We've been settling in to the house in town for a couple of months now. I think I will still be adjusting to town life for another year or so, but it is amazing how fast we acclimate to new surroundings. Most of my concern and worry centered around my kids. Collectively, I've moved dozens upon dozens of times; I'm actually quite skilled at adapting to new places. But we moved to the farm in 2007, when my kids were 3, 9 months, and still incubating. The farm was the only home any of them remembered, so I have been watching cautiously for signs of stress and trauma.
Cooper had been lamenting about his woefully small bedroom since he was old enough to communicate clearly, so he was fully on board with the new bedroom which roughly tripled his play area. The move placed him right next door to a built-in buddy that he met this summer on his baseball team. We were painting one afternoon with the windows up when I heard this shout through the screen: "HEY COOPER! WANNA COME OUTSIDE AND RIDE BIKE?" Cooper was playing on the floor in the hallway and shot up like a bullet. He hollered, "YEAH! I'M COMING!" And out the door he went. I had to take a moment to ponder the awesomeness. He had never had access to other kids that way before.
It reminded me of two of the best years of my own childhood when I lived in a tiny little house in a tiny little town in northern South Dakota. Renee Brandner lived across the street and I spent two blissful years climbing her apple tree, dancing to Simon and Garfunkel's Cecelia in her living room, eating whatever amazing hot dish her mother put on the table, and sleeping on piles of pillows on the floor of her bedroom. She was my first best friend, and was so important to my youth. I am so happy that Cooper will have that opportunity.
The girls now have to share a bedroom, which thrilled Carys and caused Emma to shoot searing laser beams in my general direction. There is a "secret reading nook" in this fabulous house, though, so we gave it to Emma along with some bean bag chairs and a fully stocked book shelf which soothed the savage teenager looming inside, at least temporarily. Emma is my most conflicted, which is not surprising given her age. She is young enough to appreciate the social opportunities that town has to offer, but old enough to recognize that she is giving something up in the process. The farm is still for sale, so we make periodic trips out there to clean before a showing or move additional items to town. On one recent trip, I was turning into the driveway when I heard a small choking sob from the seat next to me. Emma was trying (unsuccessfully) to hold off the tears. She said, "I just miss this so much!" And all I could do was stop the car and give her a hug, because I know. I know. I miss it too.
The hardest moment for Carys came when we had to re-home the farm kitties. She had helped Mama Kitty give birth to four pretty little tabbies. She fed them, played with them, cleaned up after them and worried over them for nearly a year. We couldn't take 5 cats to town, of course, so we found a wonderful farm at a friend's house for them to grow up. The day we had to gather them, put them in a crate in the back of my car and head down the driveway almost broke me. She sniffled through the packing, dripped big salty tears all over their toys, and then climbed on to Aaron's lap and let those big wracking sobs take over while Mom drove away with her babies. (For all of you who thought I should let her come along...well...those cats did not take happily to crates. They were a snarling bundle of you know what by the time we got them in the car. I was more concerned that Carys remember Henry & Oliver as sweet lap kittens than as angry Toms, so I went alone. Two weeks later, we visited the farm where I took them, and Carys got to see them in their new home: fat and happy, and very excited to climb on her lap and cuddle. All's well that ends well!)
So. We live in town. Where cars throw light patterns on the walls at night. Where neighbors walk right in front of your house and stop in at random moments to say hello. Where there is no apple tree, no raspberry bed, no greenhouse or garden. Where the grocery store is actually a possible solution to being out of an ingredient, and where the Dairy Freeze is blessedly three blocks away. Where we can fish in our back yard, build sand castles, have friends over, and go cosmic bowling at the Bowl Mor on Saturday nights.
I still miss the quiet peace of farm living, but I'm glad I got the chance to give it to my kids for a while anyway. I certainly wouldn't trade the farm chores for the sandy beach I've got in my backyard right now. I'm anxious to spend the holidays in the new house, creating new memories and solidifying new patterns of normal. I hope the extra hour we have gained each day by not driving to and from the farm becomes time I can spend connecting with my kids, and that they'll be just as happy here as we were when we were there. I'm hoping they will feel the way I feel about all the homes my parents gave me growing up. Each one was special for it's own reasons, but we never really left "home." It is a cliche for a reason: home is really wherever you make it.
November 10, 2015
October 5, 2015
Absence
I've been absent from the blog for 5 long months. The weight of all our untold stories press heavily on my heart. I've tried to come up with a neat little explanation for posterity, to remember the great summer of our discontent. (Apologies to Richard III) The truth is simply that I could not write. Physically, emotionally, I was at a stopping place. There were too many changes, too many decisions, too many words; it was just too much.
But. Last week I finally felt the first little tugging at my fingertips, itching to write a few words. I sat at the computer and looked a blank screen for about 10 minutes. Yesterday I wrote four sentences, erased them, and wrote four more. I read them, re-read them, erased them, and logged off. Today I have managed 11 so far, and I'm still typing, so maybe. I think maybe once I get going I may not be able to quit. We'll see.
Today I'm just going to ease back in, slowly.
We moved.
Whew - that was tough. I wrote and re-wrote a six paragraph explanation, but really I can simplify it down to just two words. We moved. We left the farm, our little oasis from the real world and moved into a vintage fixer-upper on the lake. I'm not sorry, at least not yet. On paper, this was a very good decision. Four blocks from school, snuggled into a quiet street with amazing neighbors, we have a sandy beach walkout only a block from the park and the Dairy Freeze. I'm not sorry - the kids ride bikes, go fishing, build sandcastles and play with friends and we aren't in the car for an hour every day. I really like the house - it needs some work, but it has amazing potential.
Sometimes, though, someone peeks into my soul and asks, "But how could you leave the farm? You seemed so happy there..."
We were happy there. We were. And we will be happy here.
Last night I couldn't sleep. I walked out to the beach and curled up on the sand and watched the water lap against the shore line. Within a few minutes I felt an easing in my shoulders. I breathed deeply the green smell of the water and I wished I could find words to bottle the moment. This morning, this poem popped up in my daily Poetry.com feed, and I see that once again the world is speaking to me.
As usual, it is language, in its startlingly beautiful simplicity, that can bring me back to the world.
But. Last week I finally felt the first little tugging at my fingertips, itching to write a few words. I sat at the computer and looked a blank screen for about 10 minutes. Yesterday I wrote four sentences, erased them, and wrote four more. I read them, re-read them, erased them, and logged off. Today I have managed 11 so far, and I'm still typing, so maybe. I think maybe once I get going I may not be able to quit. We'll see.
Today I'm just going to ease back in, slowly.
We moved.
Whew - that was tough. I wrote and re-wrote a six paragraph explanation, but really I can simplify it down to just two words. We moved. We left the farm, our little oasis from the real world and moved into a vintage fixer-upper on the lake. I'm not sorry, at least not yet. On paper, this was a very good decision. Four blocks from school, snuggled into a quiet street with amazing neighbors, we have a sandy beach walkout only a block from the park and the Dairy Freeze. I'm not sorry - the kids ride bikes, go fishing, build sandcastles and play with friends and we aren't in the car for an hour every day. I really like the house - it needs some work, but it has amazing potential.
Sometimes, though, someone peeks into my soul and asks, "But how could you leave the farm? You seemed so happy there..."
We were happy there. We were. And we will be happy here.
Last night I couldn't sleep. I walked out to the beach and curled up on the sand and watched the water lap against the shore line. Within a few minutes I felt an easing in my shoulders. I breathed deeply the green smell of the water and I wished I could find words to bottle the moment. This morning, this poem popped up in my daily Poetry.com feed, and I see that once again the world is speaking to me.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free
May 13, 2015
Exodus
Let me start off right now by saying I feel guilty for even writing this post. I feel waves and waves of guilt pouring over me as I contemplate my next few paragraphs. I am swimming in the guilt-ocean because on Mother's Day I opened my Facebook page to an outpouring of motherly love and happiness over the various states of motherhood that the entire outside world felt like glorifying this past weekend. Maybe my lack of mommy-posting went unnoticed by everyone out there - but the honest to goodness truth is that what I wanted to post went so far against what everyone else in the universe was posting that I thought it might be wiser to just keep my mouth shut.
You see, I love my kids. I adore them. I would do all the things everyone always says they would do for their kids - would die for them, would do anything for them, blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda, insert cliche saying, overused phrase, etc. I hope that 5 years of my endless posting of pictures and cute moments, and passionate love-filled blog posts will drive that point home for me. Because I didn't do anything even remotely resembling good mothering this weekend.
In fact, I did no mothering at all. And THAT, my friends, might have been the best Mother's Day ever. I know that this is borderline sacreligious, so I just kept that little truth nugget to my own self this weekend. But honestly - I love my kids 24/7 and spend time with them 24/7 and this was the first weekend in, maybe, ever, that Aaron and I went away by ourselves for two whole days and didn't do any parenting whatsoever at all.
And it was amazing.
We checked in to the W Hotel in Minneapolis on Friday night. A valet took my keys, said, "Welcome Back to the W, Ma'am" and then directed a bell hop to take my bags upstairs for me. When we checked in, it appeared that I had won the Starwood Preferred Guest lottery because the desk clerk spent a good 10 minutes making sure I had everything I possibly wanted. A bottle of champagne was waiting in the room with a hand-written note letting me know how glad they were to host me this weekend.
