Catharsis

I'm telling this story today because it came up with a friend over lunch the other day and its a great example of the events in my life that have made me the type of person I am. Go ahead, laugh. This shit's funny, too.

In the early 90s, when I was a teenager, my family was poor. Really poor. "Come-home-from-school-not-sure-if-the-lights-will-come-on-when-I-flip-the-switch" poor. "Evicted-from-our-run-down-duplex-in-November-homeless-for-the-holidays" poor.

On New Years Day 1994 the Wisconsin Badgers went to Pasedena to win the Rose Bowl. My three brothers, my mom and I were finally back together under our own roof, in a new run down duplex. I remember we all slept on the living room floor that first night, and I remember lying there in the dark with my family, hearing the neighbors cheer as the Badgers clinched the win.

Sometime that year my mom got a job working for what was then called Midwest Express Airlines. Circumstances required her to take whatever job she could get, which meant my 5'6" skinny little thing of a mom was working outside in the Midwestern winter, loading and unloading luggage from planes. NOT easy by any means.

One of the perks of working for the airline, however, was that each year, she and each of her family members would receive one free standby ticket to anywhere Midwest flew. This meant that for the first time EVER, each of us kids would get to fly in an airplane.

I'm fairly certain that was her motivation behind that first trip. The idea that not only could she actually take her kids on a vacation but that we could fly there, too. Because she started in the fall, the trip was hastily planned, and in January 1994 the five of us flew to Washington, DC.

From touch down to take-off, we were there for 26 1/2 hours.

The only things I remember from that DC trip were
1) having a homeless man in the subway call me by name (which he and everyone else could clearly read on the front of my varsity letter jacket) and
2) the only place/thing/landmark we saw was whatever Smithsonian museum has rows and rows and rows of old dresses from presidents wives and such. No monuments. No White House. No historic anythings.

Let me pause here so that you may realize that my mother drug four kids, three of whom were boys, aged 6-16, to the airport, through the airport, from the airport to the hotel (I have NO memory of how that happened, btw), from the hotel to the subway, navigated the subway, got us lost on the subway, got harrassed by homeless men calling me by name on the subway, to the Smithsonian. And not the good one with the dinosaurs and the giant diamond but the shitty Smithsonian with nothing but dresses, only to go back to the hotel via the subway (on which we got lost AGAIN) to go to sleep, get up in the morning and go back to the airport and head back home. Oh, and we of course couldn't afford to park at the airport so we'd taken the city bus. Five people. With luggage. On the bus. The routes of which, let me tell you, my mother navigated no more savvily than the Washington DC subway system, meaning that we took a bus we weren't meant to take and ended up standing in the cold in downtown Milwaukee in front of a bar for 45 minutes waiting for a connecting bus to pick us up and take us closer to our home. Because that first bus had been the wrong one, this meant the stop we eventually got off on was a half mile from our house. Imagine us wheeling our hand-me-down luggage and toting our school backpacks full of clothes in the winter cold. I shudder to think of how pleasant we must have sounded.

We should have just stayed home.

The second trip was a little better. The following summer my mom saved her pennies to take us where every mother worth half their weight in salt wants to take their families to prove they're good parents -- Disney Land. I'm guessing the only reason we went to California and not Florida was probably because Midwest flew to LA and not Orlando. It might just as easily have been because my mom thought it sounded cooler. Whichever.

Prior to the stint working for Midwest, my mom worked for a rental car company at the same airport. This time we were staying for a week and mom was going to work her connections to get us a rental car. A friend of hers worked out a deal that she pay for the lowest cost rental (a Geo Metro) and we'd get a free upgrade. Sweet!

Only the message about the upgrade sorta didn't make it to LA.

This meant that five people, each with a week's worth of luggage, had to cram into a hatchback smaller than a twin sized bed. And then my directionally-challenged mother drove us through LA.

Yay! We can get out of the car now!

 I don't think I have to tell you we got lost.

But Disney Land! We were going to Disney Land!

Except when your kids are sorta spread far apart in age you can imagine that the younger ones are going to love it oh-so-much-more than the older ones.

I was 16 and one of my brothers 15. The younger two were 8 and 6. This meant that while the older two of us wanted Space Mountain and Not Disney Land, the younger two wanted tea cups and Pirates of the Carribean before it was Pirates of the Carribean circa the awesome Johnny Depp years.

Pretty much all I remember of the Magical Kingdom was tears and frustration. And chasing down Chip and Dale for autographs to make my baby brother happy.

And oh God - the day my mom decided to take us to see the ocean? Lost. In standstill traffic. With motorcyclists whizzing by between the lanes of cars. Mom swearing. Screaming, "WHAT IN THE HELL THAT IS JUST SOOOO DANGEROUS!!!" Little brothers crying. Me asking how we could possibly not find the ocean. My "just drive west" directions not appreciated.

And another day "checking out" Hollywood Boulevard. I took many pictures of stars on the sidewalk. I remember going into a scary-looking candy store and seeing the Capitol Records building from afar. And that's about it. I'm surprised we weren't all maimed or mugged or forced into prostitution.

The best part of that trip? The crappy hotel pool.

Yeah. Hold on tight. Cuz that floatie might save you. And don't forget to hold your nose.

I remember all four of us splashing about in a pool not completely unlike the ones outside cheap hotels in the Dells (much like this one). I could swim then lounge on a deck chair with a book while my youngest brothers jumped in 1,000 times with their Donald Duck floaties and my third brother sulked around like a sullen teenage boy. It made us all happy and it was free.

So yes, the family vacations my mother worked so hard for were pretty much a bust. Its not lost on me just how many hours she must have had to work in the cold and snow to be able to do something like that for us, even with free airfare and car rental deals.

Parts of those occassions are funny to me now, looking back. But it taught me that the best of intentions as a parent sometimes don't work out the way you want them to. You may mean well and even believe you're providing your family with something very special and meaningful. But if you have to drag your kids kicking and screaming or are going to lose your sanity in the midst of providing that super awesome cool thing? Its probably not worth it.

Cuz the damned kids are gonna pretty much just love the crappy hotel pool anyway, and you certainly don't have to travel 1700 miles for that.

Time warp.

