Aren't they darling?

I just found the cutest non-insect related thing in my kitchen cabinets.

Coasters. Just plain old coasters.



What's so cute about coasters?

It's not actually the coasters that are cute. It is my 21 year old bridal delusion that is cute. I actually stood in Crate and Barrel and thought - yes. We will definitely need coasters. Duh.

I dreamed of a life in which coasters would be necessary. A life in which we'd have furniture that needed to be protected from moisture. A life in which my kids aren't as messy and clumsy as I am. Just today I threw a whole cup of water at/on myself in Jack in the Box. Didn't stumble. Just picked it up and away it went - ALL over me and the floor.

Coasters? Really?

Adorable, Jana. Simply adorable.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

And a woman scorned hath no fury like a woman whose house in infested with gnats!





These innocent little pests have taken up residence in my kitchen and bathroom. I even found 3 in my bedroom last night. You wouldn't think they'd be that repulsive. Just a little gnat. Annoying? Sure. But disgusting? probably not. infuriating? riotous? abhorred? vile and wicked and . . . well, I may have developed some rather strong feelings about our little winged invaders.

I've tried everything to expel them from my presence. Ammonia, bleach, Raid, vinegar traps, Raid, ammonia, bleach, Raid and then some more Raid and then . . .well you get the idea. There is no food out. The trash cans are emptied every 12 minutes. No wet towels or clothes. . . and yet still they insist on tormenting me.

Maybe this is an opportunity for spiritual growth. I'm sure that's what it is. So maybe murderous rage and disgust isn't the response I should be embracing? Oops.

But seriously. When one walks into a bathroom in the middle of the night one should not be pelted (in the face. ew.) with startled insects. It seems reasonable to expect that living in a relatively civilized society, in a relatively well kept home, in a relatively quiet neighborhood, one should be safe from such atrocities.

I'm afraid my crazy is starting to show.

I'm really asking for it this time

*** I had written this months ago and refrained from publishing it, figuring I'd calm down and get on with my life. I just came across it as I searched for something to post to end this blog drought. So . . . why not? Here's a little rant from May 13th. Enjoy. ***

Jordan is now a proud D.A.R.E. graduate. (pause for applause and the appropriate awww, how darling remarks). Yes, yes, he's growing up. He is now equipped to say no to those devastating flesh eating drugs.

I told you I was asking for it.

We attended his graduation at the high school on Tuesday evening and frankly, were a bit disturbed by the insistence on the evils of drugs/alcohol. I'll be the first to share with you the dangers of drugs and alcohol. They are the stories I traffick in daily. The over doses, the arrests, the addictions, the jail time, the 10 years without a driver's license, the heart ache, the self loathing, the despair. We are all too familiar with the dangers and consequences of drugs and alcohol.

Sadly, though, we are also all too familiar with the fact that peer pressure isn't the only reason that people ever drink a beer or light a joint. They do it because it can be and sometimes is a heck of a lot of fun. They do it because they can't stand the noise inside their own heads. They do it for a hundred different reasons each time - only a fraction of a percentage of which they can be aware of at any given time.

So why don't we talk to kids about reality?
Why don't we prepare them for the fact that the the meth head they saw in their slide show didn't scratch the skin off their bones and lose all their teeth the first time they smoked a joint or cooked up some meth?

Because what they created in that classroom, it seems, is a horror show version of what drug/alcohol use looks like. So what happens when Johnny gets high and doesn't actually die or go to prison? Was it all a lie? How easy is it to throw out the sound medical/scientific/legal consequences along with the realization that people don't lose their teeth and hair and future right away?

I'm concerned by this apparent disregard for reality. Are there really kids in the hallways and at the bus stops pushing drugs? Not where I went to school. Sure the drug were all too available - so was the alcohol, but no one said "You'll be cool if you smoke this". I may have told myself that, but what could it hurt? They all looked like they were having fun. No one was suffering the kinds of consequences that our DARE officer said were sure to come if you didn't just say no.

So I did it. Not because of external peer pressure, but because I decided that I wanted to. Simple as that. Whatever cost/benefit analysis I conducted came back saying that having as much fun as everyone else far outweighed the outlandish and almost sensationalized ideas of Juvie and overdoses and wasted lives.

But what we fail to equip our kids with is the practical understanding that those serious and devastating consequences don't always happen, don't always happen right away, and don't always look the way they did in the slide show. Can't we help them make informed, rational decisions based on reality? Can't we have an impact on that cost/benefit analysis?

Because here is what I am hearing from the DARE graduates here:
"I won't ever touch a cigarette or drugs or alcohol because my whole life will be ruined. I will never finish school, have a good job or a family if I do drugs."

"If you do drugs like meth you will look like 30 years older than you are and you'll scratch all your skin off - like down to the bones."

"People will try to make me do drugs but I can say no because I want to be an NFL quarterback when I grow up and I can't be a good athlete if I do drugs."


I thought I was over it. I thought I had smiled and encouraged and asked smart questions, created safe space for real conversations. And I thought that the DARE maneuver was just a little rite of passage that we could discuss and then forget.

And there went my non-profit mind. . . . I'd like to see their outcomes. How do they measure the success of this program? What are the deliverables? Completion of coursework? Is there a control group? Any 5th graders around who did not receive this training? Did they say no to drugs at the same rate that those DARE graduates did?

