"Mom! I need and ice pack!"
"Why"
The youngest pulls down her shirt to reveal large red streaks on her upper torso.
Voice of oldest sister from upstairs... "Because Declan was using her for a sled"
Down the stairs.
Awesome.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
How I Met Your Father
Everyone always asks The Husband and I how we met, presumably expecting a story full of magic and rainbows. That's not how it happened. There was no glitter, no fuzzy bunnies. In fact, I wasn't even interested in him at first. So, that crap about how "you just know" the moment you meet someone and there is singing and bright lights and frolicking unicorns is crap. Unless you're high. Which I wasn't.
Anyway, I wrote this as a guest columnist for an editor friend of mine on an exceptionally slow news day.
Pay attention in school, kids. I know that message is bombarded at our youth from all directions. Everyone says it – celebrities in slick pseudo-cool ads, teachers, parents, loveable animated characters. The reasons everyone gives are as varied as the groups from which they come. You’ll get a better job, you’ll get into a better college, and you’ll stay out of trouble. But, the simple fact is that you just never know when what seems like a useless bit of information may someday come in very handy. Allow me to illustrate.
I met my husband in a bar. That’s not generally what we tell people, so if you could keep that little tidbit close to your jacket, I’d appreciate it. Usually we say that we met in a book store. Before the black hole of free time that is our children, we both read quite a bit so it’s plausible. And, our families feel a little better believing that we frequented Borders more often than bars. Whatever. We were in our 20s. Good for us for reading something without pictures ever.
So anyway, I’d gone to a horrible meat market bar with a group of girls I didn’t know very well. I was 26, and most of my group was 21 or 22. I was also the only one sporting an entire shirt. I had grown out of midriff cutouts and being recently free from an absolute train wreck of a marriage had zero interest in meeting guys. On the other side of this story is Future Husband. He had agreed to accompany a motley crew of wrestlers that he’d coached as one of them was turning 21 that night. His basic job was to make sure that nobody got arrested. If you think that last line was an exaggeration for literary effect, then you should go drinking with some wrestlers sometime, but only if you have plenty of medical insurance and know someone who can afford bail. The birthday boy chose the same bar my scantily-clad friends did, and the stage was set.
Showing the forethought of seasoned hunters, the wrestlers had arrived early and selected a long table with plenty of extra seats. Before long, the half-shirts lured the birthday boy over and he invited our table to join their table. With little squeals, the girls bounced up and followed his musclely lead. I was not as enthused. I was still wearing my coat and already had my cell phone out of my purse, to make sure I wouldn’t miss one of the many people I’d called to make alternate plans. By the time I’d finished my eye rolling and gathering of my things, the only seat at the table left was next to Future Husband.
At the time, Future Husband was sporting platinum blonde hair and an impressive amount of jewelry. I’ll pause for those of you who know him to let that image really set in… Given his appearance and the rowdy company he kept, it’s safe to say he was starting out a bit in the hole. After a few minutes of concentrating heavily on my drink, I mean book, and ignoring him completely, Future Husband leaned over and said “My friends are going to think I’m a total tool if I don’t at least try to talk to you.” I turned my head, narrowed my eyes and replied “What exactly had you planned on talking about?” He stopped drinking and spent the next hour asking me about myself, my hometown and anything else he could think of. All were met with terse, one-line answers.
He had extracted earlier that I was taking a grammar class in Lincoln at the University of Nebraska. He asked what we had discussed that day. I remember being very pleased at the question. The class was a 400-level grammar class that was very difficult. I had decided almost immediately that a rowdy, bleach-blonde wrestler would have the approximate intelligence of a garden vegetable, so this was my chance to embarrass him away. There was no way he could hang with me on this.
“Gerunds. We spent the entire four hours today talking about gerunds.” Ha! Game, set, match!