I was in the car alone today when I heard that song again.

I've heard it HUNDREDS of times since that day I first met you. But something - the time of day, the time of the month - something made me instantly remember what it felt like to be that uncertain fourteen-year-old girl again. That girl who had no idea as to the potential she possessed, the beauty others might see, the strength she would find -- all within her rail-thin, awkwardly tall body.

I remembered what it felt like to have an entire summer stretch out in front of me -- hot and stifling in its humidity and lack of activity. Weeks would go by when the only thing I had to look forward to were the days I could somehow get out of caring for my brothers and have a few hours to myself. I always felt guilty about that stolen time - it meant that more than likely, my younger siblings weren't really being watched after at all.

I remembered that feeling of uncertainty I had about everything in my life...would I be popular in high school? Would I be smart? Would I be successful? Would I have a family of my own, with whom I'd have a chance to do so many more things RIGHT?

Would I ever NOT BE POOR?

And just as instantly I realized that in some way, THAT song was a keystone in my life...it bridged the gap between then and now...it had been speaking to me all along but there was no way, at fourteen, I could understand what it was telling me.

YOU are the salve that has soothed away all of the uncertainty. YOU make me feel confident, and powerful, and beautiful. And blessed. That day I met you, the day I first heard that song, I had no way of knowing that the cocky dark-haired skater-boy would be the man who'd love me in spite of all of my awkwardness, and support me when I was most vulnerable.

I had no way of knowing that YOU would give purpose to my days and be my biggest supporter.

I realize that through whatever new things we are facing as we move into this next chapter in our lives?

I'm certain we'll find a NEW song, together.

We just may not know which song it is until we're old and gray.

You know, as we watch each other's limbs fall off. ;-)

In their element

Last year around this time, I took the boys to the park one night after work for a little impromptu picnic. It really helped me to regain a little perspective about my crazy stressful workin' Mama life.

I also got a lot of really great pictures.

Will was sixteen months old at the time, and wasn't really so patient when it came to the posed shots. But there was a behemoth old tree that I just loved and I was able to get some great pics of Nick in front of it.

Nick, June 2008


Nick, June 2008
3 1/2 yrs old

The boys and I spent most of Sunday recovering from the start of our weekend. (A post is forthcoming, but it included a night of shopping in preparation for a surprise party we threw for my brother that lasted all day on Saturday.)

After Will got up from his afternoon nap, I was ready to get out of the house and enjoy a bit of the nice weather before heading back to work for the week. I had nothing we needed to do and we ended up heading to the same park we enjoyed on that afternoon a year ago.

I decided it would be just freakin' SWEET to get a new pic of my boys in front of the same tree.

Only when I rounded the boys up for this year's picture, I encountered a new problem.

Nick & Will
June 2009

The bugs crawling in the dirt beneath the tree proved to be far more interesting than posing for any stupid picture.

I gave up after about five minutes of begging and pleading, and decided I'd just take a picture of them doing what they were doing.

I may just have to go back every year...each imperfect shot makes for such a perfect record of the stages they were in when it was taken.

Just for a day...

Thursday afternoon I walked down the street from my office to eat lunch at Qdoba. Just myself, chicken three-cheese nachos and a good book. (Ignore that widget in my sidebar that says I'm reading the Abe Lincoln book. That thing, while interesting, is a bug killer and it'll take me 10 years to read that...must update Shelfari later.)

It was nice to be out of the office and to actually see sun. The weather's been so hot here lately - we literally jumped from 60 degree temps to 90+ and they've stuck for nearly a week. The intense heat and humidity is really stifling. I've been staying inside for the most part, wasting away my lunch hours playing Mafia Wars or Algerian Patience.

But Thursday I'd had enough and needed a break from the gloom of my closet office.

My new office building is on a street known for its many many bars and clubs. (This shot was taken from the back of hubby's bike, on the street in front of my office building during Harley's 100th Anniversary.)

I looked up from my book at one point to see what were, at the moment, just rows of silent and empty buildings with brightly painted façades.

No crowds. No lights. No lines snaking out the door.

No music pouring out the propped-open front doors. No too scantily-clad 22-year-olds table dancing in the front windows. No groups of friends sneaking drinks, glass and all, out of one bar and into another. (Not that that ever happened. *A-hem.*)

The Hubster and I frequented these bars back when we were still young enough to think they were the places to be...back when we were in our early twenties and we went out every night, looking for the best free appetizers and cheapest drinks.

It was always a balancing game - good food and cheap drinks versus the type of music the bar would play and the size of the crowd. For instance, it doesn't matter if its $.25 wing night or if there's a beer promo if its asses to elbows.

We'd stay out until bar close...on Tuesdays, each of us getting up and off to work by 8 am. We'd hit Webb's at three in the morning and survive just fine after a short nap and a shower.

We had such good times back then...we were all skinnier and had more hair...and the hair we had was much less gray.

I can't remember the last time I laughed once as hard as I did regularly back then.

I can't remember the last time I danced until I thought my feet were going to fall off.

Hell, I can't even remember the last time I had just one too many beers.

I see twenty-somethings walking around, tan, in their flip flops with their iPhones and their over-sized sunglasses, hear them talking about going to the afternoon's Brewer game AND hitting up Summerfest afterward.

I know the good that I have in my life. My kids and my hubby...my family at large...they rock and I wouldn't trade them for the world.

I wouldn't want to relive the drama of my early twenties any more than I'd want to relive high school. {shudder}

But just once...just for a day. A SINGLE DAY.

I'd love to have that feeling back...no worries...no priorities...no schedule.

And enough time to actually get a tan.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell for this.

If you didn't already know, I have three brothers. Mark is the baby of the family and nine years younger than I am.

That means that when I was in high school, he was juuuuust a teensie bit older than Nick is now. Throughout my high school years he was that little brother that thought everything I did was the coolest thing ever.

(Unlike the other two - they thought I was über dorky and hella lame, respectively.)

But Mark looked up to me, and not just because I was tall. As far back as he could ever remember I had a job, and therefore my own money and could buy cool things like Surf Style jackets and Snapple and Pearl Jam cassettes.