And then I opened the packet that Jordan got after shaking 10 self-important people's hands.

And I am not over it. (clearly)

And I am asking for all kinds of ridicule and disdain with this post. (obviously).

When I picked the envelope up off the table, I thought, well maybe there's something of substance here. Maybe there is something that encourages parents to be real with their kids when it comes to this stuff. Maybe there was something that says "you're a smart kid. Think about your decisions. Consider the cost. Decide what you want. Use your brain. And at the end of the day, I love you and I'm here to talk." Because, you know, we trust that we've equipped our kids to be individuals, to think for themselves, to talk openly about their experiences and concerns. Oh wait.

But there wasn't anything like that in there.

Instead there was half a forest (yes, entire forests now only produce 54 sheets of paper) congratulating the DARE graduate on his/her achievement. Letters from everyone you can imagine. Letter #1 - Joe Biden. all the way down to a councilman I've never heard of. 27 letters of congratulation. Most of them commend the graduate on their commitment to completing the coursework. They recognized the time commitment that the graduate made and how seriously they must have taken the program to have completed it.

I'm sorry. . .did I miss something?
Was this optional?
Was this offered outside of school hours?
Was more than half of Jordan's workbook even filled out?

No. It was not.

Do these politicians know anything about my kid or about the program they so readily endorse?

DARE has never been for the kids. It is apparently for the politicians. It is one way that parents and teachers and politicians can feel like they are doing something without ever really doing anything.

Dammit man.

Oh yeah, one last gem. Jordan informed me later that night that they really focused just on gateway drugs. "You know, like cocaine."

Clearly, he has received quite the education.

"Why do I still smell sushi?"

Sedona wonders in a loud whisper from the back seat as we drive through Dairy Queen after a delightful sushi dinner. I'm pretty proud of the fact that this little girl is the first to try just about anything new. She tried the wasabi, loves the sashimi rolls and can't get enough of those fascinating little slivers of ginger root. She's very sophisticated at a very early age.

I, however, evidently lack both the grace and refinement required for a sophisticated, no, civilized, sushi dinner.

Here are just a few of the reasons I should not be allowed to eat sushi (in public, anyway):

- After we'd placed our order, the kind server came back and asked if we'd like to try the egg rolls. Midway through Jeremy's "No, thank you, I think we're okay" I had some involuntary facial tick that said "Sure! what the hay! Let's try em shall we? Yippee! What an adventure!" and he stuttered and looked confused and then said, "I guess we'd like to try them. Yes. Thank you." I had NO IDEA my face did that. And now in addition to the obscene amount of sushi we had ordered we were going to have to choke down some egg rolls too because of my spazzy face. My face cannot be trusted when ordering or declining food in an Asian restaurant. Obviously.

- The egg rolls came with a plate of foliage. Some lettuces and some sprigs of something that the man called basil, but I assure you, was NOT basil. I think he said that we should roll the egg roll in the lettuce with some of the "basil" and then dip it in a little bowl of pinkish sauce. Jeremy was convinced that the plate of lettuce was a garnish. He approached his carefully. And with silverware. I wound the lettuce around mine and dunked it enthusiastically in the sauce, sending little sprigs of "basil" and pink sauce all over the place. And then I cackled, thinking that was great fun and secretly thanking my spazzy face for insisting on this little adventure.

- I dropped my salmon sashimi in the pretty little bowl filled with soy sauce.

- the dropping of the salmon into the soy sauce caused an unbelievable splash. See the GIANT splotches of soy sauce that now adorn the cover of my journal (that was in my purse on the floor) or ummm, my chest, which is now also covered in soy sauce. Sexy, I know.

- I find the O'Fallon roll just a bit too much for one bite. At least for one civilized, tasteful bite. I tried it. I choked. I spit some of it out. I laughed hysterically at my disgusting behavior. I'm usually accused of having too big a mouth. You know, because I talk too much. Well, this is not the case when it comes to sushi.

- I use the chopsticks to awkwardly deliver the sushi to my mouth and I like to think I'm doing okay on this part but then . . .I bite each piece in half, grabbing the rejected half with my fingers. I do not think that this is the way chopsticks are supposed to be used. Use chopsticks. Or use silverware. Or use your hands. But good grief woman, not a combination of the three!

- I enjoy the flavor, but half way through and just as my pants begin to feel a bit tight around the waist . . . the entire idea of sushi begins to nauseate me. I then develop an involuntary gag/recoil reaction to watching other people eating it, even though I myself, am still eating it. So there I am. . . eating . . . making a terrible face at the people around me. And let me tell you - I have a VERY expressive face. You should see me repulsed or unsure or afraid or happy or confused or excited sometime. Its a real sight.

- I coached my 6 year old daughter to use one of her chopsticks to spear a particularly ornery piece of sweet and sour chicken. Again, with the improper use of utensils.

- I found it amusing when a piece of onion from Sedona's plate found its way into my flip flop. She is definitely my child.

It's probably a good thing we were the only ones in the restaurant.

Sedona plays school

In case you are unable to decode Sedona's sing-songing, she is saying "These are my stu-dents". She was playing school and had a dozen stuffed animals set up in the kitchen.

Such a happy girl.

Hurry! Cast your votes!

Alright folks, time for a little voting magic.

What artistic genius sculpted this Play Doh masterpiece?