Okay - pause button. What? Just? Happened? The last time a group of us stayed at the W, I put the reservation in my name, so I guess I racked up a lot of points or something because they acted like I was the Queen of England - me, in my denim capris, track t-shirt and flip flops. I even found a card on the table offering me $50 in room service free of charge for the weekend. Which, by the way, we took immediate advantage of. (Hello, 12 oz ribeye and lamb sliders, how very nice to see you.)
We'd planned to kick off our weekend away in style - we had tickets to see the Gear Daddies. If you know who they are, I don't need to say anything else - point made. If you don't know, well, I can't explain it to you. Here, watch this. You probably still won't get it. If you weren't around southern Minnesota from roughly 1986 - 1992, you may just have to accept that you missed something amazing.
They played their 25th reunion show this weekend, at First Ave. If you already know about First Ave, then I don't need to say anything else - point made. If you don't know, well, go there. Today, tonight, this weekend, sometime...just go. Or go home and watch Purple Rain. Then you'll maybe have some kind of idea.
I think somewhere around 10pm on Friday night it began to sink in. I was at First Avenue, listening to the Gear Daddies, holding hands with the boy I have known since we were in 4th grade, and I swear to absolute goodness, I felt so much more like myself than I have felt in centuries. My children were anything but on my mind - it felt like I was young again - truly young - and life hadn't yet actually begun. I was blissfully unaware of everything around me for just a few short hours, and I just can't tell you properly what that felt like. Billy Dankert sang Blues Mary with all the verve he could muster, Martin Zellar sang She's Happy right to me and right through me, and I felt free and light and young.
Of course, reality came crashing back in when a lovely lady I will refer to as Drunk Amy spilled a large pink cocktail on me. She was a perfectly lovely person in her less-drunk state of mind; she had introduced me to her 35 closest friends as they staggered back and forth from our spot in front of the stage to the bar. Even when she spilled sticky grenadine-soaked something on my jeans, she was so NICE about it. "Sorry Sara! I did that! Oopsie! I can dry-clean your pants for you, if you want!" No thanks, Drunk Amy, but I do appreciate your concern. In fact, the boys are starting to play Little Red Corvette as their first encore and I am feeling so good right now, I don't even mind the sticky shoes all that much.
Walking back to the W after the show, the Minneapolis skyline was alight in all her glory; we passed street musicians and patio bars and people laughing and walking together and enjoying the 65 degree weather. We rounded the corner on Marquette and the Foshay building looked spectacular. My phone had died long before, so a photo was out of the question. But I'm going to cheat and use this photo I found online - it looked like this - something we don't see every day out on the farm.
You see, I love my kids. I adore them. I would do all the things everyone always says they would do for their kids - would die for them, would do anything for them, blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda, insert cliche saying, overused phrase, etc. I hope that 5 years of my endless posting of pictures and cute moments, and passionate love-filled blog posts will drive that point home for me. Because I didn't do anything even remotely resembling good mothering this weekend.
In fact, I did no mothering at all. And THAT, my friends, might have been the best Mother's Day ever. I know that this is borderline sacreligious, so I just kept that little truth nugget to my own self this weekend. But honestly - I love my kids 24/7 and spend time with them 24/7 and this was the first weekend in, maybe, ever, that Aaron and I went away by ourselves for two whole days and didn't do any parenting whatsoever at all.
And it was amazing.
We checked in to the W Hotel in Minneapolis on Friday night. A valet took my keys, said, "Welcome Back to the W, Ma'am" and then directed a bell hop to take my bags upstairs for me. When we checked in, it appeared that I had won the Starwood Preferred Guest lottery because the desk clerk spent a good 10 minutes making sure I had everything I possibly wanted. A bottle of champagne was waiting in the room with a hand-written note letting me know how glad they were to host me this weekend.
Okay - pause button. What? Just? Happened? The last time a group of us stayed at the W, I put the reservation in my name, so I guess I racked up a lot of points or something because they acted like I was the Queen of England - me, in my denim capris, track t-shirt and flip flops. I even found a card on the table offering me $50 in room service free of charge for the weekend. Which, by the way, we took immediate advantage of. (Hello, 12 oz ribeye and lamb sliders, how very nice to see you.)
We'd planned to kick off our weekend away in style - we had tickets to see the Gear Daddies. If you know who they are, I don't need to say anything else - point made. If you don't know, well, I can't explain it to you. Here, watch this. You probably still won't get it. If you weren't around southern Minnesota from roughly 1986 - 1992, you may just have to accept that you missed something amazing.
They played their 25th reunion show this weekend, at First Ave. If you already know about First Ave, then I don't need to say anything else - point made. If you don't know, well, go there. Today, tonight, this weekend, sometime...just go. Or go home and watch Purple Rain. Then you'll maybe have some kind of idea.
I think somewhere around 10pm on Friday night it began to sink in. I was at First Avenue, listening to the Gear Daddies, holding hands with the boy I have known since we were in 4th grade, and I swear to absolute goodness, I felt so much more like myself than I have felt in centuries. My children were anything but on my mind - it felt like I was young again - truly young - and life hadn't yet actually begun. I was blissfully unaware of everything around me for just a few short hours, and I just can't tell you properly what that felt like. Billy Dankert sang Blues Mary with all the verve he could muster, Martin Zellar sang She's Happy right to me and right through me, and I felt free and light and young.
Of course, reality came crashing back in when a lovely lady I will refer to as Drunk Amy spilled a large pink cocktail on me. She was a perfectly lovely person in her less-drunk state of mind; she had introduced me to her 35 closest friends as they staggered back and forth from our spot in front of the stage to the bar. Even when she spilled sticky grenadine-soaked something on my jeans, she was so NICE about it. "Sorry Sara! I did that! Oopsie! I can dry-clean your pants for you, if you want!" No thanks, Drunk Amy, but I do appreciate your concern. In fact, the boys are starting to play Little Red Corvette as their first encore and I am feeling so good right now, I don't even mind the sticky shoes all that much.
Walking back to the W after the show, the Minneapolis skyline was alight in all her glory; we passed street musicians and patio bars and people laughing and walking together and enjoying the 65 degree weather. We rounded the corner on Marquette and the Foshay building looked spectacular. My phone had died long before, so a photo was out of the question. But I'm going to cheat and use this photo I found online - it looked like this - something we don't see every day out on the farm.
On Saturday morning we sure tried to sleep in - we really, really tried. But several years of 5am wake up calls have set our clocks semi-permanently, I'm afraid. We were out and about and looking for coffee early. The Whatever/Whenever guy said he would bring a coffee maker to our room but we politely declined - it's much more interesting to explore the city streets.
We spent our entire Saturday cruising the cities, with no particular destination in mind. When we saw something interesting, we stopped. At one point Aaron saw the Duluth Trading Company, and we made a beeline inside. This company has the hands-down best advertising in Minnesota, and we were hoping to snag a few fun pics next to semi-inappropriate signs. I even bought something, just so I could have one of their paper bags to take home. We looked totally ridiculous trying to take pictures of ourselves next to mannequins with suggestive signage inside what is typically a very quiet environment, so I settled for this one:
When we got back to the room that afternoon, we settled into a movie while we waited for our fashionably late-night dinner reservation at Manny's. The steaks are legendary, and there was no exception tonight. We ate in careful, savory bites, drawing out the deliciousness, casually ogling the $400 bottle of wine on the neighboring table. I thought the $80 steak was decadent - I can't imagine spending a car payment on bottle of merlot. But the people around us behaved as if this was everyday food for them, so we did our best to act like we belonged there.
Something else kind of wonderful happened, in tiny stages, throughout the entire weekend. I remembered what it was like when Aaron and I were just Aaron and I. Relating to each other without the constant interruption of children's needs is something we have really missed. With no one to entertain and bathe and feed and worry about, we were able to just be. He held my hand everywhere we went; I had forgotten that he used to do that, We laughed like we hadn't laughed in ages. Our conversations lately usually revolve around who's picking up who, what we're having for supper, and what activity which kid has on what day. It was nice to talk about everything else for change.
On Sunday we decided to make our way home. The further we got from Minneapolis, the more familiar I became with my surroundings. City streets turned to highways, skyscrapers turned to houses turned to cornfields. I could feel the pulse of city life slowing and the easy comfort of the country seeping back into my consciousness. I was genuinely happy to see my three babies. For a few surreal hours I could sense the city experience on my skin even through the chattering of their stories, and I felt oddly suspended between worlds. But eventually it faded, and my identity returned as Mommy and Mediator, Counselor and Chauffeur, Chef and Sharing Police, the Reader of Stories and the Checker of Homework.
It was a very Un-Mommy weekend, on the weekend devoted to motherhood. Waves of guilt aside, I had a really, really good time. I should have used my Facebook status to tout the virtues of my own mother, who grandmothered my beautiful babies while I made my weekend escape. Thanks, Mama. I really, really needed that. And I promise to pay it forward someday when my daughters need to make their own exodus.
March 20, 2015
Sophie & Sis
Carys has a well-documented passion for animals; we've seen that quality in her from a very early age. Her heart is terribly tender when it comes to her furry friends, and we have weathered many storms already when it comes to the lives of the creatures on our farm. At any given time we have half a dozen farm cats inhabiting our outbuildings, and cats happen to be her particular favorite.
Unfortunately, the life expectancy of a farm cat is woefully short; sometimes they stick around for a year or two, but often they come and go as regularly as the weather. Her poor heart just couldn't bear it, so we decided to get a kitten for the house that would be a constant companion.
