful, once again, that I get to run this race – this very long, never ending race – with Mark.
Last Wednesday, January 4 was our 15th wedding anniversary. Fifteen! So I think things are pretty well locked in now, and barring any events that I refuse to imagine (because it would have to be something extreme and horrific and unthinkable), we’re in this thing. Together.
And I’m grateful.
read moreLaughter for the New Year
Happy new year, friends!
My 2012 wish for you: a year of laughter. So let’s ring in the 12′s with a story of Christmas Past, and how it impacted New Year’s Present. As for the Future, if you’re paying attention you know the key word is laughter. Stick with me here.
Good stories don’t have to start at the beginning, but mediocre stories almost always start there. You be the judge, but I’m starting at the beginning today.
Seven years ago Mark and I were in the final stages of remodeling a 1930s era duplex into a single family home. It was the first time we’d ever had ample space to host Christmas Eve, and I was eager to do it up right.
My side of the family is German, and Mark’s includes some Huguenot and British (arrived on the Mayflower, yo) ancestry. My favorite German tradition is Hide the Pickle, but honestly, even though we have deep respect for our heritage, we don’t do a lot of traditionally German activities on Christmas. In fact, we eat Mexican food on Christmas Eve. We are a confused people.
Anyway, I wanted to pay homage to more of our heritage that year. I don’t think I completely succeeded at that, to tell you the truth. However, in the course of decorating and shopping, I found a box of Christmas Crackers at William-Sonoma. You know, the traditional British crackers that you pop open to find a paper crown, and prize and a joke? German though we are, my brother and I are also suckers for all things British, so I knew these would be a hit with both sides of the family. Besides, who doesn’t like to eat dinner whilst sporting a paper crown? Better yet, who doesn’t love to tear into a plate of enchiladas and tamales while wearing a paper crown?
Dinner is over, but look how much fun we're still having thanks to our paper hats!
My brother and Extreme Sports Santa (he - Santa, not my brother - tends to fall from his perches, so we choose to believe he's base jumping and not that he's had it up to HERE with all the Christmas business). Notice that lovely cord hanging down? As I said, we were nearing the end of our remodel... we clearly hadn't finished.
A good time had by all. Hooray, Christmas Crackers.
I guess all of the sawdust and paint fumes from the remodel had severely altered my brain, though, because I either didn’t see or didn’t understand the complicated system of numbers telling me how many crackers were in a box. The box clearly stated 24 pieces, which I either read as 2-4 pieces or didn’t read it all (I’m guessing the latter). For some reason I bought roughly 827 crackers. Or thereabouts. The result? At least a few crackers have been popped every year since. This year I opened the box to find I was finally down the last four.
Since I didn’t have enough crackers left for the entire extended family on Christmas, we waited until New Year’s Eve and enjoyed them with our kids. A gourmet dinner of Costco flautas and Wholly Guacamole* waiting for us, we popped those crackers and donned our paper crowns. The boys succeeded in tearing their crowns about 2.2 seconds later, but the jokes? Those are going to live for eternity. Here on the internet.
To start your 2012 off with uproarious, riotous laughter a giggle a smirk, I thought I’d share some of our cracker jokes:
Where do fish wash?
A river basin!
What did the fireman say when the church caught fire?
Holy Smoke!
(For this next one, read the answer in your best British accent.)
What do you call a blind dinosaur?
Do you think he saw us?
Why do bakers work so hard?
Because they knead the dough!
What lies in a pram and wobbles?
A jelly baby!
(I do not get this. Any speakers of the King’s English out there want to help me out?)
To you and yours, Happy New Year! Wishing you joy, peace, and laughter in the year to come.
*I know I just claimed to enjoy cooking, but after the holiday feasting season, I’m way into taking a kitchen break.
read moreDeception, In the Spirit of the Holiday
You know what I love about the season o’ holidays (Halloween through Easter)? The joy of watching children, dressed in their holiday finest, experience the excitement of the season.
Not really.
No, no. Of course I like the joy and the children and the et cetera. I do. I’m not heartless. Schmoopiness challenged, maybe, but not heartless.
One of my other favorite things about holiday season, though, is deceiving my children into good behavior.
You know the Elf on the Shelf? Ours is Bingle Jingle Snevets, and the kids adore him. I like him too, even if he’s a bit of a pain in the behind. I’ve written about this before, but in short, this is our house at midnight, every night between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve:
Me - Did you move the elf?