Was it:
a. Jordan
b. Sedona
c. Jana
d. Jeremy
e. the rabbit whose name is ever changing



I know the suspense might just be too much for some of you. Or maybe the suspense is just too much for me. Here I am, already gonna spill the beans. Just moments after conceiving of the multiple choice, rock the vote approach. Oh well.


There are many reasons why I love my husband. This is just one of the most recent reasons and it shot straight to the Top Ten List. Oh how I love that man.

So yes, the correct answer is d. Jeremy. Did you call it?

In the meantime . . .

I've started a few ranty posts and then decided against posting them. At least temporarily. So in the meantime, you can enjoy pictures of the kids. We went out to Klondike Park in March and did some wandering. Check out Sedona's socks! There will be a more detailed documentation of her basketball fashion sense in an upcoming post.

Nit - Pickah!!

I have never fully appreciated the term "nitpicking". That is, never until today. Now that I have actually picked a nit. I get it.

It is tedious. It is disgusting. And it seems futile. It requires meticulous, unwavering attention. Commitment. Determination. And obsession to the point of mania. And disgust. Minute and unjustified (so says Webster).

Did I mention disgust?

You guessed it. One among us has been infested (INFESTED. This is the terminology used the world over, apparently.) by none other than Pediculus humanus capitis. You may know these pests as the ever elusive, head lice.

Disgust.

Infestation.

But all the literature warns not to freak out. I wonder if ever the writer of such advice had stared into his (presumably,because after all the majority of scientific fact and literature was penned by men, right?) child's scalp to see things scurrying around. Reproducing willy nilly all over the child.

Disgust.


But I did it. Not only did I stare. I sectioned and lathered and rinsed and sectioned and lather and rinsed. And picked. And picked. And picked.

I spent the better part of 4 hours. 4 HOURS. combing through Sedona's long, tangled, long, blond, LONG, hair to remove what are affectionately called nits/lice. We laughed. We cried. We picked. Minute and unjustified. They had no business being there. But I did it. My child, my love, my dearest, is now nit free once more. All is right with the world. (Well, except for the fact that her stuffed animals are staring sadly out of plastic bags, awaiting the demise of their likely passengers). But nevertheless, our home has been restored to justice and order.

And I'm looking for my super hero name. Some preliminary ideas:

Ghost Face NitKillah
Ghost Face NitPickah
Stone Cold Steve NitBeGone
Super Bada** Lice Nixin Momma
Lice Ends to Kill
Chuck Norris


So it's a work in progress. (shrug)

What can you come up with?

Okay fine. Here's something cute.

Even at age 4 when labeling tends to be a BIG hit (for a certain little girl I know anyway*), Jordan never labeled anything. Is this what 11 is all about? Territory? Staking your claim? Colon health? Or is it just that the boy REALLY likes Raisin Bran?
The world may never know.


* Did I ever tell you about the labeling? Scribbles on bedroom door "Saaaaays . . . Sedona's Room, Mom. What? It IS my room." Draws on hallway wall "But its our FAMILY, Mom!" Draws stick people next to her dresser, just out of sight, "They are my REAL friends, Mom".

Obsession (not the perfume, no near nude photos)

So I've become obsessed with this notion of performance. Funny I should question it here for all to read. . . but it was inspired in part by facebook. The amount of ink already spilled on this subject is immense but I thought I'd throw my two cents in anyway.

Disclaimer: Asking questions. Not espousing truth or claiming to have figured it all out. Asking questions only. Don't get all bunched up.

Are we deluding ourselves if we think that our presence and participation on social media sites isn't changing the way that we live?

How can the immediate audience of hundreds or even (gasp) thousands not change the way that we interact with the flesh and bloods beside us?

Does our writing of our realities change with the incessant request for feedback from our audience? Do I understand my hair in the wind differently today because it might make an interesting post? Someone might like it. Someone might see me. Have I lost the simple beauty of my experience because I am always evaluating how it will play to my fb audience? Or does it somehow become more beautiful when shared with so many others?

How do different personalities negotiate this performance differently? Consciously or unconsciously?

None of this is to suggest that facebook or other social media sites cannot or are not useful tools and great opportunities for connection and relationship. I believe they can be. I also believe though that we may be naive if we do not acknowledge the power that they have in altering our relationships with those in our actual lives.

Do we live a separate, virtual life? To what extent do we write ourselves as characters, claiming authenticity and genuine concern for others when really we seek attention and approval?

Do we invest emotional energy in so many others that we have less for those in immediate contact physical with us? Are we able to escape, even if unintentionally and momentarily, from our everyday interactions because we can access hundreds of other, more interesting moments with the touch of a button? Can the buzz of a phone indicating that someone else, or dozens of someone else's are vying for our attention, pull us away from whatever eye contact and conversation we may have had? With what effect?

Maybe it is the things that we choose not to post to fb that tell our stories. Maybe it is only my own insecurities and fears that drive this suspicion and questioning. Maybe I would have condemned the first television, saying that it would lead to the demise of the family. And maybe, I wouldn't have been as crazy I seemed. We create powerful tools and then deny their immense power in our lives.

Disclaimer negated. I ended up on a soapbox anyway. Questioned myself clear into an opinion. (For today anyway).