As any littlest brother will do, he asked a 156,000 questions a day, many with no real answers. And as any of my friends will tell you -- if you ask me a question like that I will make up an answer. If nothing else, it saves my sanity. I do it with my kids now.

"MOM! Where is that firetruck going?"

"To buy new socks - its a sock emergency."

"MOM! How come that house is purple?!?"

"Magic houses are always purple."

"MOM! Why is that guy bald?"

"Cuz his kids asked him so many questions all his hair fell out." (This has gotten me more understanding smiles than I'm sure any other answer could ever provoke.)

And I did it with Mark. I'm sure one day he was on question 155,999 when he asked, "Where did you get THAT?!?" and I simply replied, "The Cool Stuff Store."

For YEARS Mark really believed there was a place called The Cool Stuff Store.

He seriously, without a doubt believed me, and I never let up on the joke. Soft drinks, fast food, shoes, clothes - all of it came from The Cool Stuff Store. I often wondered if he pictured this Cool Stuff Store as some behemoth general store, with old split-open barrels lined up along the front counter, brimming with Hypercolor shirts, costume jewelry, and McDonald's fries.

I'd come home with something that Mom didn't buy and he'd ask, "Where'd you get that? The Cool Stuff Store?"

I never once laughed and he never once questioned my validity.

When I was 20 I bought a red Dodge Shadow convertible. Mark was 11 that day I drove it home to show the fam, proud to have a cool car, and one that wasn't a complete beater.

"WHOA!" I remember him saying, as he, the other two boys and my Mom came out to see it parked in front of the house. "Where did you GET that?!?"

I looked up at him, smiled slowly, realizing the answer was on his lips.

"Ohhhhh...wait. I KNOW." It was as if a light bulb had come on. "The Cool Stuff Store?" I could see in his eyes that suddenly he was too old to believe my line of crap. He knew none of it was true - that there had never been such a place - this mystical, awe inspiring place he had conjured.

I never did explain or apologize to Mark for that, but hopefully he knows that I was just coping with a pesky little brother that might otherwise have driven me crazy.

But I'm seeing parallels. Not only is my oldest son the same age Mark was when we first imagined up The Cool Stuff Store, but he looks quite a bit like my brother as well. (The skinny muppet arms and legs really help to make the connection.)

And, as I've said, I make up these silly answers when I might otherwise want to scream that I cannot take any more damned questions or feel as though I'm about to bleed from my eyes. And its only natural that every parent talk about eyes in the back of their heads, right?

Nick calls them my "back eyes". He talks about how, when he's older, he'll get back eyes too. He tells his brother all about them - about how Mommy can use her back eyes to see when he's picking his nose or when he's trying to sneak another cookie after I've said no more, so he'd better be good.

I let him believe I really do have back eyes. I mean, what's the harm? If he doesn't already, he'll realize that there really aren't eyeballs hiding under my hair. (What?!? So I might have told him that, too.)

But after all these years of staying straight-faced through the jokes, Nick got me.

We were riding in the car, on our way to God-knows-where and he wanted to show me his most awesome air guitar skills.

"MOM! LOOK! WILL'S PLAYING DRUMS AND I'M PLAYING GUITAR! MOOOOM! YOU HAVE TO SEE! MOOOOOM! LOOOOOOOK!

"Nicholas, you know I can't turn around and look at you. I'm driving."

"Mom - that's easy. Just use your back eyes."

I almost drove off the damned road!

They'll let ANYONE have a kid.

My hubby got a message from a friend the other day who said she was contemplating taking her girls to a baseball game. She asked if we'd taken our boys to one, and if it held their attention the entire time. She wanted to know how old Nick was the first time we took him to a Brewer's game.

He read the message out loud to me, then we looked at each other and laughed.

Leaning back from the computer screen, he squinted, thinking. "Geez...let's see...he was...how old?"

The memory came rushing to me. "Oh my God - four or five months old? Do you remember?"

Nick was born at the end of November, and that following April we had been offered tickets to a pre-season game for $10 a piece, about 10-15 rows behind home plate. Awesome tickets anytime, but obviously out of our price range during regular season. We'd contemplated getting a sitter, but the naivete of new parenthood made us figure we could just take the baby with us. He'd probably just sleep the whole time anyway, and extra bonus - he didn't even require his own seat!

The night of the game, I dressed baby Nick in a super cute outfit (cuz what kind of good mother would I be if I took him out wearing anything less?), packed a diaper bag and we took off for Miller Park in the pouring rain.

We paid extra to park close to the stadium and we decided we'd leave the baby carrier in the car, knowing that once we got to our seats there'd be no room for it. It was my first time anywhere with a baby not in his little "seat".

Pulling into our parking space, the rain turned into torrential downpour. The noise it made hitting the roof of the car was deafening. "We're close - we can run, right?" Jay asked.

We compromised - he'd carry the baby - tucked under his coat to stay dry of course, the only sensible thing to do - if I carried the diaper bag. And we ran like hell.

A few minutes later we were inside the stadium, soaked, with a slightly stunned and very pissed off looking baby. Not crying, he looked as us as if to say, "You have NO idea what to do with a baby, do you?!?"

We met up with our friend and made our way to our seats. The stadium was packed and we got more than a few ugly glares when folks saw us sitting down with a baby. (I mean, what the HELL were we thinking?!?)

It took only seconds for the size of the crowd, the noise of the rowdy and the glare of the lights to make Nick FREAK THE HELL OUT.

He let out the most heinous screams, as if to try and let everyone know the torture his parents were putting him through. I excused myself and took my poor, wailing child away from the crowds in the stands and back into the safety of the (much quieter) atrium.

I spent most of the game sitting at a table next to a brat stand, watching the game on TV.

Somewhere around the fifth inning I mustered up the courage to try again, and brought my (now placid and nearly sleeping) son back to our seats.

Poor kid's eyes were as wide as saucers for the rest of the game.

But surprisingly, he was quiet.

“If you don't know your family's history, then you don't know anything. You are a leaf that doesn't know it is part of a tree.”

-- Michael Crichton

Dad & Grandma Ebert, June 2002

The most powerful woman I've ever met is the tiny, softly wrinkled old woman in this photo.

It was taken on her 101st birthday.