We found Sophie in the winter of 2012, and gifted her to Carys at Christmas. Aaron brought her in the house in the bottom of a brown paper bag, and Carys burst into tears immediately. We put a crate in her room so the kitten would bond to her, and my little 6-year old became an instantly responsible caretaker. She feeds and waters her, changes her litter, and gives that cat the kind of love I wish I could give every cat that wanders our way.
In return, Sophie has become her companion in play and her protector at night. She sleeps curled up next to Carys, tucked into the space behind her knees. When I come upstairs to do one last check each evening, Sophie becomes downright protective. She meows loudly at my arrival and sits up and guards her sleeping ward. Sometimes if I try to smooth Carys' hair in the night, or put my hand on her, Sophie will actually bat my hand away and meow as if to scold me for interfering.
Occasionally, Sophie will hear me coming up the stairs and she will reach her paws through the railing above my head and swat at me as I come up the steps. In the morning when I call for Carys to wake up, Sophie will come immediately to the top of the stairs and stand glaring, her tail twitching, daring me to disturb the sleeping princess further. It's all bluff and bluster - as soon as I get close she scampers away, but it delights me anyway to see her puff up all fierce and loyal.
The other night, the bond between these two became even more glaringly apparent. Carys was in the shower getting ready for bed. Sophie was standing sentry outside the door. I was in the living room, picking up the remains of a pillow fort, when I heard a vague cry coming from another room. It was a truly distressing, high-pitched cry, but I paused, trying to determine where it was coming from - the TV or one of my children? I didn't have to wonder for long - Sophie came flying at me from the other room, growling low in her throat. I started for the bathroom, but Sophie beat me to it, clawing and biting the door, while Carys wailed from the other side.
She'd squeezed the shampoo bottle too hard, and some shampoo squirted into her eyes. She was crying like someone had lit her on fire, poor thing! I started to help her wash it out, but it was harder to do with Sophie tangled up in my feet, pacing in front of the shower curtain, still meowing. I alternated between saying comforting things like, "It's okay, Carys, Mommy is getting it out," and scolding the cat with "Sophie! Get out of here!"
Ten minutes later, I had Carys dressed and bundled up on my lap in the living room. Her eyes were still red and she was still sniffling, but she had calmed considerably. Sophie perched on the back of the sofa until we got comfortable, then she carefully made her way onto Carys' lap. I watched that cat gently sniff my girl's face all over, and then she actually licked the corner of her eye. Gently, so gently, that cat was trying to do what I had been trying to do in the bathroom. Carys met her forehead to forehead, and Sophie just purred and purred and loved on her until the tears were dry.
My phone was nearby - I tried to get a picture to commemorate the moment - it was almost unbelievable to me - but these shots are the best I could get. That cat is a keeper.
Unfortunately, the life expectancy of a farm cat is woefully short; sometimes they stick around for a year or two, but often they come and go as regularly as the weather. Her poor heart just couldn't bear it, so we decided to get a kitten for the house that would be a constant companion.
We found Sophie in the winter of 2012, and gifted her to Carys at Christmas. Aaron brought her in the house in the bottom of a brown paper bag, and Carys burst into tears immediately. We put a crate in her room so the kitten would bond to her, and my little 6-year old became an instantly responsible caretaker. She feeds and waters her, changes her litter, and gives that cat the kind of love I wish I could give every cat that wanders our way.
In return, Sophie has become her companion in play and her protector at night. She sleeps curled up next to Carys, tucked into the space behind her knees. When I come upstairs to do one last check each evening, Sophie becomes downright protective. She meows loudly at my arrival and sits up and guards her sleeping ward. Sometimes if I try to smooth Carys' hair in the night, or put my hand on her, Sophie will actually bat my hand away and meow as if to scold me for interfering.
Occasionally, Sophie will hear me coming up the stairs and she will reach her paws through the railing above my head and swat at me as I come up the steps. In the morning when I call for Carys to wake up, Sophie will come immediately to the top of the stairs and stand glaring, her tail twitching, daring me to disturb the sleeping princess further. It's all bluff and bluster - as soon as I get close she scampers away, but it delights me anyway to see her puff up all fierce and loyal.
The other night, the bond between these two became even more glaringly apparent. Carys was in the shower getting ready for bed. Sophie was standing sentry outside the door. I was in the living room, picking up the remains of a pillow fort, when I heard a vague cry coming from another room. It was a truly distressing, high-pitched cry, but I paused, trying to determine where it was coming from - the TV or one of my children? I didn't have to wonder for long - Sophie came flying at me from the other room, growling low in her throat. I started for the bathroom, but Sophie beat me to it, clawing and biting the door, while Carys wailed from the other side.
She'd squeezed the shampoo bottle too hard, and some shampoo squirted into her eyes. She was crying like someone had lit her on fire, poor thing! I started to help her wash it out, but it was harder to do with Sophie tangled up in my feet, pacing in front of the shower curtain, still meowing. I alternated between saying comforting things like, "It's okay, Carys, Mommy is getting it out," and scolding the cat with "Sophie! Get out of here!"
Ten minutes later, I had Carys dressed and bundled up on my lap in the living room. Her eyes were still red and she was still sniffling, but she had calmed considerably. Sophie perched on the back of the sofa until we got comfortable, then she carefully made her way onto Carys' lap. I watched that cat gently sniff my girl's face all over, and then she actually licked the corner of her eye. Gently, so gently, that cat was trying to do what I had been trying to do in the bathroom. Carys met her forehead to forehead, and Sophie just purred and purred and loved on her until the tears were dry.
My phone was nearby - I tried to get a picture to commemorate the moment - it was almost unbelievable to me - but these shots are the best I could get. That cat is a keeper.
February 23, 2015
Verizon, and The End of the World (As We Know It)
Everything that is wrong in the world can be summed up in one Verizon commercial that I saw this weekend.
That's a bold statement, but I'm feeling like a loose cannon with my words this week, so buckle up.
I have to back up just a little, to put all this drama in context. I have a strong love-hate relationship with technology. Sometimes, technological advances make me feel awed by what they can accomplish. Sometimes, I rely on them to make my life easier and simpler. At the same time, I hate that technology is replacing human interaction in exponential proportions. Perhaps my ambiguity makes my argument ineffective; but I have lots of good examples:
When a learning management system makes it possible for me to individualize grammar instruction to 124 students, print reports on what they can and cannot do, then provide hours of personal practice to build their grammar skills, I LOVE technology. Technology is good.
When my kids cannot ride together in the car for 15 minutes without a Kindle or an iPod because they would rather die than actually speak to each other, I HATE technology. Technology is bad.
I'm trying to navigate this carefully. I recognize that technology is the future, and my kids need to have skills. But I also recognize that kids today are more comfortable snapping a photo to send to their friends with 140 characters of text than they are having a face-to-face conversation with them.
As a family, we have seen the desperate desire to play Minecraft supersede a sunny afternoon at a local playground. I have seen the vague zombie-like expressions on the faces of my children while they are watching television; I have stood right next to them and called their name - with zero reaction - and had to shut the television off to get them to pay attention to me.
So. We have tried to build boundaries at home - we have television during specified viewing hours, but we have no internet access. If they have a homework assignment that requires it, we head up to the school and do it in my classroom. On one hand, that is a gigantic pain in the butt - lots of driving and inconvenience. On the other hand, if they could access the internet at the house, I might never get them out of their rooms, so I'm willing to take the bullet on that one.
Largely, this is a losing battle I'm fighting, and I know it. The older they get, the more exposure they have, and the more I have to concede. I'm just hoping to build some human interaction, some quality family time, some interpersonal skills and values into their young lives before I lose them forever.
Then Verizon came out with their "It Matters" campaign. They have produced a neat little 30 second slot that threatens to bring down the entire structure I have been carefully cultivating. A surfer uses her phone to record her rides - my little wakeboarder thought that was pretty cool - "How much is a waterproof phone, Mom?"
Then the voiceover says "Would you be willing to give up sharing your moments?" I'm thinking, my gosh, I HOPE so! Is an activity worth doing only if we can immortalize it on YouTube for everyone to see?
Next, a skydiver records his jump so the world can live vicariously through him - my perceptive and timid middle child commented, "So that's what it looks like to go skydiving!" Which really means: she'll never try it because she's seen it already, and what would be the point?
And THEN. The all-American family is setting up their tent in a forest setting - surrounded by God's most beautiful creation - and they hook their phone up to a projector so they can watch a MOVIE on the INSIDE of their tent. The final shot is the glowing tent, with a backdrop of the night sky. Basically, they are watching STAR WARS surrounded by a billon ACTUAL stars, that the poor kids never get to SEE because they are watching a MOVIE for crying out loud! And my little man, who just recently got to see his first viewing of that classic film, was delighted. "Mom! You should get that projector for when we go camping this summer!"
Then the voiceover says "Would you be willing to give up sharing your moments?" I'm thinking, my gosh, I HOPE so! Is an activity worth doing only if we can immortalize it on YouTube for everyone to see?
Next, a skydiver records his jump so the world can live vicariously through him - my perceptive and timid middle child commented, "So that's what it looks like to go skydiving!" Which really means: she'll never try it because she's seen it already, and what would be the point?
And THEN. The all-American family is setting up their tent in a forest setting - surrounded by God's most beautiful creation - and they hook their phone up to a projector so they can watch a MOVIE on the INSIDE of their tent. The final shot is the glowing tent, with a backdrop of the night sky. Basically, they are watching STAR WARS surrounded by a billon ACTUAL stars, that the poor kids never get to SEE because they are watching a MOVIE for crying out loud! And my little man, who just recently got to see his first viewing of that classic film, was delighted. "Mom! You should get that projector for when we go camping this summer!"