Mark - No. Forgot.
Me - {Silence, loaded with expectation.}
Mark, sighing heavily - I’ll go do it now.
H, the five year old, is actually on the bubble of non-belief with Bingle. I’m sure Santa and the Easter Bunny are not far behind. And honestly, I find the Easter Bunny absurd, so I can’t blame H for questioning the concept. I’d like to believe Santa is real, but there’s no love lost between me and the bunny.
As I was saying, H is wavering on this magic. I’ve gently threatened him – yes, it can be done gently – within in an inch of Santa leaving him a lump of coal if he puts even the tiniest doubt in the mind of his brother.
“You will keep the magic alive,” I hiss. ”Alive, do you understand me?”
Anyway.
Since that elf is just so much dang fun, I decided to extend the magic. Even though Bingle’s effect on behavior is negligible, at best, he does periodically help me diffuse highly charged toddler situations. Why not invite some other magical characters into our home?
Enter, Hazel.
Hazel, as in Witch. Get it?
Her yarn hair appears to be thinning and her nose is missing, but she’s still got the magic going on. My mother-in-law made her and we’ve had her for years, but last year when H was still very into holiday magic, Hazel took on her new role. As far as the kids know, Hazel magically arrives into my box of fall decorations* and asks me to put her on that windowsill. I’m the only one in the house who can hear her. Obviously.
Every night, Hazel hops on her tiny (and, apparently, invisible) broom and heads to… the North Pole. To see Bingle. She reports on the behavior in our house so he can get a jump on the Christmas Naughty & Nice list. The one big diference between Hazel and Bingle is this: she lands in the same spot every time she returns. It’s her favorite spot and she gets all twitchy if she can’t sit there.
And now I’m extending a Very Holiday Spirited Threat to everyone who considers telling my children that Hazel should land in new places every day: Keep your mouths shut. You hear me? Hazel is a one-spot girl.
So now I need a Valentine’s Day friend and Easter-themed character to add to our entourage. Just think, our little magical friends will give me months of barely modified behavior.
*By the way, I do a decent job of Christmas decorations. I like getting all festive. But Halloween really isn’t my thing. This, plus a smattering of pumpkins on the hearth and front porch, is the extent of my fall/Halloween decorations. Ta-Da. Let the magic begin.
Holiday Spirit in a Box
I wonder…
:: How do you feel about the lies, however white, that we tell our kids about the holidays?
read moreParental (Self) Control
If my kids turn out okay, it might be a testament to my self control. Or it might be a miracle.
My money is on a miracle.
When the kids are melting down, I have to fire up Wise, Patient Mom, and she does not come naturally to me. Take this example from a recent evening that started with me in heels and pearls (no, it did not), and ended with me huddled under the duvet, whimpering (but then, that’s how most nights end).
On this night, H was devastated because he couldn’t figure out the answer to one of his math questions. A question on his optional math homework, by the way. Optional: of no bearing on his future, except for you know, the learning part. I do suppose the learning is important.
He did, in fact, know the answer to this particular question, but I think he was tired and simply not firing on all cylinders. By that I mean he was beside himself. Tears, frustration. Cries of, “Everyone else knows the answer. I’ll be the only one who didn’t answer the question!”
The things I wanted to say:
- You are not allowed to cry over optional math homework. Save the tears for the time in sixth grade when you wait until after dinner to tell me your science fair project is due in the morning. Then you can cry.
- How on earth would you know that everyone else in your class has the correct answer? Let me remind you that this is optional work. Some of them probably aren’t even doing this worksheet. Also, none of them are here, so we have no idea what their answers are.
- You seriously can’t come up with the answer? We just talked about it yesterday. Yesterday!
I refrained. Instead of throwing myself on the floor with frustration over optional kindergarten math homework resulting in hysterics, I managed to keep my cool.
We decided that he should go to bed, and take another look at the question in the morning. And guess what? After a good night’s sleep and a bowl of oatmeal, he immediately came up with the correct answer.
It was a good lesson. For me.
We have 11 3/4 more school years ahead of us, not counting college, and my sweet H is a lot like his mother. He’s not exactly a perfectionist, but he is definitely a complete-ist. He doesn’t want to do a project if he can’t complete it to his satisfaction.