Anna Ebert was my great-Grandmother. When she celebrated her 100th birthday in June of 2001, hundreds of family members came from all over the country to southwest Wisconsin to celebrate.

We're one of those rare extended families that know each other - and like each other.

One of my second cousins teaches at the school two blocks down the street from my house. I'm friends on Facebook and MySpace with several third cousins. If I were to randomly run into a great-Aunt or -Uncle on the street or in the grocery store, they'd know me by name and give me a hug. (And I'm sure that Uncle Harv would probably still tease me and threaten to cut off my tongue...long story.)

It was the sheer number of those well-known relatives that really struck me, back on that hot summer day seven years ago. Doctors, farmers, teachers, parents...five generations of God-fearing, slightly rowdy and fun-loving individuals...were all there simply because she had lived.

Even today when I begin to question myself as a parent, and wonder if I'm really making a difference in the lives of my children I try and stop and remember Grandma Ebert. Such a small person made such a big impact on all of our lives.

If only I'm so lucky as to live another seventy years to see what kind of impact I might make.

For more photo memories, check out Marcy, Jen and Carrie's places!

And check out today's Mommy Confessional - you could win a prize for your "Mommy fail"!

Growing like weeds

The weather was beautiful yesterday, and by that I mean it was about 50 degrees and sunny.

We had a bunch of picking up and little things to do outside, so the fam spent most of the late afternoon/evening hours enjoying the fresh air.

Well, mostly enjoying it anyway.

After dinner, Hubs surprised the boys with a little "campfire". Will is too small to remember fires from last year, and they both loved it. (By loved it I mean they sat pretty still in their chairs and didn't make me nuts worrying about them falling into the fire.)

(We had a bunch of scrap wood from the work we've been doing around the house.)

It struck me - we no longer have babies.

We have two boys. {sniff}

Will, 11 months
January 2008

For more photo memories, check out Marcy Writes, Cheaper than Therapy and Nate and Jake's Mom.

Misty water colored mem-ries...of the way we were...

I'm not a sappy person.

I'm not overly sentimental. I don't save ticket stubs or birthday cards. (I do, however, have a note my hubby wrote me on the back of a Wong's Wok receipt from the mall in 1999.)

But when I sat down in bed to read the other night something hit me -- HARD -- and nearly made me cry.

My hubby had moved our bedroom furniture around.

It had come on the suggestion of the realtor we met with some time ago...she thought it would make the room look bigger.

But our room is now set up exactly as it was on the day we brought our firstborn son home from the hospital.

I vivdly remember 21+ hours of hard labor in the hospital. I can recall clearly how relieved I was to have the doc finally suggest a C-section at 3 am. I tried not to sound like I thought it was the best idea anyone had ever had. (Though clearly, it was.)

I remember sitting in that hospital, watching crap TV for four days - infomericals and celebrity gossip shows. (Julia Roberts's twins were born the day after I had Nick. And I finally got the Magic Bullet for my birthday this year!)

Food tasted so good when they finally let me eat. I took everyone up on their offers to bring me things - my Dad brought me a custard chocolate shake from the gyro place down the street and it nearly healed me completely.

But for some reason, the thing that sticks with me the strongest was how good it felt to come home and crawl into my own bed.

It was early December, and Hubby had put clean flannel sheets on the bed and had cozy PJs ready for me. That first night home, I fed Nick, who was a good eater and sleeper right off the bat, and fell into bed where no one would wake me hourly to take my temperature.

I got four straight hours of sleep.

We'd gone from a newlywed couple to a family.

MY family.

I was sleeping in MY bed.

In MY house.

No wonder that sticks in my mind as being the best sleep I've ever gotten.

The dog took a liking to the baby right away. She was protective of him from day one!

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For more great memory inducing photos, check out Marcy's Glamorous Life and The Mom Jen.

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum...

I was flipping through some old photos the other day and realized most were taken on holidays, Christmas and Easter mainly. I mean, before digital, film was pricey and you didn't just go taking pictures of just anything.

The other theme I noticed? Really REEELY bad Christmas trees. Some of them made me laugh out loud. But first, our super-pretty, pre-lit, comes-in-three-pieces-and-you-just-let-the-branches-fold-out tree.

What you can't see in this picture?
The zip ties we needed to keep the star standing up on top. Heh.
Shhh...don't tell me its still crooked. I might not notice.

Now -- on with the show! I have no idea what years these were from, in most cases even who's trees they were, but I'm sure you'll do some, "Oh YEAH!" and "Oh my!"ing with me.

The "icicle tinsel" tree


Uber-skinny brown ornament tree


Dark gold tinsel tree (and little me trying to open some toy)



The "cross-hatch tinsel" tree
(and my brother Al, who later went on to fall off the roof)


The "I think a fish is coming out of the top" tree

Last, but certainly not least:

The "WHAT IN THE HECK?!?" tree

Its kinda built like one of those women who are all tiny and petite

on top and then, BAYUM, all bedonka-donk on the bottom.

Yellow is NOT my color.

Check out We are THAT Family for more Christmas tree photos.

Un-Grinch it: Jolly Old St. Nicholas

One of the other traditions my family has observed over the years is that of putting out stockings for St. Nick. I'm not sure if we celebrate it because we're German, or because we're Catholic, but its fun so we keep doin' it.

According to wikipedia (a.k.a. The Online Knower of All Things), the legend of St. Nicholas goes like this:

"A poor man had three daughters but could not afford a proper dowry for them. This meant that they would remain unmarried and probably, in absence of any other possible employment would have to become prostitutes. Hearing of the poor man's plight, Nicholas decided to help him but being too modest to help the man in public, (or to save the man the humiliation of accepting charity), he went to his house under the cover of night and threw three purses (one for each daughter) filled with gold coins through the window opening into the man's house. ... People then began to suspect that he was behind a large number of other anonymous gifts to the poor, using the inheritance from his wealthy parents. After he died, people in the region continued to give to the poor anonymously, and such gifts were still often attributed to St. Nicholas."

As a child, we'd wake up on the morning of December 6th and look for our stockings. (I have no idea why they were hidden.) They would be filled to overflowing with candy, fruit and small toys.