Ummmm.....no. No. No, no, no, not even if my life depended on it.
Seriously, Verizon? SERIOUSLY?
P. S. My title today is also a shout-out to my very best high school friend, who spent roughly 80,000 hours with me learning all the words to that song and singing them at top volume in her Buick as we cruised around town together. Miss you, Karrie.
February 10, 2015
Everyday Laughter
Sometimes my kids are hilarious. Their random comments don't always amount to an entire storytelling experience, but if I don't write them down, I will probably forget them. So every now and then I'll devote a post to the best of their rants and ramblings.
*Morning Call Downs*
Me: "Cooper! Get up! I have called you three times already this morning!"
Cooper: "Mom, it's not my fault! Dad put an extra blanket on my bed and made it really warm...tell him not to do that anymore!"
*Watching Emma get fitted for contacts*
Carys: "Emma's growing up so fast, isn't she, Mom?"
*Saturday Clean-Up*
Me: "Cooper, get upstairs and clean your room."
Cooper: "Room? What room? It's nothing but a glorified closet."
(Okay, his room is a little smaller than the others. But where did he learn how to use the word 'glorified' correctly in a sentence?!)
*Car Ride Conversations*
Emma: "I'm getting really good at Geo Graphy."
Me: "But clearly NOT doing well in pronunciation."
Emma: "What?"
Me: "You meant geography, right?"
Emma: "Oh. Yeah. Well now I feel like an idiot."
Me: "Sorry."
*Passing a road-kill raccoon, being devoured by a pack of crows*
Cooper: "Mom! Are those birds eating that raccoon?"
Me: "I think so, Coop."
Cooper: (stunned silence)
Carys: "Circle of Life, Cooper. Circle. Of. Life."
*Saturday Morning Clean-Up*
Emma: "Cooper! Get down here and help me clean up this mess!"
Cooper: "Why don't you come up here and make me?"
*Eating at our favorite bar & grill*
Waitress: "What can I get you to drink?"
Cooper: "I'll have a Bud Light."
(stunned silence)
Cooper: "Wait - what's a Bud Light?"
Emma, whispering: "It's alcohol."
Cooper: "Oh. Never mind. I'll have Sierra Mist."
*Listening to Blake Shelton's "My Eyes" on the radio*
Cooper: "Mom? He says my eyes are the only thing I DON'T want to take off of you."
Me: "Yep."
Cooper: "So what DOES he want to take off of her?"
Me: "Uhhhhhh....."
Cooper: "Does he mean her clothes?!"
Me: "Uhhhhhh....."
Cooper: "So she's just standing there NAKED? And he's just looking at her?"
Me: "Uhhhhhh....."
Cooper: "Okay, that's just weird."
Me: "......"
*Morning Call Downs*
Me: "Cooper! Get up! I have called you three times already this morning!"
Cooper: "Mom, it's not my fault! Dad put an extra blanket on my bed and made it really warm...tell him not to do that anymore!"
*Watching Emma get fitted for contacts*
Carys: "Emma's growing up so fast, isn't she, Mom?"
*Saturday Clean-Up*
Me: "Cooper, get upstairs and clean your room."
Cooper: "Room? What room? It's nothing but a glorified closet."
(Okay, his room is a little smaller than the others. But where did he learn how to use the word 'glorified' correctly in a sentence?!)
*Car Ride Conversations*
Emma: "I'm getting really good at Geo Graphy."
Me: "But clearly NOT doing well in pronunciation."
Emma: "What?"
Me: "You meant geography, right?"
Emma: "Oh. Yeah. Well now I feel like an idiot."
Me: "Sorry."
*Passing a road-kill raccoon, being devoured by a pack of crows*
Cooper: "Mom! Are those birds eating that raccoon?"
Me: "I think so, Coop."
Cooper: (stunned silence)
Carys: "Circle of Life, Cooper. Circle. Of. Life."
*Saturday Morning Clean-Up*
Emma: "Cooper! Get down here and help me clean up this mess!"
Cooper: "Why don't you come up here and make me?"
*Eating at our favorite bar & grill*
Waitress: "What can I get you to drink?"
Cooper: "I'll have a Bud Light."
(stunned silence)
Cooper: "Wait - what's a Bud Light?"
Emma, whispering: "It's alcohol."
Cooper: "Oh. Never mind. I'll have Sierra Mist."
*Listening to Blake Shelton's "My Eyes" on the radio*
Cooper: "Mom? He says my eyes are the only thing I DON'T want to take off of you."
Me: "Yep."
Cooper: "So what DOES he want to take off of her?"
Me: "Uhhhhhh....."
Cooper: "Does he mean her clothes?!"
Me: "Uhhhhhh....."
Cooper: "So she's just standing there NAKED? And he's just looking at her?"
Me: "Uhhhhhh....."
Cooper: "Okay, that's just weird."
Me: "......"
January 20, 2015
Winter Games
After a Saturday of questionable parenting, I was really looking forward to an opportunity on Sunday to turn things around. The weather in Minnesota has been erratic this year, to say the least. We've endured some serious negative temperatures (-27° wind chills) this year already, and by most accounts, we aren't done yet. So when Sunday soared to 35°, it felt like shorts and t-shirt weather and we decided to get out and enjoy it.
When we were stationed in the mountains, winter was our favorite season. We had annual ski passes to Copper Mountain and Monarch, and went skiing and snowboarding every single available weekend and even a few weeknights. After you've experienced 11,000 ft of mountain bowls, it is very difficult to get excited for skiing in Minnesota. (No offense, Mt. Kato, but really, it's not the same.) So we've spent our winters largely indoors up until now.
Aaron has some friends who are really into ice fishing. While I love to fish, the idea of fishing on a frozen lake doesn't exactly appeal to me. First, I like to be comfortable when I fish. That includes flip flops, shorts, a tank top and probably a beverage or two. I can't really picture being comfortable in base layers, a parka and mittens.
Then there's the whole fear of breaking through the ice thing. I know that people drive their trucks out on the lake and set up an entire ice fishing village out there, but that is pretty much the last thing in the world that makes sense to me. So I have avoided this activity like the plague.
But Aaron's into it - and his wonderful friends have offered to share their stuff until we get our own. So thanks, guys, for that.
In all seriousness, Aaron's friends are the most generous people; we feel really lucky to count them as friends. And Sunday was really a beautiful day, so....let's go ice fishing.
There's not a magical moment to share this time; no pivotal life truth to draw from this one. We just had our first real experience at what I can predict will be Aaron's next passion. He's already asking around about buying some gear to get started. I'm going to hold out for one of those 3 bed, 2 bath ice house models...dang! Some people really live it up out there!
Just a few pictures from our latest adventure:
When we were stationed in the mountains, winter was our favorite season. We had annual ski passes to Copper Mountain and Monarch, and went skiing and snowboarding every single available weekend and even a few weeknights. After you've experienced 11,000 ft of mountain bowls, it is very difficult to get excited for skiing in Minnesota. (No offense, Mt. Kato, but really, it's not the same.) So we've spent our winters largely indoors up until now.
Aaron has some friends who are really into ice fishing. While I love to fish, the idea of fishing on a frozen lake doesn't exactly appeal to me. First, I like to be comfortable when I fish. That includes flip flops, shorts, a tank top and probably a beverage or two. I can't really picture being comfortable in base layers, a parka and mittens.
Then there's the whole fear of breaking through the ice thing. I know that people drive their trucks out on the lake and set up an entire ice fishing village out there, but that is pretty much the last thing in the world that makes sense to me. So I have avoided this activity like the plague.
But Aaron's into it - and his wonderful friends have offered to share their stuff until we get our own. So thanks, guys, for that.
In all seriousness, Aaron's friends are the most generous people; we feel really lucky to count them as friends. And Sunday was really a beautiful day, so....let's go ice fishing.
There's not a magical moment to share this time; no pivotal life truth to draw from this one. We just had our first real experience at what I can predict will be Aaron's next passion. He's already asking around about buying some gear to get started. I'm going to hold out for one of those 3 bed, 2 bath ice house models...dang! Some people really live it up out there!
Just a few pictures from our latest adventure:
Dear Cooper
**The following blog post is a little different from what I usually write. I know that a lot of people read my blog, and I usually edit my posts to include information that I don't mind sharing publicly. This time, however, I have something very personal to say to my son. My flaws are on display, something I generally try to keep to myself. I'd be fine with you all just moving on, and not reading this one. I still want it on the blog, because ultimately these are for my children to read someday. I wavered back and forth on posting this one, I admit. I'm not proud of some of it. But I am trying to be okay with being vulnerable in front of people; I am trying to believe that strength (not just embarrassment) can come from making mistakes and admitting them. If you do read on, try not to hold it against me.**
Dear Cooper,
This weekend was a pretty significant weekend in your young life. Maybe you won't remember it in great detail, and I'm only imagining that it was significant. Or maybe it's one of those weekends that will somehow stick with you in unnatural detail for eternity - I'm not sure. But it felt significant to me, so I'm going to have to write you a letter so your grown-up self can hear what maybe your 7-year old self can't.
Little man, it is no secret that your mother is crazy about you. I know you know, because when I whisper at night "Love you, Coop" you always nod and say "I know, Mama." Because I'm so crazy about you, I sometimes lose perspective; there is a fierceness in this love - hard to describe, really. I get downright FIERCE about it. Anyway - that's something to remember, please, as this letter goes on.