This is obviously a departure from the kinds of things I usually post here. And maybe that is a perfect example of how I create the version of me, of my family, that I want you all to see. When my kids are blowing up a Peep (Easter marshmallow)in the microwave - I miss it because I'm trying to take a picture to put on the blog. My presence here infects my interactions out there in the real world.

I don't usually write anything here that requires commitment on my part - I keep my opinions and platforms to myself. Which, arguably, makes for a friendlier blog. But in my fear of not being adored, I don't share all of me or, maybe, even the real me. I play to my perceived audience. I keep it light and quirky. I may be the perfect example of what I suspect exists elsewhere. Either that or I am so riddled with self-doubt and a desire for approval that I've created a narrative here that exists only in me, one that could only be shared by those who care what other people think.

But would you dare suggest that that isn't the vast majority of us humans?

Bear with me. Recognize the absurdity of playing this out in front of all of you (aka my psychosis).

I'll be in the bomb shelter waiting for the Cold War to end if you need me.

A little bird poo never hurt anyone

Sedona played outside for hours yesterday and it wasn't until a friend asked what was in her hair that we discovered the poo. She continued playing, planning to deal with it after dark, squeezing every last drop of sunlight out of the day.

And so the sun went down, and dinner needed to go on the table. Sedona asked to help and I replied, "No, you need to go get in the shower. You have bird poo in your hair."

She filed obediently out of the kitchen, presumably to get in the shower.

She returned just a moment later wearing a hat and simply stated that "now no poo will fall in the food. Can I help?"



How could I say no?

Old Spice: Long Time Rep turns Sponsor

While there is no doubt that Old Spice has long since been the official, spray on, masculinity product it isn't until this afternoon that I learn just how far the Ol' Spice has come.

They are now sponsoring puberty, not just manhood. And they are doing it by way of the "Always Changing: A Boy's Guide" which Jordan just so happened to receive during his human growth and development class today.

Puberty: Brought to you by Old Spice.


Are you kidding me?! It is printed on EVERY page. And if that wasn't enough . . . it reads like an infomercial.

"To stay looking and feeling your best, take a bath or a shower at least once a day. Any time you get sweaty, you should bathe more often. For 8-hour odor protection, us Old Spice Red Zone Body Wash. Then grab some clean clothes (body odor stays on clothes) and apply Old Spice Red Zone Deodorant to help keep body odor away. If you are concerned about underarm wetness, try a Deodorant/Anti-perspirant like Old Spice Red Zone High Performance Solid that fights not only odor but wetness too."

I did not make that up. Straight outta the book, featured prominently on page 15 alongside a near-infant who presumably is now struggling with body odor.

This consumer driven curriculum is only more surprising when the Old Spice pamphlet is taken in conjunction with the other materials that Jordan received today. "Growing Up and Liking It: Greg's Story", the groundbreaking work first introduced in 1972 and last updated in, oh um, 1992. Only today, they are copies of a copy of a copy quality photo copied, crooked stapled booklets. Little hard to read. But really, what does it matter? We've got the Old Spice version, after all. Why invest in quality educational materials when we've got the very real opportunity to boost sales and increase local families toiletry bill by 25% (have you SEEN the way an 11 yr old applies products - all or nothing, baby. I either will not wash myself or I will use the whole damn bottle of body wash in a single shower.)

Is anyone else at all surprised by this?

Now don't get me wrong - the physiological changes that adolescents encounter have not changed all that drastically in the last 30 years. But hasn't the way that we talk to our children? Hasn't the way that we talk in general?! You should see the vernacular used in this here handy dandy booklet. Not to mention the fashion sense demonstrated in the photos. Wait. Nevermind. The copies are so blurred and blackened you can hardly see that striped sweater vest being worn by one very popular, very responsible young man.

Thanks, Old Spice. The scent of men (and now boys) for 73 proud years.

I couldn't not do a little bit of research before (okay, midway through) ranting about Old Spice and I cannot do justice to the marketing materials I just found. You'll have to go look at them yourselves. Oh man.

Rant complete.


But SERIOUSLY?!!

Landscape of a 5th grade romance

"You shouldn't even be asking me these questions. Dude, I'm going out with Maddie. I like Maddie. You have no business even asking me who I like more you or Tori or who I would want to go out with. I've made my choice so just stop. There is no way for me to answer that."

A proud mother overhears 11 yr old boy wrestle with pushy girl-friends on the phone who aren't pleased that he is now 'taken'. Should this kind of thing be an issue for 11 yr olds? Probably not. They should probably be playing Legos and dolls, but the sad reality is that they aren't.

And I thought that it was a sign of the declining times. Something in the milk. Societal decay. And then I saw the red and white ruler that still stands in the pencil jar on our desk. Link Elementary School, Elk Grove Village, IL. and on the back "I LOVE Matt Naase".

I was in second grade.

And I remember so clearly the infatuation with this silly red headed, freckle faced boy. By third grade he was "going out" with someone else. I suppose the end of fifth grade is every bit as appropriate for infatuation as the second grade was.

So it seems that "going out" consists of an occasional hug and once, just once, a kiss on the cheek. They share secrets and try to be even nicer to each other than they are to other people. (This, straight from the source)

Have these kids got it figured out? Take a look at the relationships all around us. . . what if we were just nicer to the people we were somehow bound to? What if we exchanged secret kisses on the cheek?