One of my Aunts is the family's unofficial stocking maker. For my boys' first Christmases, they each got a stocking from Auntie Mary, much like this one:

We haven't dug ours out or hung them up yet,
or I'd just take a picture of our stockings. Eh...

Its a fun little holiday we like to celebrate the puts us a bit more in the mood for the season.

Now, off I go to actually get stuff to put in the stockings...teee heee heee...I always get giddy when it comes time to, um, "assist St. Nick". This "Un-Grinching" is working!!!

Image borrowed from The Angel's Nook. You can buy the kit to make the above stocking (and many other cute ones) on their site here.

Why am I doing this?

Past "Un-Grinching posts":
Day 1: The Christmas Special
Day 2: Baking Cranberry Cream Cheese Bread
Day 3: Making paper snowflakes
Day 4: Giving to those who need it most

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"Zen and the art of ice fishing is an oxymoron."

I've mentioned before my proclivity for clumsiness, but when I was a very little girl I had dreams of being many things when I grew up - one of them a professional ice skater.

I obsessed of all things "on ice" - Ice Capades, Stars on Ice, Sesame Street on Ice - and begged my Grandmother to take me or let me watch on TV. I loved the costumes, the grace, the speed and the show of it all.

by Ned Schultz on Flickr

I'd don my swimsuit in the middle of January and do arabesques around the living room, jumping and twirling, pretending I had a partner, leaping from the coffee table with the elegance of an elephant.

When I was a bit older, I begged and begged for a new pair of skates. Each of us kids had a pair that had been handed down through more than a few kids that were well-worn and scuffed. I simply was never going to amount to star material in smelly, second-hand skates. Finally, one Christmas they arrived under the tree, white with a bright pink lining.

I was ecstatic! I pictured myself doing toe loops, double axels and camel spins. I itched to get on the ice and break them in. So when my Dad decided to take my brothers ice fishing a few days after Christmas, my ears perked up when he suggested I tag along...with my skates.

I was on the cusp of puberty that year, and I fought tooth and nail that morning to not wear my snow suit. How completely unstylish would I be in my frumpy lumpy snowsuit? I reasoned that I simply would not be able to twirl properly wearing so much bulk. I chose a thin pair of gloves over the mittens my Grandma had crocheted for me (because, yes, they had a string), aiming to at least look like the figure skating girls in their practice gear. So in my waist-length jacket and blue jeans, we were ready to go.

We took Pa's van out to the lake, armed with a thermos of cocoa and a propane heater. We drove out onto the ice, found our spot and Dad slid the side of the van open and started the heater. Our own little shanty on wheels.

Before drilling their fishing holes, my father shoveled the snow from a large swatch of ice and helped me with my laces. (Only he could get them just right.)

"Have at 'er," he said, leaving me to do my twirling and grabbing the auger from the back of the truck.

I headed out to cross the length of my skating spot for the first time, my happy face chilly in the frigid wind when - BAM! I hit a stick that was jutting out of the ice and I went down, hard, on my kness.

Teary eyed, I limp-skated back to the van and reported my injuries. An assessment of the damage showed only scrapes and what would probably be bruises later on.

Determined to really break in my skates, I headed back to the "rink" after a cup of cocoa. My Dad and brothers had just gotten their tip-ups and poles into the water.

I gave the offending twig my best pre-pubescent evil eye as I skated around it, though my speed that day wasn't as fast as I'd have liked. See, lake ice doesn't freeze smooth like that on an indoor ice rink - if it was windy the day the lake froze, well, then the surface ends up pretty bumpy. Add to that my new fear of debris and the type of freezing wind that makes your eyes tear up and I was ready to quit the skating game after ten minutes.

But, as I've mentioned, there were hormones involved, people. And my stubborn streak ran deep. So I headed back to the "shanty" and stood in the warm air coming from inside and pretended to be interested in what my brothers were doing. I'd hang around for a little while, pestering my brothers until my Dad told me to basically "go freakin' skate already!"

I kept up this routine three or four times, but eventually my hands and thighs were beyond numb, my teeth were chattering and my nose was running. I decided to admit defeat. The rest of the afternoon I spent sitting in the back of my Dad's van, huddling under a blanket and holding my palms out toward the heater, trying to warm my hands. It was miserable.

I ended up with bruises on both knees and the flu. Somewhere in all of that I realized that A) my family was poor - there were never going to be skating lessons, B) I wasn't a morning person and would never be able to handle early-morning practices, and 3) my clumsiness was probably going to prevent me from every really being a skating star, anyway.

And, eh...that was just fine by me.

When you were little, did your Mom sew a string to each of your mittens, then thread that string through your coat so that if you took your mittens off, they'd hang out the bottom of your sleeves and you wouldn't lose them or leave them at school?

Yes, I was THAT cool.

The cuteness before the geekiness

The pee story

This flashback post is inspired by Robin's pee story. After you read mine (cuz its really funny, darn it) go read hers. You'll be glad you did.

So, I'm a clutz. I am always hurting myself doing something stupid. Right now? I have a scab on the knuckle of the pointer finger on my right hand. Why? Cuz I was trying to get two kids' teeth brushed and underestimated the height of the bathroom cabinet. And I punched it. D'oh!

I've always been a clutz, as are most of the women in my Dad's family. (If that points to some strange disease, please, tell me - cuz I'm a worrier. I'm of German descent and could be considered to be overly hairy, too.)

OK, where were we? Oh yeah. Clutzy. That's me.

So - in the winter of '06/'07 I was pregnant with Will and was going in for my monthly, then weekly doctor's visits. You know the routine - pee in a cup, wait to be called, weigh yourself, wait for the doc, he asks, "How are you feeling?" and you say, "Fine." Repeat.

On one particularly cold February day when I was nine months along, I grumbled to the nurse that they should make those prenatal visits "do-it-yourselfers". They could let you come in at your convenience, put cups out for the sample and a chart on the wall where you'd jot your weight and any symptoms.

She led me to the rest room and explained the procedure for collecting a sample as if I were new. I cracked a smile and said, "I think I got it down." She smiled sheepishly, realizing she hadn't needed to explain, and walked away.