When you started wrestling last year, I had a mix of emotion; in some ways you seem too small to have other boys throwing you around on the wrestling mat. I didn't like it. I half-hoped YOU wouldn't like it. But your dad, he was the kind of wrestler that doesn't come along every day, and I tried pretty hard to swallow my fear because I thought that this would be something you and he might have together, and I did not want to ruin it.
I don't know a dang thing about wrestling, and I admit I've enjoyed learning from you and I have taken extreme pride in watching your dad work with you on the mat. I love him in that role. And okay, selfishly I will admit something else. I have kind of hoped that his status as a champion on the mat might someday extend to you. I know your dad has some secrets about how champions are made. Your mother, well, she wasn't a champion at anything, really. She participated in lots of things, had lots of passion and a million irons in a million fires, but it was more important at that time for her to be part of lots of things, than to be really excellent at just one. So I don't really know what it takes to be a champion. Your dad, does, though. And maybe there's a little part of me that wanted to be a little part of that champion thing, since I never did that.
So I got whole-heartedly behind this wrestling thing, waiting for the glory days that are almost sure to come. I wasn't really listening to your dad when he kept telling me, "this might not be his thing." I thought he was being modest. When he said, "I've seen it before - kids quit because they get a little beat up too soon and it isn't fun for them" - I was sure he was talking about other kids. Last year went well, but this year has been a bit of a bumpy road.
You haven't loved practice the way you used to love it. You're not all that excited about the meets. You really HATE that you can't inhale pancakes and waffles on the mornings of weigh-ins. And let's be honest - you are a teeny tiny little thing right now. You may be tall, but the boys at your weight class are stronger, and that hasn't always been great for you on the mat.
Through it all, I offered encouragement. Just keep going, keep at it, you have to work at something to become good at it. And I THOUGHT your dad would be right behind me, saying the same thing. He wasn't, though. He hung back and just watched you. And it was making me CRAZY. I would say to him, "Go help him! He needs your help." and he would just shake his head, sit down, and watch. I felt like he was somehow withholding the magic words; intentionally leaving you to flounder, while he hoarded all the answers to life on the sidelines. I was frustrated by that - but as usual, your father was just waiting and watching for a reason.
When you are in a match, you give it your all, and you are trying REALLY hard, Coop, I can tell. But it isn't coming easily to you yet, and you're not really having a whole lot of fun. This weekend, we tried the Team Tournament in Blue Earth. You were crabby from the second I pulled you out of bed to the second you stepped on the scale for weigh-ins. The happiest part of the morning for you was the breakfast you ate at McDonald's. You tried to tell me, about 5 times, that you did not feel like wrestling today and you wanted to go home.
You know what I was thinking? Honestly? I was thinking, "Oh no, we can't go home. Your grandparents are here. We already signed up. We paid our fee, we took someone's spot on the team, and we are in BLUE EARTH for crying out loud! Aaron Gudahl's son cannot possibly walk out of THIS gym and prefer to go home and play video games, for crying out loud!" That's what I was thinking. (I am writing in tears, I want you to know. I am not proud of that, but that is what I was thinking.) I covered it up with some spiel about how "we don't quit, and we follow through on our commitments" but in all honesty it was just my foolish pride that wouldn't let you pack it in and go home. That is the truth. When I sent you down on to the mat anyway, there were tears in your eyes. And iron in my heart. (And I am feeling terrible as I write this down, I just want you to know that.)
As you wiped your eyes on your tee shirt and headed down the stairs, your dad finally spoke up. He turned to me and said "No. This is not how it goes. He does not wrestle in tears. That's not how this goes." And he went down and picked you up and brought you back to the stands. He was ready to pull you out, and I was a wreck, and you were upset and overall the whole thing just SUCKED. There, can I say that? It sucked.
And you did the bravest thing. You said, "Dad, I want to wrestle." And you wiped your eyes again and sniffed and walked over to the team. After you left to join the team, I breathed a sigh of relief and chalked it up to growing pains.
But here's the conversation you didn't hear - your dad had a few things to say to me, in private, and I want you to know what they were. I'll try to summarize - but believe me, I heard every word. He said, "Sara, if he learns to hate this, I will never forgive myself. He has to WANT to be here. He has to LIKE it. We don't push, we don't decide. HE decides. Right now, this isn't fun for him. He's not strong enough to win consistently, and that might be enough right there to sour him. You know how much he likes to win."
(And that's true - you're very competitive. Once, I accidentally killed off all your Skylanders when I was trying to learn that video game and you didn't talk to me for a whole day.)
Anyway, your dad continued, "It doesn't matter to me if he ever wrestles. I know you think that matters to me, Sara, but it really doesn't. I had great experiences, I did a lot of things that other people never got a chance to do, but those were mine. I don't need him to have those same experiences - I had mine already. He might have all new experiences. And that's okay. Let's just find what he loves and get behind it."
Oh. Okay.
And I felt just humbled by that. And if I could love your dad any more than I already do, that conversation right there would be why.
And then...you wrestled. It was finally your turn, your mood had brightened and you were ready to go. Approximately 18 seconds into the first period, you took a knee to the nose, and blood like I have never seen spurted everywhere. Shawn Ehrich was reffing, he stopped the match and turned right to us in the stands and motioned us over. Coach Luke was with you in seconds and the amount of blood running down his arms almost made me sick.
And I thought, "This is what I get. This is MY fault." It took 20 minutes to stop bleeding, we had to pack it, and you were done for the day. (Maybe done for life, who knows?)
That evening turned out to be the bright spot of the night; Double Play with the Nesbits and their families - by then you were shooting pool and throwing darts and eating pizza and actually joking about the nose. So it's true that kids are resilient - you sure bounced back fast. And I might have been tempted to think, "all's well that ends well,"
But here comes the part that I want your grown-up self to hear, in case your 7-year-old self missed it. I'm sorry, buddy. I'm sorry for my ambition, that might have pushed you into a place you weren't ready for. I love you so much, and how much I love you has absolutely nothing to do with whether you are ever a star athlete or not. I don't care, I swear I really don't. And your dad doesn't care - we'll get behind whatever you choose to do or not do.
You are the boy who can name every dinosaur that ever walked the earth, AND distinguish what period he lived in. You are the boy who builds amazing creations out of Legos and K'nex. The boy who has mastered Mario Kart and Super Mario Bros, who has an impressive collection of Pokemon cards and who still falls asleep on my lap sometimes before bed. You're the boy who will ride his bike and jump on the trampoline for hours, the boy who reads Harry Potter at age 7 and who loves his Mama just as fiercely as she loves him. It's enough - you're enough. Whatever you want, or don't want, will be just right for me.
Okay, I'm crying in earnest now, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I pride myself on having a good head on my shoulders - I like to think I am reasonable and logical and always have your best interests at heart. I think I didn't handle it well this weekend, and I resolve to do better. Thank goodness for your dad...(not the first time I've thought that.) And I hope you can forgive my pride. I'm working on that.
Love,
Mom
Dear Cooper,
This weekend was a pretty significant weekend in your young life. Maybe you won't remember it in great detail, and I'm only imagining that it was significant. Or maybe it's one of those weekends that will somehow stick with you in unnatural detail for eternity - I'm not sure. But it felt significant to me, so I'm going to have to write you a letter so your grown-up self can hear what maybe your 7-year old self can't.
Little man, it is no secret that your mother is crazy about you. I know you know, because when I whisper at night "Love you, Coop" you always nod and say "I know, Mama." Because I'm so crazy about you, I sometimes lose perspective; there is a fierceness in this love - hard to describe, really. I get downright FIERCE about it. Anyway - that's something to remember, please, as this letter goes on.
When you started wrestling last year, I had a mix of emotion; in some ways you seem too small to have other boys throwing you around on the wrestling mat. I didn't like it. I half-hoped YOU wouldn't like it. But your dad, he was the kind of wrestler that doesn't come along every day, and I tried pretty hard to swallow my fear because I thought that this would be something you and he might have together, and I did not want to ruin it.
I don't know a dang thing about wrestling, and I admit I've enjoyed learning from you and I have taken extreme pride in watching your dad work with you on the mat. I love him in that role. And okay, selfishly I will admit something else. I have kind of hoped that his status as a champion on the mat might someday extend to you. I know your dad has some secrets about how champions are made. Your mother, well, she wasn't a champion at anything, really. She participated in lots of things, had lots of passion and a million irons in a million fires, but it was more important at that time for her to be part of lots of things, than to be really excellent at just one. So I don't really know what it takes to be a champion. Your dad, does, though. And maybe there's a little part of me that wanted to be a little part of that champion thing, since I never did that.
So I got whole-heartedly behind this wrestling thing, waiting for the glory days that are almost sure to come. I wasn't really listening to your dad when he kept telling me, "this might not be his thing." I thought he was being modest. When he said, "I've seen it before - kids quit because they get a little beat up too soon and it isn't fun for them" - I was sure he was talking about other kids. Last year went well, but this year has been a bit of a bumpy road.
You haven't loved practice the way you used to love it. You're not all that excited about the meets. You really HATE that you can't inhale pancakes and waffles on the mornings of weigh-ins. And let's be honest - you are a teeny tiny little thing right now. You may be tall, but the boys at your weight class are stronger, and that hasn't always been great for you on the mat.
Through it all, I offered encouragement. Just keep going, keep at it, you have to work at something to become good at it. And I THOUGHT your dad would be right behind me, saying the same thing. He wasn't, though. He hung back and just watched you. And it was making me CRAZY. I would say to him, "Go help him! He needs your help." and he would just shake his head, sit down, and watch. I felt like he was somehow withholding the magic words; intentionally leaving you to flounder, while he hoarded all the answers to life on the sidelines. I was frustrated by that - but as usual, your father was just waiting and watching for a reason.