And so I reflect on the sweetness of puppy love. And while I would rather he not have discovered such a fascination with girls until a little while later .. . .he is having this conversation right next to me. He told me about the hug (and the kiss). And I can't ask for more than that kind of honesty. I can't ask for more than a kid who tries so hard to be true to the girl he likes, who won't give in to the squirrely little girl tricks. Maybe his character/honesty will carry us through the tougher years ahead.

Maybe.

Passive aggressive or suprisingly skilled?

Of squirrels and neighbors. . .

It came to my attention this afternoon that we either have highly skilled squirrels in our backyard or an extremely passive aggressive neighbor. I discovered no less than 12 corn cobs in the backyard. That's more than a dozen ears of corn that have been consumed and abandoned. But by whom?



Is it possible that the squirrels have a particular interest in using our yard as a cob repository? Or is it carelessness on their way to another more exciting (and tidy) backyard?

Maybe I should make it clear that we are not the providers of the corn. That being said, you might expect the occasional cob accidentally left in the yard by a hurried squirrel. OCCASIONAL.

We're talking more than a dozen scattered in close proximity to one another.

And then it occurred to me. What if it isn't the squirrels at all?

What if the neighbor is intimating his displeasure with the condition of our yard or our neighborly prowess? What if HE is throwing the cobs into our yard?

So I did a little bit of investigating . . . . and while I can't be sure whether it is the surprisingly consistent squirrels or his passive aggressiveness leaving the corn cobs. . . I can be sure that he is the one providing the corn cobs.



What to do? Stake out? Encourage our honeysuckle to grow even more menacingly over his fence? Baked goods as peace offering? Squirrel trap? new 'found art' forum?

With a bit more thought I've come to wonder whether or not squirrels can typically remove a cob from such an apparatus. . . . the plot thickens.

5 years of blogging?!

I've always wanted a montage. Manipulative music, swelling at just the right moments, framing the moments of our lives. . . ahh, yes if only there were a camera rolling all day everyday. And then of course the film crew, the editing staff and a whole mess of other people who could do the manipulative soundtrack.

Sadly, we've had no such crew over these last 5 years. 5 YEARS(?!!) to the date from when we first announced that there was a dead hippo in the yard. Now would be a great time for that montage. A moment to reflect on how our lives have changed, my how the children have grown, ahhh what a happy little life they lead. Alas, no montage.

What I can offer you though are some of my own highlights. There are stories that I jotted down here that I like to think are great snapshots of our lives.

Enjoy.

I'll just, you know. .

Son of a . . .

Monkey Prayer

My Boy Now?

Can't Love You Anymore

ABC Poop She still picks this book off the shelf occassionally and CRACKS UP at the dirty pig. And yes, she still insists that it says poop. Neveryoumind that she can actually read at this point.

The Hair (and perhaps the early stages of their more recent insistence on being filmed).

Mama Mania

Desperately Seeking Sunflowers

Which gets us dangerously close to present day. And I"m assuming you can navigate these last few months sans tour guide or manipulative music.


And now for another 5 years . . .

By the way . . . It's an honor to have you along.

A bird's eyeview

Ok so really, it is my eye view of a bird bashing into my bedroom window - REPEATEDLY.

We've determined that it is a female cardinal. What that gets us, I don't know. Team spirit? Now, I don't really know how birds are supposed to fill their days. But I am sure that this is not it. Shouldn't she be building a nest? Getting a worm? Migrating? Like I said, I don't know what her regularly scheduled responsibilities might be, but she is clearly shirking them.

She starts with the bashing and pecking somewhere around 5:30am and continues throughout the day. What was at first tragic (aww poor confused bird, don't hurt yourself) turned infuriating (I'm chopping down the tree and buying a pellet gun)is now somehow comforting (ahh . . .must be morning). Ok maybe not comforting, but at least familiar. Now all we need to do is name her. Any suggestions?



What the video doesn't capture is the racket. The bashing crashing flapping racket that characterizes this futile effort. And as Jeremy has just pointed out to me, a minute is an awfully long time to stare at the bedroom window. You should get a good idea of what we're dealing with in just the first 25 seconds and are then excused from watching the rest of the video.

These go up to 11.

Well, today is the day. The boy officially turns 11 just before noon today. We've wondered for weeks what changes this milestone birthday might bring. After all, he starts middle school in a few months, has recently had his heart broken by a particular girl, all the signs are there . . . he is growing up.

We took a picture last night before bed to commemorate what "10" looked like. He asked, "So, do you think I'll look any older tomorrow?"



Well, friends, what do you think? Does "11" look any older?

Ahhh spring . . .

"Mom can't you just smell it?! The grass is growing!"

Upon walking out into a balmy 56 degree sunny morning. If only you could hear the wonder in his voice. Spring. Possibility. Life. Ahhh . . . . .deep breaths.

(Only . . . .this happened last week and I was a bit slow on the publishing. Deepest regrets)

Comments!!!

You guys. . . . seriously . . . I had NO idea you had been commenting!! They were all (yes all 20-something) sitting unmoderated in the bowels of Jeremy's blogger account. Here I thought I'd become dreadfully dull and no one wanted to read about our little exploits.

Thanks for the comments!! Keep 'em coming and I'll be sure to find a way to actually read them and post them and all that jazz.

Of towel rings and cowboys

I'm like freaking Rambo or She-ra or a Little Blue Engine That Could!!