The office of my OB is particularly nice in that they don't require you to carry your pee in a cup down the hallway. There is a little metal door in the wall of the rest room with a little metal door on the other side that opens up into the lab. Once you've collected your sample, you leave your cup in between the little doors.

Easy peasy.

For everyone but me.

On this particular day when I was feeling grumpy and had already proven myself to be a bit snarky with the nurse, I spilt my pee.

Just as I misjudged the bottom of the bathroom cabinet this week, I misjudged the little shelf behind the little metal door, and instead of setting my sample inside, I hit the bottom of the cup on the wall, spilling all but three drops e v e r y w h e r e.

Pee ran down the wall and made puddles inside the little metal door as well as on the floor. There was no longer enough pee to actually test for whatever it is they test for at that point.

There was nothing left to do but laugh.

Cuz my pants? Were still around my ankles. With my pee on them. (I realize the pants may sound like they caused the spillage, but trust me, I barely had to stand up off the pisser to open the little metal door.)

I laughed my fat happy butt off as I re-dressed myself and did my best to wipe up my pee. I realized its was a lost cause and started laughing even harder, cuz its just like me to be such a freakin' spaz that I can't handle my own pee.

I was laughing so hard my sides hurt when the nurse knocked at the door.

"Ma'am, are you OK?"

But of course...

Twelve years of absolute geekitude

Last Saturday, November 1, marked twelve years that Jay and I have been together.
We work because we're the same kind of dork.

1999 in Florida

On the nights we're actually home together, we're likely to end up laying in bed together, laughing at a fart joke until he says, "Oh no...you've reached your "dork stage"," what he calls that point of overtiredness when I just laugh at everything like its beyond funny even when its really not.

But it doesn't matter, cuz it makes him laugh harder, too, until we just curl up together and sigh and say, "G'nite, Woobie, I love you."

We don't believe in Hallmark holidays - in fact, most of our gifts to each other are previously discussed and hashed over, the way friends ask, "I dunno, but what do you think?!?" We'd both rather get a gift we really want (which is often the same thing) than something the other purchased just to have a gift to give.

Sometimes all we really want is a candy bar that says, "I thought of you" while the other was at the gas station. Those occassions don't need a holiday at all.

Our 5th Wedding anniversary, 2008

He's there for me when I need to lose my mind about whatever crazy-ass things my mother did while watching our kids, only putting in an "uh-huh" or "yeah, I know..." when necessary so I know he's still listening.

He also knows to just stay quiet when I have those rare moments when I just need a good cry. When I feel like I'm a complete failure and I just want to give up or quit my job or run away and join the circus. When I'm out of breath and heaving sobs, he'll rub my shoulder and say, "But I love you." Then I laugh and say, "YEAH? SO?!?" And then he laughs...

He's one of those rare Daddies who isn't afraid to take two kids out to lunch by himself, or to a movie, and has taken them to doctors' appointments as often as I have. He talks with Nick about the 'letter of the week', coaching him on words that start with C, and teaches him that you're always nice to girls (or "hot chicks" - damn, I see some parent-teacher conferences coming up. The kid's THREE.)

He truly is my better half. He makes me want to be that super Mommy, that pretty funny wife, that patient woman. Because he deserves them all.

I love you, Woobie. Here's to another twelve years.

I love you,
Not only for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.

I love you,
Not only for what
You have made of yourself,
But for what
You are making of me.
I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out;
I love you
For putting your hand
Into my heaped-up heart
And passing over
All the foolish, weak things
That you can’t help
Dimly seeing there,
And for drawing out
Into the light
All the beautiful belongings
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find.

I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple;
Out of the works
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song.

I love you
Because you have done
More than any creed
Could have done
To make me good
And more than any fate
Could have done
To make me happy.
You have done it
Without a touch,
Without a word,
Without a sign.
You have done it
By being yourself.

~ Roy Croft

---

Did you write a flash back post recently? Link up. But if you don't leave your permalink, I'ma gon' be mad. Grrr.

Happy Halloween!

This year, pumpkin carving was the complete opposite of last year. In October of 2007, Will was about eight months old, and he loved the feel of the gooshy insides.

This year, notsomuch...

You want me to stick my hand WHERE?!?

Last year, this was as far as Nick was willing to go:

Oh my god - look at how SKINNY he is!!!

This year? GUNG. HO.

"DAD! I want a SCARY pumpkin!"

The hubby did a good job, eh?

Have you written a recent flash back post? Link up! But use your permalink or I'll send a goblin after you!

Flashback Friday: When Will was new

There was no Flashback post from me last week - life was a little crazy to say the least. I mean, its usually crazy, but last week was crazy AND I was out of town. So if you wrote a post recently about something that happened a week ago or 357 weeks ago, link up this week. If you don't use a permalink, you'll end up on my "dood, that's soooo uncool" list. Watch out!

Anyway...yesterday I introduced you to Bald Baby, and writing that post made me think about my first days as a Mom of two.

Hubster had a few weeks of sick time built up, and the plan was that he'd be home for the first four and a half weeks of my leave after Will was born.

Nick, 2 and Will, 2 weeks old
March '07

Nick was just barely two, and he'd spent the many days I was in the hospital post-c-section with various Grandmas, no routine and the need for some serious attention. Hubby decided that he'd take him on a special "big brother" trip to the circus the day after we come home.

It was late February, and the day we came home from the hospital it began to snow. It was still snowing the next morning when my brother called, asking for help getting his car out of the alley. Jay headed out to help him shovel and get to work before spring.

I was looking forward to an entire day at home - in my own bed - with my peacefully sleeping adorable newborn in his bassinette beside me. I had TV, I had PJs, I had my big ol' glass of water, the phone and was cozied into my pillows and under my comforter.

Nick came padding into the room in his footie PJs, and I somewhat lamely helped him climb up onto the bed and flipped on cartoons. I had fed Will sometime before and was happy to spend a little time with Nick as he snoozed peacefully beside us.

After awhile, I realized it was getting late. For the boys to make it downtown and to the Circus on time in a snowstorm, they'd have to leave soon. And Nick wasn't even dressed.

Dang it. I'd have to get him ready myself.