When you are in a match, you give it your all, and you are trying REALLY hard, Coop, I can tell. But it isn't coming easily to you yet, and you're not really having a whole lot of fun. This weekend, we tried the Team Tournament in Blue Earth. You were crabby from the second I pulled you out of bed to the second you stepped on the scale for weigh-ins. The happiest part of the morning for you was the breakfast you ate at McDonald's. You tried to tell me, about 5 times, that you did not feel like wrestling today and you wanted to go home.
You know what I was thinking? Honestly? I was thinking, "Oh no, we can't go home. Your grandparents are here. We already signed up. We paid our fee, we took someone's spot on the team, and we are in BLUE EARTH for crying out loud! Aaron Gudahl's son cannot possibly walk out of THIS gym and prefer to go home and play video games, for crying out loud!" That's what I was thinking. (I am writing in tears, I want you to know. I am not proud of that, but that is what I was thinking.) I covered it up with some spiel about how "we don't quit, and we follow through on our commitments" but in all honesty it was just my foolish pride that wouldn't let you pack it in and go home. That is the truth. When I sent you down on to the mat anyway, there were tears in your eyes. And iron in my heart. (And I am feeling terrible as I write this down, I just want you to know that.)
As you wiped your eyes on your tee shirt and headed down the stairs, your dad finally spoke up. He turned to me and said "No. This is not how it goes. He does not wrestle in tears. That's not how this goes." And he went down and picked you up and brought you back to the stands. He was ready to pull you out, and I was a wreck, and you were upset and overall the whole thing just SUCKED. There, can I say that? It sucked.
And you did the bravest thing. You said, "Dad, I want to wrestle." And you wiped your eyes again and sniffed and walked over to the team. After you left to join the team, I breathed a sigh of relief and chalked it up to growing pains.
But here's the conversation you didn't hear - your dad had a few things to say to me, in private, and I want you to know what they were. I'll try to summarize - but believe me, I heard every word. He said, "Sara, if he learns to hate this, I will never forgive myself. He has to WANT to be here. He has to LIKE it. We don't push, we don't decide. HE decides. Right now, this isn't fun for him. He's not strong enough to win consistently, and that might be enough right there to sour him. You know how much he likes to win."
(And that's true - you're very competitive. Once, I accidentally killed off all your Skylanders when I was trying to learn that video game and you didn't talk to me for a whole day.)
Anyway, your dad continued, "It doesn't matter to me if he ever wrestles. I know you think that matters to me, Sara, but it really doesn't. I had great experiences, I did a lot of things that other people never got a chance to do, but those were mine. I don't need him to have those same experiences - I had mine already. He might have all new experiences. And that's okay. Let's just find what he loves and get behind it."
Oh. Okay.
And I felt just humbled by that. And if I could love your dad any more than I already do, that conversation right there would be why.
And then...you wrestled. It was finally your turn, your mood had brightened and you were ready to go. Approximately 18 seconds into the first period, you took a knee to the nose, and blood like I have never seen spurted everywhere. Shawn Ehrich was reffing, he stopped the match and turned right to us in the stands and motioned us over. Coach Luke was with you in seconds and the amount of blood running down his arms almost made me sick.
And I thought, "This is what I get. This is MY fault." It took 20 minutes to stop bleeding, we had to pack it, and you were done for the day. (Maybe done for life, who knows?)
That evening turned out to be the bright spot of the night; Double Play with the Nesbits and their families - by then you were shooting pool and throwing darts and eating pizza and actually joking about the nose. So it's true that kids are resilient - you sure bounced back fast. And I might have been tempted to think, "all's well that ends well,"
But here comes the part that I want your grown-up self to hear, in case your 7-year-old self missed it. I'm sorry, buddy. I'm sorry for my ambition, that might have pushed you into a place you weren't ready for. I love you so much, and how much I love you has absolutely nothing to do with whether you are ever a star athlete or not. I don't care, I swear I really don't. And your dad doesn't care - we'll get behind whatever you choose to do or not do.
You are the boy who can name every dinosaur that ever walked the earth, AND distinguish what period he lived in. You are the boy who builds amazing creations out of Legos and K'nex. The boy who has mastered Mario Kart and Super Mario Bros, who has an impressive collection of Pokemon cards and who still falls asleep on my lap sometimes before bed. You're the boy who will ride his bike and jump on the trampoline for hours, the boy who reads Harry Potter at age 7 and who loves his Mama just as fiercely as she loves him. It's enough - you're enough. Whatever you want, or don't want, will be just right for me.
Okay, I'm crying in earnest now, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I pride myself on having a good head on my shoulders - I like to think I am reasonable and logical and always have your best interests at heart. I think I didn't handle it well this weekend, and I resolve to do better. Thank goodness for your dad...(not the first time I've thought that.) And I hope you can forgive my pride. I'm working on that.
Love,
Mom
January 12, 2015
Sisterhood and the Selfie
Over break this year, I had the rare opportunity to spend nearly 24 hours in a row with just my girls. Emma had a basketball camp up in Mankato in the morning, and the three of us were attending the Gopher Women's game that night up in the cities. So we loaded up the suburban at 6:45 am and embarked on a day trip together.
When I'm playing the role of Mama, I'm usually busy watching what they eat, monitoring their behavior, and keeping them organized and on-task. I love being their Mama, that's for sure. But there was something special in the air that day - maybe it was just the deliciousness of being together on an adventure - that let me be something else. I felt like saying "yes" to everything, instead of defaulting to "no." The air was crisp and cold, but the sun was shining, the sky was the bluest blue, and when "American Girl" came on the radio, both girls began singing along, bright-eyed in the back seat. There was no trace of sleep in their eyes, even though it was 6:45 on a Saturday morning. I got caught up in their free spirit and found myself singing along. Suddenly it felt more like a Sisterhood and less like the dictatorship that it sometimes defaults to when I have to be the Mom.
I learned a few fun things that day:
1.) Saying "yes" is more fun than saying "no."
2.) Saying "yes" opens doors to experiences we might not have had otherwise.
3.) My GPS is not infallible.
4.) Parking Ramp Attendants can be the most wonderful humans in the world.
5.) There is a direct correlation between the location of a venue and the cost of a Coca-Cola.
6.) There is a mysterious pathology behind the phenomenon of the "selfie."
Let me tell you first about saying yes. We usually can't drive past a gas station without someone asking me if I need gas. That sounds odd, probably, but the immediate follow-up question to that is always "And if we stop for gas, can I get a snack?" As you may have guessed, my default answer is "No". Today, on a whim, I just said..."Yes." There was a surprised silence in the backseat. Then both girls dashed headlong into the store to pick something out before I changed my mind. They made terrible choices, of course, (Pop-Tarts and Bottle Caps) but there was something about they way they looked at me - with shining eyes, almost - that made me throw my good judgement out the window and just go with it.
That first yes set the stage for the rest - I got caught up in their incredulous spirit and took my own delight in surprising them with my answers.
"Will you buy me another MSU t-shirt?"
"Yes."
"Can we go to Noodles for lunch?"
"Yes."
"Can I get pop to drink?"
"Yes."
"Can we go shopping?"
"Yes."
"Can we stop at Coldstone?"
"Yes."
I became almost drunk on their happiness, and something new began to form. Being their mom carries a responsibility to make sure they are healthy and well-taken care of; that often translates into having to be the fun police. I don't think I've been letting go enough; I haven't been as carefree as I could be, and as I let go of the tightly-held reins, I felt something new developing between us. Something that I usually only feel when I'm with my friends. Sisterhood.
And that brings me to #2: saying yes led to some new experiences. While Emma was at camp, Carys and I and went shopping together. We don't have enough time to spend alone together anymore, and I will admit that it delighted me to no end when she slipped her hand inside mine and snuggled up next to me as we walked into the mall. She's still so little, in some ways, and I am so grateful for these stolen hours of time together. She had Christmas money to spend, and was quite a little spendthrift as we wandered the mall. Nothing seemed to be good enough to spend her money on, though she did spend a lot of time browsing and showing me interesting toys. She was most excited about visiting Justice, where she declared, "I think I might die of sparkles in this store." We easily spent an hour there, trying on clothes and sifting through jewelry. She had $100 to spend, so I told her to have at it. But when it was time to break out her wallet, she just couldn't do it. The pile on the counter reached $68, but she put things back on the shelves until she had it down to a mere $16.50. Who knew that she would be so careful with her money?
We picked Emma up from camp around noon, went out to eat at Noodles & Co. with some friends, and then it was Emma's turn to shop. She had one store only in mind: Barnes and Noble. She hemmed and hawed over new stories or owning old favorites. She must have asked me a hundred times to tell her what she should do. (Red flag for me...I think I control things just a little too much, wouldn't you say?) But with my new approach, I just said, "Get whatever you want!" She would stare at me for a minute, then mutter to herself as she walked away to ponder. I think it was unsettling for both of us, actually.
Both girls slept all the way up there, which allowed me to listen to the radio and contemplate our arrival at Williams Arena. I know the way, generally, so I was pretty sure I had set my GPS correctly. I planned to follow a few simple turns and arrive safely at The Barn in plenty of time for the game. Which brings me to #3.