This towel ring sat on the counter for 2, yes 2, months hoping that someone would hang it up. Somehow I thought I needed help or that I didn't want to do it or that a stranger might wander in and say (in a scratchy southern cowboy drawl) "ya need a little help with that there towel ring?" To which, I would obviously reply "Why yes, I most certainly do" in my sweetest southernest voice (open parasol).

But guess what?! Cowboy stranger never mosied thisaway.

I decided suddenly yesterday that there was no good reason why I couldn't do it mydamnself.

And I did!

Looks purty doesn't it?

Just the one. . .

What did you wear to work today? How much thought did you put into it?

As we know, dressing to venture out in the world can be a daunting task. Some of us (excluding myself of course)fare better than others in this department. You know that day in junior high PE when the girls are separated from the boys and taught all things fashion hair and makeup so that they can successfully navigate the next 70 years as a woman? Yeah . . . I was absent that day.

Recently though I wonder if it might be genetic. (gasp) I wonder too if there is science to suggest that it skips a generation. (double gasp) Judging by my mother's fashion focus and my daughter's burgeoning interest in accessories. . . I'm the odd man out. errrr woman. See? missed that day.

Sedona has started putting an awful lot of thought into her daily ensembles. Just yesterday she announced (while carefully securing a headband)"I'm trying to look like a teenager today." (and with a flourish) "How did I do?"

Today, she wore one leg warmer. Yes, just the one. I inquired about the possibility of a second leg warmer but it was obviously a ridiculous question. I clearly don't have the gene.

Fashionista in the making.



Stay tuned for Sedona's take on girls' basketball fashion.

Here comes the sun . . . (do do do do)

The sun today is exquisite. And I am waiting for the warmth of bared skin, warm breeze, and lazy day adventures. Looking anxiously for that summer quiet and beauty. The earth radiating heat and life.

Do you ever worry?

Do you ever worry that your kid will be THAT kid?

Are you ever completely amazed by the things that come out of their mouths? I'm sure that the answer here is yes. Kids say the darnedest things, right?

But every now and then I am struck dumb when the older one speaks.

We watched Joe Dirt, yes Joe Dirt, last night and my first born, says, "Is meteor a girl or a boy?"

For those of you who haven't seen this fine family film, Joe Dirt, our protagonist, finds what he believes to be a meteor. He pulls it around in a wagon, talks to it, calls it his lucky meteor. We later learn that it is the discharge from an airplane toilet that froze on its way to earth. Like I said, fine family film.

But IS METEOR A GIRL OR A BOY?!!!!

Have a look. Maybe you'll see why I was concerned.





What do you think, folks? Boy or a girl? The meteor, not the Joe Dirt.

It is questions like this that make me think there is some chemical reaction occurring as he nears middle school that prevents logical thought. I have to have faith though that he'll be just fine. Most of us are, right?

The year of yes

This year is hereby dubbed The Year of Yes. (and yes, I may have stolen some inspiration from Ann Voskamp over at www.aholyexperience.com).And yes, I may be a month behind the year-naming, resolution making wagon. And yes, I'm okay with that. I refuse to feel even a little bit of remorse over the delays.


I'm thinking about all the things that I so quickly so "no" to. What if "yes" became the default? What if I tried more things that terrify me? What if I dared to be more than what I already know I am? There are so many 'what ifs' that I haven't even discovered yet. And so I say "yes".

Yes, I will try that.
Yes, we can do what you want to do.
And when the answer has to be "no" - what if it becomes "Let's find something that I can say yes to" instead of a hasty "no, I'm tired" "no, its messy" "no, it isn't necessary".

Where's that little blue engine? The one that thought it could. . . this year I say "yes I can" and I head up the mountain. (And yes, I might even find a real mountain ((or maybe small hill)) to climb. Why not?!)

What things are you willing to try this year?

A half marathon?
Committing to a gratitude journal?
going back to school?
paints and cookies and glitter?
being more honest with yourself and others?
wearing bright silly things that only you truly love?
singing along to songs whether anyone can hear you or not?
letting go of what other people think of you?
leaving the dishes until tomorrow?
putting away your own book to read something with someone you love?
an ill advised, poorly planned, amazing road trip?
sleeping late?
wearing mismatched socks and tutus at the grocery store just because?
waking up early just to sit quietly in the early light?
letting little ones linger a bit longer, knowing their need for more yes.
new hair color?
karaoke?


What else can we say 'yes' to this year? I can't wait to see.

Monday morning shop.

The things I subject my poor child to. We ran half a dozen errands before 9am today. By the time we got to Aldi, she was clearly not impressed. When she opted not to walk, I proceeded to bury her alive. She was provided bread with which to sustain herself. So come to think of it - she had a way better shopping experience than I did.

Ouch!

I'm thinking this The Grind/Eric Nies/Jana working out gem is good for at least a few posts. I mean . . . have you met me?

Now imagine me dancing (if you can call that spazzy marching/kicking/pumping - yes, pumping as in "pump it down" - hand to god that's what they say - activity "dancing") in my living room along with Eric Nies.

There's just so much to say. And so much humiliation I'm willing to endure.

It's only been a few hours since I completed the first half of the workout and I'm already sore! There was a warning at the beginning that said I should consult my physician before beginning but I decided (just before dialing) that my physician might not appreciate a call of that nature at 10:30pm Sunday night.