What I had not counted on was Dr. Jergen Shaver. He was apparently a battle-axe of an honors English teacher that had subjected Future Husband to an entire quarter of grammar and sentence diagramming his ninth grade year. At that moment in the bar, when a good answer would get him a wife and three kids and a bad answer would be rewarded with a night of supervising drunken wrestlers and belly-shirted girls, Future Husband reached back to ninth grade, looked at me and said, “Gerunds. Aren’t those verbs that get used like nouns?”
I blinked a couple of times, wondered why I hadn’t noticed before that he was really very handsome, and said, “I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?”
So kids, before you close that biology book because you’ve decided that insect phyla are something you’ll never need to know, reconsider. Someday you might end up sitting next to the person of your dreams and he or she might be studying entomology. You just never know. The celebrities and cartoons and even your parents are exactly right, doing well in school will probably result in a better job and all those other things. But, it can also result in impressing someone you find attractive someday – and that is something that always comes in handy.
Anyway, I wrote this as a guest columnist for an editor friend of mine on an exceptionally slow news day.
Pay attention in school, kids. I know that message is bombarded at our youth from all directions. Everyone says it – celebrities in slick pseudo-cool ads, teachers, parents, loveable animated characters. The reasons everyone gives are as varied as the groups from which they come. You’ll get a better job, you’ll get into a better college, and you’ll stay out of trouble. But, the simple fact is that you just never know when what seems like a useless bit of information may someday come in very handy. Allow me to illustrate.
I met my husband in a bar. That’s not generally what we tell people, so if you could keep that little tidbit close to your jacket, I’d appreciate it. Usually we say that we met in a book store. Before the black hole of free time that is our children, we both read quite a bit so it’s plausible. And, our families feel a little better believing that we frequented Borders more often than bars. Whatever. We were in our 20s. Good for us for reading something without pictures ever.
So anyway, I’d gone to a horrible meat market bar with a group of girls I didn’t know very well. I was 26, and most of my group was 21 or 22. I was also the only one sporting an entire shirt. I had grown out of midriff cutouts and being recently free from an absolute train wreck of a marriage had zero interest in meeting guys. On the other side of this story is Future Husband. He had agreed to accompany a motley crew of wrestlers that he’d coached as one of them was turning 21 that night. His basic job was to make sure that nobody got arrested. If you think that last line was an exaggeration for literary effect, then you should go drinking with some wrestlers sometime, but only if you have plenty of medical insurance and know someone who can afford bail. The birthday boy chose the same bar my scantily-clad friends did, and the stage was set.
Showing the forethought of seasoned hunters, the wrestlers had arrived early and selected a long table with plenty of extra seats. Before long, the half-shirts lured the birthday boy over and he invited our table to join their table. With little squeals, the girls bounced up and followed his musclely lead. I was not as enthused. I was still wearing my coat and already had my cell phone out of my purse, to make sure I wouldn’t miss one of the many people I’d called to make alternate plans. By the time I’d finished my eye rolling and gathering of my things, the only seat at the table left was next to Future Husband.
At the time, Future Husband was sporting platinum blonde hair and an impressive amount of jewelry. I’ll pause for those of you who know him to let that image really set in… Given his appearance and the rowdy company he kept, it’s safe to say he was starting out a bit in the hole. After a few minutes of concentrating heavily on my drink, I mean book, and ignoring him completely, Future Husband leaned over and said “My friends are going to think I’m a total tool if I don’t at least try to talk to you.” I turned my head, narrowed my eyes and replied “What exactly had you planned on talking about?” He stopped drinking and spent the next hour asking me about myself, my hometown and anything else he could think of. All were met with terse, one-line answers.
He had extracted earlier that I was taking a grammar class in Lincoln at the University of Nebraska. He asked what we had discussed that day. I remember being very pleased at the question. The class was a 400-level grammar class that was very difficult. I had decided almost immediately that a rowdy, bleach-blonde wrestler would have the approximate intelligence of a garden vegetable, so this was my chance to embarrass him away. There was no way he could hang with me on this.
“Gerunds. We spent the entire four hours today talking about gerunds.” Ha! Game, set, match!