I can't really explain where I went wrong, because honestly, I have no idea. I was just blindly following the little arrows for turns on the GPS, and paying only minimal attention to the signage. I do recall exactly when I realized there was a problem. The GPS said "Turn right at Exit 18." I looked up, and saw no sign for Exit 18.
And the highway had suspiciously narrowed.
Into what looked alarmingly like regular streets.
And then I saw a sign that I have never seen before in my life. It read: End Of Freeway.
For real.
I had reached the actual END of 35W. Highways are sort of an abstract concept in my mind; they go on forever into the hazy distance, and I just glibly exit them at random intervals. It hadn't occurred to me that I would ever see the END of one. It was kind of like finding the actual bottom of a rainbow.
But I digress. So I found the mythological end of 35W and suddenly I'm at the crossroads of 5th St. and 10th Ave, and it's dark outside and I don't recognize any landmarks and I have absolutely no idea where I am.
Downtown Minneapolis is all about the one-way streets, too, so that makes it extra fun when you're lost. I was able to pull over and re-calibrate the GPS, thank goodness, but I found myself wishing I had driven our little Prius instead of the gigantic, hulking suburban. It would not be the first time I wished for that, just to give you a little foreshadowing.
My GPS calculated my new location and issued a new set of directions. This is the part where I needed my girls to help me out a little. It was getting dark and the heavy traffic, one-way streets, and sheer size of the suburban were starting to make me a little edgy. I asked if they could help me look for street signs. Carys said, "I can't read those words" and Emma said, "I forgot my glasses." And I was thinking, "Well super."
I could elaborate further on the adventure that followed, but in the interest of saving time, I will just say it took another 7 turns and twice around the block at Williams to find my way into the parking ramp. The mood of the day had not dissipated, however. I had felt all day that we were in it together, and I still felt that. The weight of responsibility hadn't invaded my psyche; I was edgy, perhaps, but not overly so. I knew eventually we would get there, and get there we did.
When we pulled into the parking ramp, I breathed a deep sigh and the girls popped up in the back, absolutely thrilled about the next part of the adventure. I've never taken them to a Gopher game before, and I'm sure they had imagined all sorts of wonderful things. As we were organizing our gear into pockets and purses, Carys suddenly said, "Mom! Let's take a selfie!"
Until now, the strange phenomenon of the selfie has been largely wasted on me; in my experience, it is a much younger generation filling up newsfeeds with photos of themselves in random places. I take a million pictures OF my kids; I have very few pictures WITH my kids. But that Sisterhood feeling was still crackling through the air, and suddenly a selfie seemed totally appropriate. We all climbed into position and began snapping away. In the darkness of the parking garage, all we could manage was a grainy shot of the three of us, but the giggles that ensued as we scanned back through them only added to the giddiness of the moment.
I checked the time: 5:40pm. Perfect. We bundled up into all our warm clothes (it was -15 degrees in Minneapolis) and began heading across the street to the arena. That's when I noticed that the Arena looked suspiciously dark. I hastily pulled out my tickets and checked the game time. *GASP*
8:00pm! We turned around and headed back to the warmth of the suburban. On the way back, I paused to ask the parking attendant, "What time will the arena open tonight?" He said, "7:00."
In the warmth of the truck, I contemplated our options. We could hang out in the truck for an hour and a half, or I could once again brave the streets of downtown Minneapolis in this enormous vehicle, after dark, alone with two girls who can't read the street signs. Hmmm.
After a quick search on my phone, I discovered a McDonald's about 8 blocks away. I mapped out the directions in my mind and decided we would give it a try. I looked at my parking pass, which stated that the ticket was good for 24 hours, so I drove down the ramp to leave. The parking attendant looked puzzled when he asked for my ticket. He'd given it to me only a few moments before. I hesitated, and explained that we would be back, I just needed to get the girls something to eat. He patiently explained that while my parking pass was good for 24 hours, it became void the moment I left the parking ramp, and I would have to pay for it again.
Maybe Carys' unwillingness to part with money comes from me, because I promptly decided that I didn't want to spend another $10. I told him I had changed my mind about leaving, and then asked if he would let me drive back in. He paused, looked at me with a truly sympathetic expression and said, "No, but if you want to stay, I can back you up the ramp to a parking space."
Ummm....what? BACK me UP into a parking space? Have you seen this thing? I kind of laughed and said, "Seriously?" And he grinned and said, "Yep. C'mon."
I wish I had security camera footage to insert here. I am supremely happy that there was no one at all behind us in the ramp. He carefully and patiently directed me as I inched my Suburban behemoth backwards UP the parking ramp. He asked me what I planned to do for the next hour, and expressed genuine concern about me walking my girls to McDonald's in the cold weather. He pointed out a Buffalo Wild Wings only a couple of blocks away, and even helped wrap a scarf around Carys' head as we prepared to go out a second time. What a super young man he was; that ordeal could have gone an entirely different direction.
Instead, my girls and I are half-skipping, half-running down the street to BW3. As we entered the bar, Emma leaned over and whispered, "Mom! Are we allowed to be in here?" I grinned and said, "Yep, as long as you're with me!" The place was packed, and there was nothing but Gopher Maroon and Gold as far as the eye could see. The waitress found us a seat, handed the girls a grown-up menu, and treated them like rock stars. The mood of the day amplified and I heard them order cherry cokes like they did that every day of their life, instead of waiting for apple juice in kids' glasses like they get at so many restaurants.
Carys ordered something called "Naked Tenders" which made her giggle so hard she could barely say the words without falling off her chair. Emma sauced up her wings like a pro and everything was just perfectly perfectly perfect. All this Sisterhood produced more photo ops:
Game time was upon us, so we headed to over to Williams. Now, when I got these tickets, I chose them only because the date happened to work out for our schedule. I didn't know that this was the Big 10 opener. I didn't know we were playing Nebraska. And I definitely didn't know that Lynx phenom, former Gopher standout Lindsay Whalen would not only be in attendance, but would be signing autographs at a meet-and-greet.
What good fortune! We got to the arena the second the doors opened, and were about 40 people back in the line to meet Lindsay. Emma had a Gopher tee, Carys had a Gopher hat, and Lindsay talked personally to every single girl that walked through the line. She paused for pictures, and was pretty much the most awesome famous person ever.
The game itself was uneventful in the first half. Nebraska was handling the Gophers pretty well, but honestly, my girls were more focused on getting up on the Jumbotron than they were about anything else. They waved at Goldie, they danced in the aisles, they cheered on command, and soaked up the full experience. And, of course, posed for selfie after selfie.
Somewhere around the end of the first half, Emma asked if she could get something to drink. Now, I'd been saying yes to everything all day, so I didn't hesitate to walk them down to the concession stand to get something. I already know that it costs an arm and leg for food at these kind of places, so it wasn't like I was surprised or anything by the $5 it cost for a 12oz pop. But a day of saying yes had been hard on the pocketbook. I'd withdrawn $200 in cash for the day, and when I pulled out my wallet, I found $8. I double-checked and triple-checked all the pockets, but $8 was all I found. I actually had to break out the debit card so I could buy a few snacks...whoa. Suddenly a $5 Coke seemed a little extravagant. But whatever - Sisterhood!
I admit that after halftime I was itching to go home; I still had a long drive back, and we'd been out and about for 15 hours already. But the girls still hadn't made it on the elusive Jumbotron, and they were committed to the cause.
It's a good thing, too. Because our beloved Gophs came from a 17 point deficit in the last 5 minutes to win the game! The arena was crackling with excitement, and the girls were screaming their heads off, and in general it was one of my favorite arena experiences of all time.
We were in the truck and heading home when I had my first moments to reflect on the day. Both girls were out cold by the outskirts of Minneapolis, and with the radio playing in the background and the light of the moon guiding me home, I pondered on this new thing we found together. Sisterhood. And a selfie.
When I'm playing the role of Mama, I'm usually busy watching what they eat, monitoring their behavior, and keeping them organized and on-task. I love being their Mama, that's for sure. But there was something special in the air that day - maybe it was just the deliciousness of being together on an adventure - that let me be something else. I felt like saying "yes" to everything, instead of defaulting to "no." The air was crisp and cold, but the sun was shining, the sky was the bluest blue, and when "American Girl" came on the radio, both girls began singing along, bright-eyed in the back seat. There was no trace of sleep in their eyes, even though it was 6:45 on a Saturday morning. I got caught up in their free spirit and found myself singing along. Suddenly it felt more like a Sisterhood and less like the dictatorship that it sometimes defaults to when I have to be the Mom.
I learned a few fun things that day:
1.) Saying "yes" is more fun than saying "no."
2.) Saying "yes" opens doors to experiences we might not have had otherwise.
3.) My GPS is not infallible.
4.) Parking Ramp Attendants can be the most wonderful humans in the world.
5.) There is a direct correlation between the location of a venue and the cost of a Coca-Cola.
6.) There is a mysterious pathology behind the phenomenon of the "selfie."
Let me tell you first about saying yes. We usually can't drive past a gas station without someone asking me if I need gas. That sounds odd, probably, but the immediate follow-up question to that is always "And if we stop for gas, can I get a snack?" As you may have guessed, my default answer is "No". Today, on a whim, I just said..."Yes." There was a surprised silence in the backseat. Then both girls dashed headlong into the store to pick something out before I changed my mind. They made terrible choices, of course, (Pop-Tarts and Bottle Caps) but there was something about they way they looked at me - with shining eyes, almost - that made me throw my good judgement out the window and just go with it.
That first yes set the stage for the rest - I got caught up in their incredulous spirit and took my own delight in surprising them with my answers.