"Hi, Dr. G?"

"Yes?" and I imagine this in a gruff, not impressed voice a few octaves lower than his actual speaking voice.

"I just wanted to consult you before starting this The Grind hip hop workout with Eric Nies. Do you think it is okay to proceed?"

And I imagine that he'd hang up at this point and I'd have to start looking for a new doctor.

So you can see why I didn't call.

Clearly, I should have.

The Grind

Those of you who did NOT watch MTV in the 90's may think that you're about to read a Sunday night lament of the impending workday.

You are sorely mistaken.

Those of you who did watch MTV in the 90's know that you are in for a real treat.

Who remembers Eric Nies? What kind of question is that?! Who doesn't remember Eric Nies? One of the first reality TV stars (The Real World) turned dance/workout god on The Grind.

And guess who stumbled across one of his videos?!

ME ME ME ME ME ME ME !!!!!

And guess who is ridiculous enough to actually attempt said workout video?

ME ME ME ME ME ME ME !!!!!

The amount of unflattering Addidas spandex and unnecessary bandanna wearing should have/would have been enough to deter someone more stable than myself. At first I thought I might watch part of it over cookie dough ice cream tomorrow, basking in nostalgia.

I couldn't wait that long. And Eric's abs inspired me to fore go the ice cream.

While The Grind workout once featured "the freshest hip hop dance steps" allowing you to "grind to the best of a sizzling MTV soundtrack" . . . somehow I'm afraid these moves might not play quite as well in 2010. Here's a quick peek at the Grind moves (you may only need to watch the first half of the video to get the idea):



Now as you may have guessed. . . that is not Eric Nies. But those ARE the moves. That is also the ONLY video online of this workout! You'd think MTV would've done a little more careful marketing. Anyway. This guy makes it look a lot easier than it actually is - I assure you. In fact, he may look better doing it than I do. Of all the times I wished my living room blinds actually provided some privacy . . . Well, there goes that last little annoying shred of dignity. But for Eric Nies it was worth it.

This is Eric Nies:


So is this (and this bit is PG-13):



And so you see what I'm saying.

Now if we could just track down a delorian or a magical, George Carlin carrying phone booth to transport me back to a time and place where my fresh new, kick butt hip hop moves will be appreciated. . .

Stay tuned. . . I only watched the first half of the tape. When Eric started the ab workout with a series of pelvic tilts, I had to call it a night. I'll let you know when I work up the nerve to give the second half of the tape a try. (and here I'll refer you back to that second photo).

Can you help?

I was going to post something clever here this evening but sadly we are fresh out of clever this particular evening. I can promise a very endearing video of Sedona in the coming days though. The girl likes to read, likes to be filmed, and even more - loves to create her own videos. Makes for some good times.

What I can offer you instead is an opportunity to make a huge difference for men and women returning from incarceration in Saint Charles County. As you may know, I work in the Pathways to Success program at CtS where our goal is to provide men and women with the tools and resources to achieve economic self-reliance. What does that mean? We teach life skills, employment skills, computer skills, and then coach them through their first year by connecting them with faith-based mentors, case managers (me!) and an employment specialist all of whom work together to help each individual realize the goals that they set out in an 8-part life plan.

We have been challenged to raise $1000 by THIS Wednesday for the computer equipment, projection screen, white board etc for our new classroom in the Saint Charles CtS building. If we meet that goal, a generous donor will match it - giving us the $2000 grand total that we need to get the room fully functional before our February class begins. Can you help? Every dollar counts - whether it is $5 or $75 - the only way we'll reach this goal is by asking for help. And so I humbly ask . . . can you help? You can donate online at connectionstosuccess or if you're in the Saint Louis area, we can make some face to face arrangements. Either way, your donation is tax deductible and so very appreciated.

I'm excited about what we're doing over at CtS and I just can't not share this great opportunity with all of you. Forgive me for the unsolicited solicitation.

And now we return you to your regularly scheduled programming. videos of the girl coming soon.

What if your sink looks like this . . .

What should you do if your sink REGULARLY looks like this?




Some kind of mysterious pink slime finds it way all over the counter and sink bowl almost daily. And yes, I know it is toothpaste. And yes, I know that I am the adult charged with teaching these little people the rules and procedures of polite society (which certainly would include toothpaste etiquette). And yes, I have clearly failed.

So now what?!

I lean over to wash my face - glop. All over my shirt.
I try to have them wipe it up - glop all over floor, new white towel and their shirts.

I find it on the floor, the cabinet door, even the outside of the bathroom door.

I think it may be time to just give up the brushing of teeth. It is too messy and too risky an endeavor. If only they made clear toothpaste. . .

In the melting snow

The weatherman promises that it will be near 40degrees tomorrow. A welcome relief from the bitter cold for most of us, but a very different promise for our snow. Sedona insisted in one last romp before the melt.

Here she is as the sun settles down for the night.




"That great cathedral space that is childhood." - Virginia Woolf

Attic Journals

Super excited about the new journals I ordered over the weekend! The promise that they might arrive any day is just too much to handle.

In keeping with our resolute theme for 2010 I thought that stopping a few pages short of the end of my last journal was justified. I'm ready for a new work. And so came across these FANtastic journals at Attic Journal and just had to order me a few.