This will be a challenge for him in school. I know. I’ve lived through it myself. It’s a blessing, really, that we realized this about him within the first six weeks of his school career, allowing me to also learn a lesson: I can’t bring the drama; he will have that covered. I have to keep my big, sarcastic mouth shut, and help him come up with a reasonable solution.
On the night in question, we got H settled in bed, feeling relieved to have a plan for finishing his (optional, did I mention?) homework at breakfast. As I was cleaning up and getting organized for the next day, I took a quick look at the rest of his worksheet. I held up the paper so Mark could see it, and pointed to question number 7.
“Gee, when he gets up in the morning do you think I should tell him that he also totally blew this question?”
“Noooo. Give me that paper, crazy lady.”
Perhaps I still have some learning to do.
I wonder…
:: What’s your greatest homework challenge with your kids?
:: Sometimes I am snarky and sarcastic with my kids (I think understanding sarcasm is a valuable social skill, so we, uh, teach it at home), but clearly, there are times when I have to be the grown up. Do you struggle with this in your parenting?
read more
Why I Love Angry Birds
Paralysis over.
I’m so glad it’s over. Glad the idea of putting pen to paper – or fingers to keyboard – doesn’t leave me clammy and nauseated.
Now onto super important things, like, uh, well… I do have a ton of important things on my mind, of course. I only think important things. I never numbly play Angry Birds, avoiding reality. Never.
What kind of loser would do that?
Okay, me.
By the way, I rock at Angry Birds. I’m thinking of taking my talent all the way to the bank. Who wants to pay me to play Angry Birds? Anyone?
As for that reality avoidance, it used to fill me with guilt. I am also a professional at guilt. If only I could take that to the bank, as well. I’d be Richard Branson rich. My bird-launching finger would be numb, and I’d have a big, guilty pit in my stomach at all times, but dang if I wouldn’t be rolling in the dough. Or at least gainfully employed.
So far, in nearly four decades of life, I’ve found only a handful of things at which I excel. And none of them lend themselves to a career. Yet. It’s looking like I’m onto something with this guilt-ridden Angry Birds champ thing. I never could parlay professional Law and Order watcher into a full time gig.
Obviously, I’m kidding. Sort of. I know I have skills, or as my two-year-old says, “I got skillzzz.” {We claim to have no idea where he picked that up.} I know I have talents and I’m grateful for them all. I am not only aware of the talents I was blessed with, but I’m also finally okay with not being completely productive at all times.
Let me explain.
I believe that, like Peter Parker’s grandmother says on her death bed, with great power comes great responsibility. I believe that we are not to squander our gifts. But I also believe that our lives have an ebb and flow. There are seasons for being industrious. And there are seasons for transition.
This season, this one of transitioning to a new school schedule and making sure my kids are happy and healthy, is/was a relatively short season. During this time, though, instead of giving myself some grace, I have been beating the crap out of myself. There’s been mostly negative talk. I have always talked to myself, almost always silently, inside my head. Anyway, lately when I chatter with me, it’s all been mean. Lots of talk about being lazy, ineffective, ungrateful.
And then it clicked – I don’t know why or how, just that it did. My brain needed a break. There was a lot of emotional energy required for this new phase of our lives.
As beautiful as it is, there is heartbreak in watching my firstborn start to detach. He may still look like all backpack, with a head and skinny legs, as he walks down the hall to his kindergarten class, but he’s so much more than that. He’s a big kid, with big plans, and although he still needs me it’s not the same. It’s the beginning of some enormous changes.
I don’t like to get all sentimental and sappy, because it hurts. It makes me cry. Which makes it really hard to focus on smashing tiny pigs with tiny birds. So even though I hold a lot of my emotion inside, it doesn’t mean it’s not there. It doesn’t mean I’m not feeling the weight. Feeling some bizarre combo of exhilaration and exhaustion that comes from watching a child grow.
So I realized that this is going to happen periodically in my life. I’m going to have seasons of transition, and I may not always be 100% productive during those seasons. I may put aside some of my goals to help foster the talents of the people I love.
And when it’s all said and done? I’m putting all my money on this: there will be more to write, more to say, and more to dream about, because I will have lived. I will have felt thrilled and depressed and excited and overwhelmed. And I probably will have checked out to spend time blowing up obnoxious, Wilford Brimley-esque pigs.
I hope this made some sense. I feel like I’ve rambled, but this is a blog and not a school essay, so I’m allowing myself some lack of structure. Cool? The English major in me wants to summarize, though. She wants to wrap this up in a bow. So here goes:
- I was kind of busy, completely overwhelmed, and very unproductive all at once.