"Will you buy me another MSU t-shirt?"
"Yes."
"Can we go to Noodles for lunch?"
"Yes."
"Can I get pop to drink?"
"Yes."
"Can we go shopping?"
"Yes."
"Can we stop at Coldstone?"
"Yes."
I became almost drunk on their happiness, and something new began to form. Being their mom carries a responsibility to make sure they are healthy and well-taken care of; that often translates into having to be the fun police. I don't think I've been letting go enough; I haven't been as carefree as I could be, and as I let go of the tightly-held reins, I felt something new developing between us. Something that I usually only feel when I'm with my friends. Sisterhood.
And that brings me to #2: saying yes led to some new experiences. While Emma was at camp, Carys and I and went shopping together. We don't have enough time to spend alone together anymore, and I will admit that it delighted me to no end when she slipped her hand inside mine and snuggled up next to me as we walked into the mall. She's still so little, in some ways, and I am so grateful for these stolen hours of time together. She had Christmas money to spend, and was quite a little spendthrift as we wandered the mall. Nothing seemed to be good enough to spend her money on, though she did spend a lot of time browsing and showing me interesting toys. She was most excited about visiting Justice, where she declared, "I think I might die of sparkles in this store." We easily spent an hour there, trying on clothes and sifting through jewelry. She had $100 to spend, so I told her to have at it. But when it was time to break out her wallet, she just couldn't do it. The pile on the counter reached $68, but she put things back on the shelves until she had it down to a mere $16.50. Who knew that she would be so careful with her money?
We picked Emma up from camp around noon, went out to eat at Noodles & Co. with some friends, and then it was Emma's turn to shop. She had one store only in mind: Barnes and Noble. She hemmed and hawed over new stories or owning old favorites. She must have asked me a hundred times to tell her what she should do. (Red flag for me...I think I control things just a little too much, wouldn't you say?) But with my new approach, I just said, "Get whatever you want!" She would stare at me for a minute, then mutter to herself as she walked away to ponder. I think it was unsettling for both of us, actually.
Both girls slept all the way up there, which allowed me to listen to the radio and contemplate our arrival at Williams Arena. I know the way, generally, so I was pretty sure I had set my GPS correctly. I planned to follow a few simple turns and arrive safely at The Barn in plenty of time for the game. Which brings me to #3.
I can't really explain where I went wrong, because honestly, I have no idea. I was just blindly following the little arrows for turns on the GPS, and paying only minimal attention to the signage. I do recall exactly when I realized there was a problem. The GPS said "Turn right at Exit 18." I looked up, and saw no sign for Exit 18.
And the highway had suspiciously narrowed.
Into what looked alarmingly like regular streets.
And then I saw a sign that I have never seen before in my life. It read: End Of Freeway.
For real.
I had reached the actual END of 35W. Highways are sort of an abstract concept in my mind; they go on forever into the hazy distance, and I just glibly exit them at random intervals. It hadn't occurred to me that I would ever see the END of one. It was kind of like finding the actual bottom of a rainbow.
But I digress. So I found the mythological end of 35W and suddenly I'm at the crossroads of 5th St. and 10th Ave, and it's dark outside and I don't recognize any landmarks and I have absolutely no idea where I am.
Downtown Minneapolis is all about the one-way streets, too, so that makes it extra fun when you're lost. I was able to pull over and re-calibrate the GPS, thank goodness, but I found myself wishing I had driven our little Prius instead of the gigantic, hulking suburban. It would not be the first time I wished for that, just to give you a little foreshadowing.
My GPS calculated my new location and issued a new set of directions. This is the part where I needed my girls to help me out a little. It was getting dark and the heavy traffic, one-way streets, and sheer size of the suburban were starting to make me a little edgy. I asked if they could help me look for street signs. Carys said, "I can't read those words" and Emma said, "I forgot my glasses." And I was thinking, "Well super."
I could elaborate further on the adventure that followed, but in the interest of saving time, I will just say it took another 7 turns and twice around the block at Williams to find my way into the parking ramp. The mood of the day had not dissipated, however. I had felt all day that we were in it together, and I still felt that. The weight of responsibility hadn't invaded my psyche; I was edgy, perhaps, but not overly so. I knew eventually we would get there, and get there we did.
When we pulled into the parking ramp, I breathed a deep sigh and the girls popped up in the back, absolutely thrilled about the next part of the adventure. I've never taken them to a Gopher game before, and I'm sure they had imagined all sorts of wonderful things. As we were organizing our gear into pockets and purses, Carys suddenly said, "Mom! Let's take a selfie!"
Until now, the strange phenomenon of the selfie has been largely wasted on me; in my experience, it is a much younger generation filling up newsfeeds with photos of themselves in random places. I take a million pictures OF my kids; I have very few pictures WITH my kids. But that Sisterhood feeling was still crackling through the air, and suddenly a selfie seemed totally appropriate. We all climbed into position and began snapping away. In the darkness of the parking garage, all we could manage was a grainy shot of the three of us, but the giggles that ensued as we scanned back through them only added to the giddiness of the moment.
I checked the time: 5:40pm. Perfect. We bundled up into all our warm clothes (it was -15 degrees in Minneapolis) and began heading across the street to the arena. That's when I noticed that the Arena looked suspiciously dark. I hastily pulled out my tickets and checked the game time. *GASP*
8:00pm! We turned around and headed back to the warmth of the suburban. On the way back, I paused to ask the parking attendant, "What time will the arena open tonight?" He said, "7:00."
In the warmth of the truck, I contemplated our options. We could hang out in the truck for an hour and a half, or I could once again brave the streets of downtown Minneapolis in this enormous vehicle, after dark, alone with two girls who can't read the street signs. Hmmm.
After a quick search on my phone, I discovered a McDonald's about 8 blocks away. I mapped out the directions in my mind and decided we would give it a try. I looked at my parking pass, which stated that the ticket was good for 24 hours, so I drove down the ramp to leave. The parking attendant looked puzzled when he asked for my ticket. He'd given it to me only a few moments before. I hesitated, and explained that we would be back, I just needed to get the girls something to eat. He patiently explained that while my parking pass was good for 24 hours, it became void the moment I left the parking ramp, and I would have to pay for it again.
Maybe Carys' unwillingness to part with money comes from me, because I promptly decided that I didn't want to spend another $10. I told him I had changed my mind about leaving, and then asked if he would let me drive back in. He paused, looked at me with a truly sympathetic expression and said, "No, but if you want to stay, I can back you up the ramp to a parking space."
Ummm....what? BACK me UP into a parking space? Have you seen this thing? I kind of laughed and said, "Seriously?" And he grinned and said, "Yep. C'mon."
I wish I had security camera footage to insert here. I am supremely happy that there was no one at all behind us in the ramp. He carefully and patiently directed me as I inched my Suburban behemoth backwards UP the parking ramp. He asked me what I planned to do for the next hour, and expressed genuine concern about me walking my girls to McDonald's in the cold weather. He pointed out a Buffalo Wild Wings only a couple of blocks away, and even helped wrap a scarf around Carys' head as we prepared to go out a second time. What a super young man he was; that ordeal could have gone an entirely different direction.
Instead, my girls and I are half-skipping, half-running down the street to BW3. As we entered the bar, Emma leaned over and whispered, "Mom! Are we allowed to be in here?" I grinned and said, "Yep, as long as you're with me!" The place was packed, and there was nothing but Gopher Maroon and Gold as far as the eye could see. The waitress found us a seat, handed the girls a grown-up menu, and treated them like rock stars. The mood of the day amplified and I heard them order cherry cokes like they did that every day of their life, instead of waiting for apple juice in kids' glasses like they get at so many restaurants.
Carys ordered something called "Naked Tenders" which made her giggle so hard she could barely say the words without falling off her chair. Emma sauced up her wings like a pro and everything was just perfectly perfectly perfect. All this Sisterhood produced more photo ops:
Game time was upon us, so we headed to over to Williams. Now, when I got these tickets, I chose them only because the date happened to work out for our schedule. I didn't know that this was the Big 10 opener. I didn't know we were playing Nebraska. And I definitely didn't know that Lynx phenom, former Gopher standout Lindsay Whalen would not only be in attendance, but would be signing autographs at a meet-and-greet.
What good fortune! We got to the arena the second the doors opened, and were about 40 people back in the line to meet Lindsay. Emma had a Gopher tee, Carys had a Gopher hat, and Lindsay talked personally to every single girl that walked through the line. She paused for pictures, and was pretty much the most awesome famous person ever.
The game itself was uneventful in the first half. Nebraska was handling the Gophers pretty well, but honestly, my girls were more focused on getting up on the Jumbotron than they were about anything else. They waved at Goldie, they danced in the aisles, they cheered on command, and soaked up the full experience. And, of course, posed for selfie after selfie.
 |
| See the autograph on Carys' hat? She wouldn't take it off! |
I admit that after halftime I was itching to go home; I still had a long drive back, and we'd been out and about for 15 hours already. But the girls still hadn't made it on the elusive Jumbotron, and they were committed to the cause.
It's a good thing, too. Because our beloved Gophs came from a 17 point deficit in the last 5 minutes to win the game! The arena was crackling with excitement, and the girls were screaming their heads off, and in general it was one of my favorite arena experiences of all time.
We were in the truck and heading home when I had my first moments to reflect on the day. Both girls were out cold by the outskirts of Minneapolis, and with the radio playing in the background and the light of the moon guiding me home, I pondered on this new thing we found together. Sisterhood. And a selfie.
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