After all, "Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded" (again a nod to Virginia W). And as you may have noticed with this sudden influx of posts, I've renewed my dedication to record keeping.

But let's be honest. . . there are many things that I just can't/won't share with you all, though I love you dearly. And for those secret special little things . . . Attic Journals!

I'd love to hear what you all are reading/writing/thinking as this new year dawns. Care to share?

It is in our idleness . . .

"It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top."
- Virginia Woolf


And it is this long forgotten idleness that we seek out in 2010. I had resolved not to resolve this year and made it to 2010:Week Two before being overwhelmed by the possibilities that a new year holds. And in that realization, I recognize the need for more idleness, more dreams and the value of beginning of the year reflections (if not resolutions). Thank you, Virginia.

And so instead of thinking about the Statue of Liberty that I'm not seeing, I'm embracing the relative quiet of an evening at home, of the melting snow and the beauty of idleness. With all the associated evil I rarely consider the actual definition of idleness. It is simply to be "not employed or busy; avoiding work or employment; not in use or operation" which I take to mean even more simply: stillness.

You know what? I made it this far into the post before thinking "what a crock". No stillness here! The kids are fighting over ice. Yes, ice. Sedona doesn't want ice and Jordan is accusing her of being wasteful. And so there is squealing and mocking and feigned innocence. And the cars zoom past and the water heater is still not heating and well, with great resolve I decide not to dwell on any of that.

Instead, I offer other words of wisdom from my dearest Virginia - "Arrange whatever pieces come your way." The pieces today may be remarkably different than what I ordered. Some pieces more glorious than I knew possible, others decidedly, well, not.

But being empowered to arrange it myself (or rather with a bit more of God) means stillness or not . . . no pouting! no surrender! only determination to see the beauty and to hear the joy and to be nothing less than grateful for having been given pieces to arrange.

Searching for idleness, creating space in this new year for dreams might mean I have to arrange the pieces a bit differently if any stillness is to be found and valued. It might mean being quiet and reflective. More importantly though it now means ARRANGE THE PIECES! and arrange I will.

Stay tuned for more of what we're embracing in this gift of a new year.

Rites of passage

Sedona got her very own library card today. It was quite a milestone. She packed a purse, touched up her lip gloss and walked right up to the front counter to inquire about a library card. She even got to sign the back. Hooray for libraries (and kids who get this excited about having access to all those books)!!!

1001 books

Really?! 1001 Books you must read before you die. I was searching for some inspirational/motivational titles yesterday for a binder I'm putting together for an upcoming class and I stumbled across this rather humbling list.

1001?!

That's a lot of books, even for some who loves to read. I couldn't help but think about how one undertakes the making of such a list.

I had questions.

How is each book evaluated? Is there a panel? Has everyone on the panel actually read all 1001? Are these books that Americans should read? Men should read? Those with a Master's degree should read? Or is this a working list for the general population of the world? Are there other such lists? All of which really boils down to the real question - who says? I'm sure I could have found answers to some of these questions had I not spent so much time asking the questions. Clearly, I did not.

What I did do, with a very convincing "who says?" in my belt, is spend nearly an hour trudging through the list, highlighting the ones I've read, kicking myself for the ones that have been sitting (unread) on the shelf for over a year, thinking "My God! There just isn't enough time!", and finally, resigning myself to thinking again - "who says?!"

I was pleased to find some of my favorites on the list, but was surprised at some omissions as were many of the web prowlers who posted hateful comments and even lists of their own on the site.

What do you think? Do you ever feel like you couldn't possibly climb that mountain just ahead? Have you ever thought, "If I could just learn more, read more, write more then ____________ (fill in the blank)"? Or are you able to say easily "waste of time" and get on with your life?

I had visions of quitting my job, sending the children away to boarding school and investing in new glasses with which I would systematically and incredibly read all 1001 books in the next year. I thought about Julie and Julia (or is it the other way around?). I thought about the brilliant, book/movie landing blog that I could write if I undertook such a daunting task.

Ahhhh, the sweetness of disillusionment. And then back to the reality where the number of books you've read does not equal the sum of your person. The reality where reading books that some guy or some panel somewhere decides you should read hardly seems reason enough to read them.

And so I read now, once again, because I love to read. Because the beauty of the words on the page rivals the most spectacular sunsets. Because the people I find there are intriguing, terrifying and magical. Because the adventure inside those pages has never failed me. I think maybe spending a little bit of time in that world, I become a better person in mine. I begin to see my own adventures and characters, the beauty and strangeness of this life with fresh eyes.

P.S. I've read just 77 of these 1001. I wonder how many more will find their way into my hands. . . Perhaps I'll give an updated count next year. How many have you read?

Snow-pocalypse

Alright, I stole the catchy title from Jeremy. With the frenzy that much of the bi-state area is in with all this snow forecast and the news bulletins complete with loud, blustery gusts of wind and seeming machine fire announcing the Arctic Blast - we figured this was for real serious this time. Not like every other time they call for snow in Missouri. Then we got nearly 4 of the 5-8" of snow and while, yes, the temperatures are extreme (especially for this area), we're faring pretty well.

With the snow-pocalypse must come sledding. Dangerously low windchill or not. . . . we must sled.
And sled we did (however briefly). Jordan hopped on a friend's snow board and took a wicked run down the hill. He did it with some style, some grace and then, well some knee injury. But he looked good goin down, I swear it.