- I didn’t write or work a lot during that time.
- I felt really guilty and played too much Angry Birds.
- I now believe that it was okay to be unproductive in my work for a couple weeks, and have let go of the guilt.
- I now believe that periodically checking out is extremely beneficial.
Oh, I do love a bulleted list.
I wonder…
:: Do you ever check out of certain parts of your life?
:: What kinds of results do you have when you allow yourself some down time?
P.S. - I have almost 400 unread emails and heaven only knows how many posts in my reader. I am deleting them all. So if there’s something important or funny or beautiful that you want me to read, please email me a link. Or tweet it to me. I look forward to catching up on blogs next week!
read moreLove and Music
My husband loves music. He’s a talented guitar player, and makes up killer songs for our kids.
But when it comes to music he buys and listens to, he has weird taste. The man had a Yanni CD when I met him. On his bookshelf there was a pile of technology and woodworking magazines, a roll of duct tape, a can of WD-40, and a bunch of crappy CD’s. It was going to end one of two ways:
- Really nice guy with questionable tatse in music and horrific home decorating skills.
- Serial killer.
I guess we can’t ever be 100% certain, but so far all signs point to #1.
The music thing, however, is still a bit of a problem. I took care of the Yanni CD as soon as Mark turned his back, and prayed that duct tape wasn’t reserved for girls with unwanted opinions on his music collection. In time, I learned that he and I do actually share some favorites, like Jackopierce and Guster, but when it comes to current music he’s pretty clueless.
In all fairness, I’m no audiophile. I have eclectic taste, with everything from ABBA to Eminem and Merle Haggard to Beastie Boys on my iPod. I don’t always keep up with the newest, hottest band. The SNL musical guests regularly befuddle me. But I am marginally more on top of things than Mark is.
This is what took place in our house last night. I should note that Mark is the King of the Non Sequitur, so if you feel like you have conversational whiplash, well, welcome to my world.
Mark: That kid’s name is Johnny.
Me: I’m sorry, what kid is this?
Mark: The one selling cookie dough.
{I’ve been reading books to P, and putting him to bed. I get the feeling I missed something.}
Me: Blank stare.
Mark: A neighborhood kid just came by, asking us to support his band fundraiser. So I bought a tub of cookie dough from him.
Me: That, there, would have been good information to start with.
Mark: Well, I thought I heard the word cookie in that song, and it reminded me. Or maybe they said nookie? Is this Sugarland we’re listening to?
Me: Uh, no. This is Nelly. And I’m not positive, but I don’t think there was mention of cookies or nookie.
Mark: Oh, cool.
{Silence while we finish cleaning up the dinner carnage. We’re listening to Pandora’s attempt at a mix for me, and I try to skip something from Simon & Garfunkel, only to be told I’ve hit my maximum number of skips for the hour. Soon, something more danceable/clean the kitchen-able comes on.}
Mark: Do you think Will and Jada are really getting a divorce?
Me: I don’t know, but I’ll be kind of sad if they do split up.
Mark: Me too. I’m not sure why, but I think I’ll be really sad.
Me: Why are we talking about this?
Mark: Isn’t this Will Smith we’re listening to?
Me: No, babe. We’re not getting jiggy or saying bienvenido a Miami. This is Justin Timberlake. We’re bringing Sexy Back.
Mark: Oh, I thought it was Will Smith.
{Silence for a minute, while I try in vain to explain to Pandora that my eclectic tastes do not extend to The Allman Brothers. I mute the music, because it still won’t let me skip.}
Mark: Now this is the story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside down.
Me: And I’d like to take a minute so sit right there, I’ll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bellaire.
Mark: In West Philadelphia, born and raised
Together: On the playground is where I spent most of my days.
{We finish the the rest of the song while picking up Trio blocks and 85,000 toy cars. I’m not putting all the lyrics here, because I know you’re now finishing it yourself. Chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all cool…}
Maybe Mark’s a little clueless about musical artists. And Pandora might be kind of a pain in the behind sometimes. But I guess the moral of the story is this:
- Sometimes non-serial killers keep duct tape and WD-40 on their bookshelves.
- We may have our differences, but in the end, Mark and I are singing the same tune.
I wonder…
:: Do you and your spouse or partner have any big differences or were you truly a match made in heaven?
read moreI’ll be here on April 29, 2012
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