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:
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