I pulled myself out of bed, plodded my still aching body to Nick's room and picked out clothes. As I stood at his dresser trying to find a warm sweater and pants that matched, I heard my brand new baby mew.

Now, Will was born an average eight pound baby, but that kid can EAT. At a month old he weighed 11 lbs, at two months, nearly 14. And he kept growing that way. Needless to say, in those early days, all he did was eat. In fact, the only time he cried was for food - and in his later baby days would suck down 8 oz. of formula fast enough to make you do a double take.

The mewing turned into crying and the crying into screaming before I could even make it back to my bedroom. I return to find Nick jumping on the bed, precariously close to the edge and the baby's basinette.

I get Nick to stop jumping and pick up Will and begin to feed him. Instead of breast-feeding on both sides as I normally do, I do one side, compromising that I'll dress Nick then feed him on the other.

Only baby has other plans. Which include letting me know how irately pissed he is that his feeding has been cut short, but I decide its OK for him to cry a bit for the sake of getting Nick and Hubby out the door and to the circus on time.

So I stand Nick up, unzip the jammies and leave them around his feet while I pull down his pull-up diaper.

"Poop, Mama," he says, and yes indeed, I see too late that there is poop.

Crap. Now what? I have a screaming baby, a toddler with a poopy butt who's pants are around his ankles, and I'm not supposed to lift anything heavier than the baby.

Oh, and did I mention my boobs are leaking? Cuz they were.

I leave screaming baby to, uh, scream, and pick up Nick.

Red. Hot. Pain. In my abdomen. Shit.

I drop toddler to floor, peel PJs and poopy pull-up off his feet and hurry him along to the bathroom, deciding Hubby could clean poo off the floor later if we left a trail.

I get Nick on the potty to do any business he's not yet finished and decide I need to call in reinforcements. Opening the back door, I scream as loud as my re-injured abs will let me, which is practically a whisper over the snowstorm. Needless to say, Hubby does not hear me.

Baby's still screaming. I wipe Nick's butt and get a new pull-up on him. I throw on his clothes and have him climb back onto the bed while I pick up Will and begin to feed him.

Enter hubby, looking cold and oblivious.

"Is Nick ready to go?"

Look of death.

"What?"

And thus began the current chapter of my life.

Forrest Humps & Letters to Santa

I'm here! I'm here - I'm so sorry my Flashback is late. Sometimes you get last-minute notice that your hubby's day off is going to be switched from Friday to Thursday AND he's asked to come in two hours early all weekend long which will ruin any chance you had for a nice weekend. And sometimes you try and salvage that weekend by going out to dinner on that day off, then get sucked into the kick-ass TV that is on. And sometimes - sometimes you realize, on your way home after Friday morning swimming lessons and running of errands that "Oh crap!" no Flashback post has yet been written.

So first things first - Mama Smurf (trust me, she has a REAL name) is running in a marathon this weekend and she asked I link up her Flashback post. Go over and give her some LOVE! Tell her she rocks just for running in a marathon - cuz Lord knows I probably never will.

And I see Marni wrote one, too. Sorry to letcha down, babe.

But let's get to it - lots to say today. First, I'm dumb. Last week, I wrote about my job waiting tables at Denny's, and alluded to posting today about my worst job ever. Only I already wrote about it. Just a little excerpt for ya, from an old(er) FF post:

[When I first moved to Green Bay,] I had no job, so I enlisted with a temp service and worked a few shifts in one of the city's famous paper mills packaging napkins before I decided I could find better work on my own.

Whether the work I found was actually better or not is questionable. First it
was a checker and customer service manager in a small Mom & Pop grocery
store. (Imagine lots of arguments with senior citizens as to whether or not they
received their 10% off the one banana they were buying. Fun.) Then it was a
clerk and shift supervisor at Family Video.

Now, I must digress from my flashback to give you the dirt on that job. Family Video. Its for Families, right? I mean, "Family" is the first word of its name.

Family Video had a porn section. A BIG porn section.

I had to inventory that porn.

I had to call customers and ask they return the porn when it wasn't returned on time.

It went a little something like this:

Ring ring!

"Hi! You're reached the Hanson residence. John, Karen, Rachel and Peter can't take your call right now. Please leave us a message and we'll get back to you!"

BEEP!

"Um, hello, Mr. Hanson. This is Colleen from Family Video calling. Forrest Humps is now five days overdue and we need you to return that to our store on Military Avenue right away to keep your account from accruing additional late fees. Thanks and have a great day!"

Ah, good times. Not the worst job, certainly. I had a cousin that worked for the DOT for a few summers - what was that we called him? Oh yeah - Chief Engineer of Aerial Burials. That's right - he would drive miles of country highway each day, looking for poor critters who'd been squished into pancakes, scoop 'em up with a shovel...and FLING! them out into the trees/field/ditch on the side of the road. (I have to imagine a slightly different procedure was used for the bigger roadkill - I'll have to ask him what they did with deer when I see him for Christmas. Ah - what good dinner conversation THAT will make!)

So - because I've already written the above, I thought I'd share with you a little letter I've been writing up in my head lately. *Ahem*

Dear Santa,

Its been roughly 24 years since my last letter. I want you to know that when I asked for a Cabbage Patch Kid and you gave me a bald preemie 'Kid named Bart Cass that it really sorta ticked me off a bit. I think I'm finally getting over that now. But seriously - I couldn't even get a girl doll?!?

I've been a really good. I eat all my veggies, and get my kids to eat theirs, too. I read to them, give them baths and brush their teeth. I ran a bunch of errands this morning and Will even came home wearing pants.

So I feel its justified to have a slightly longer than usual list this year. I would like:

• A new laptop - one with a pretty purple cover, and lots of gigs and rams and fancy stuff inside. Oh, and my own copy of CS3.


• A scanner


• A color printer (one a little faster and easier on the toner than my current BubbleJet)


• A DVD burner with lightscribe


• A DSLR camera, preferably a Nikon D-60 or D-80


• And a new pair of slippers.

That's all. As usual, please look for the plate of cookies decorated by my kids. Don't look at me if all the icing and sprinkles and chocolate chips and raisins on top give you indigestion. I tried to explain that Santa really likes Milanos and coffee, but last year they wouldn't hear of it. If you notice there are a lot of cookies again, its because Nick doesn't believe me that reindeer would really rather have carrots instead. (I'll draw the line on leaving a bowl of milk to go with the cookies for the reindeer this year as well.)

And if you'd bring a little sumthin-sumthin for my Hubby, that'd be great, too. I don't want to overdo it, but if I don't have to be waiting up for him under the tree, so much the better. If he gets a really good present from Santa he'll be just as happy with me in flannel PJs, and could care less if I'm already snoring by the time he gets home from work.

Thanks, Santa. You're the best!

~ Colleen

I know it isn't even Halloween yet, but what's on YOUR Christmas list this year?

Will that be regular or decaf, ma'am?

Hey, its Flashback Friday...play along, whomever you are, and link up regardless as to when you wrote your relfective post. Just make sure you use a permalink, huh?

---

I write quite a bit about my job but once upon a time, a day job that didn't include weekend hours was a dream.

In high school, I was one of the lucky kids that got accepted to a co-op program my Senior year. That meant my school day ended at 11:30 in the morning and I worked noon to 4 p.m. at a print shop.

Given the status of the family's finances at the time, however, I worked a second, evening job waiting tables at the local Denny's.

This was 1996, the year of the "One ninety-nine, are you out of your mind?!?" promotion. I would work Saturday and Sunday mornings for eight hours straight, serving Grand Slam breakfasts for $1.99 a pop. With a cup of coffee and tax, the total bill would be roughly $3.10.

Do you have ANY idea how many senior citizens would file through those doors after Sunday morning service, shuffling and elbowing past each other, fighting for the nearest booth, only to grumble their way through their meals and then tip ninety cents?!? Wait, no. Those were the good tippers. The bad ones would tip forty cents.

Yet I stayed for more than a year, picking up sticky change after they left and shoving it in the pocket of my apron. I remember leaving that place in the afternoons with heavy pockets.

But I counted my blessings. When I came in to serve breakfast, the third shifters were on their way out. This particular Denny's was on a popular cruising strip, where all night long, teenagers and early twenty-somethings who had nothing better to do would drive back and forth, hooting and hollering out their car windows as they raced from one stop light to another. When they got hungry, they went to Denny's.

It was also a popular spot for the after-bar crowd. Around 2:30/3:00 in the morning I'm told crowds would amass much like they did around six or seven hours later. Only instead of shuffling grumpy old men in church clothes, they were shuffling, grumpy drunk bastards, smelling of beer and stale cigarette smoke.

Around this time in the morning, this particular grumpy shuffling crowd could get rowdy. For every "I love you, man" drunk you have there are three "Oh yeah?!? You wanna GO?!?" drunks. And that required security guards and wait staff to be quick on their feet. One to intervene and one to duck.

Sometimes fights would get out of hand, and the wear and tear could be seen on the restaurant when us first shifters stumbled in, still bleary eyed ourselves just a few hours later.

There was this old guy, lets call him Bud (I don't know that I ever knew his real name), who would come in by himself after church around 9 a.m. every Sunday morning. Bud was a crabby old coot to beat all crabby old coots. He wouldn't wait to be seated, didn't care if other people were there waiting first, but would walk in with his paper straight to "his" table and make it clear his coffee was already late.

Somehow I got stuck waiting on Bud. Every time. We grew on each other - he yelled at me, I ignored him. He left me forty cents -- every time. And heaven forbid you ask him to wait his turn or sit somewhere else. He'd wave his hand at you and mumble something uncoherent but obviously very rude.

One morning, however, Bud's table was gone. There had been a fight the night before and two drunks fell on it and knocked the table top off the base. What was left was just a pole sticking up out of the ground, on which someone thought was necessary to put an "Out of Order" sign.

So 9:04 a.m. and here comes Bud. I see him crossing the parking lot with his red cardigan sweater and khaki pants, newspaper tucked under his arm. I kinda freaked a little. Like, oh my God, what was Bud going to do?

I decided to see how the scene played out. Like a coward...from behind the pie rack.

Bud walks in, the hostess, a fifteen-year-old new girl, attempts to put his name on the list and explain that there's a wait. He grumbles at her, waving his hand and walks past, as if her presence was so unrequired and unimportant as to be almost funny. Some of the "regular" servers greet him with a smile knowing darn well that he'd dismiss them either way, and watch him walk past to see what was going to happen.

He walked right up to that table and stared down at that sign and stopped. Then he looked up, stunned, searching for an answer. Some other waitress, bless her heart, walked up to him and I heard him scowl, "What happened?!?" She started to explain, only to be interrupted with the usual hand wave, the usual grumble, but the shocked expression stayed. Bud turned around and walked out. Something about the familiar routine of his visit -- the same booth, the same meal, the same server, was important.

Thinking back on this now, I wonder what Bud's story was. Was he widowed? Or was he always a bachelor, set in his ways? Was he a vet? Or just a jerk? When As Good as It Gets came out a year or so later, I was no longer working at Denny's, but Jack Nicholson's character made me think of Bud, and I wondered what happened to him.

Was he still frequenting Denny's every Sunday morning? Had he gotten sick? Had he passed away? That restaurant is long gone, but Bud made me realize that every person on this planet has a story. I never learned his, but it made it no less important. I only hope someone else stepped into my place to give him a little happiness or comfort with every cup of coffee.

Now, Denny's was in no way my worst job. THAT I plan to share next week.

My, how time flies...

Hey, its Flashback Friday...can you believe I forgot my own graphics last week? AND Mr. Linky? Sheesh...but its my party and I'll space out if I want to. I guess. Anyway, FF's are hosted by moí, and anyone and everyone is welcome to link up! If you wrote a post recently that included a reflection of your past, an old photo (whether it's from 20 years ago or last week), link up, baby!

Just make sure you use a permalink, huh?

---

Jay brought home some pictures the other day that had been hanging in his locker at work for years. I gasped out loud when I saw them.

They were of Nick, at about the same age Will is now.

I knew they looked a lot alike, but WOW.

Nick, May of '06 (18 months):

Will, July of '08 (17 months):

Nick (17 months):

Will (17 months):

And now? As I write this on Thursday night? I'm SO glad they're sleeping.