What I had not counted on was Dr. Jergen Shaver. He was apparently a battle-axe of an honors English teacher that had subjected Future Husband to an entire quarter of grammar and sentence diagramming his ninth grade year. At that moment in the bar, when a good answer would get him a wife and three kids and a bad answer would be rewarded with a night of supervising drunken wrestlers and belly-shirted girls, Future Husband reached back to ninth grade, looked at me and said, “Gerunds. Aren’t those verbs that get used like nouns?”
I blinked a couple of times, wondered why I hadn’t noticed before that he was really very handsome, and said, “I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?”
So kids, before you close that biology book because you’ve decided that insect phyla are something you’ll never need to know, reconsider. Someday you might end up sitting next to the person of your dreams and he or she might be studying entomology. You just never know. The celebrities and cartoons and even your parents are exactly right, doing well in school will probably result in a better job and all those other things. But, it can also result in impressing someone you find attractive someday – and that is something that always comes in handy.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The Hardest Question
My oldest, who is now nine, has an awesome imagination. She entertains herself with a pantheon of imaginary friends and doesn't give a shit at all what anybody thinks about that. My favorite is the duck named Pondulious.
Anyway, she asked me several months ago why some kids at school make fun of her for having imaginary friends but they believe in God. She wanted to know what the difference is.
I have yet to come up with a good answer for her. Thank goodness the child is creative and patient.
Anyway, she asked me several months ago why some kids at school make fun of her for having imaginary friends but they believe in God. She wanted to know what the difference is.
I have yet to come up with a good answer for her. Thank goodness the child is creative and patient.
Reason Number 237 Why I Will Never be PTA President
This happened last summer, but I was told that I'm required to include it here, so here it goes.
The Husband and I couldn't have been raised more differently when it comes to religion. He was raised to be atheist. I was reared so conservatively and Christianly that for all intensive purposes I grew up in the 50's. Neither really ended up working out for us. So, when we started having kids, we had no freaking idea what to teach our kids about religion. We decided, more as a proverbial punt than anything else, to educate our kids on as many different religions as possible, teach them love and tolerance, and celebrate whatever choice they eventually made. If you think that's a cop-out: 1. suck it 2. according to the principal, I have the nicest kids in the school.
This dogma (or lack thereof, I guess) is in stark contrast to the small, rural town in which we live. Everyone else is basically Catholic or Lutheran. And not those crazy ELCA Lutherans, but good solid Missouri Synod Lutherans. As one might imagine, this leads to considerable suspicion and some uncomfortable situations.
Case in point:
My son is seven. He is nothing if not a very logical, fact-embracing, rules oriented kid. Those are obviously all recessive genes, but that's a topic for another day. Anyway, this son of mine comes home from practice this summer, obviously disgusted. He throws his glove on the floor and proclaims that his friends are all stupid.
"First of all, don't say people are stupid. And, just out of curiosity, why do you think so?"
"All of my friends actually think that they were made by GOD!"
Fuck! What the hell am I going to say? How am I going to explain that? What should...
"Don't they know that they were made because their parents had sex with each other?!?!?"
FUUUUCK!
"Honey, ... did you say that to your friends?"
"No."
"Okay! Do you want a snack or something?"
Sometimes you just have to take the Scarlett O'Hara approach and think about it tomorrah.
The Husband and I couldn't have been raised more differently when it comes to religion. He was raised to be atheist. I was reared so conservatively and Christianly that for all intensive purposes I grew up in the 50's. Neither really ended up working out for us. So, when we started having kids, we had no freaking idea what to teach our kids about religion. We decided, more as a proverbial punt than anything else, to educate our kids on as many different religions as possible, teach them love and tolerance, and celebrate whatever choice they eventually made. If you think that's a cop-out: 1. suck it 2. according to the principal, I have the nicest kids in the school.
This dogma (or lack thereof, I guess) is in stark contrast to the small, rural town in which we live. Everyone else is basically Catholic or Lutheran. And not those crazy ELCA Lutherans, but good solid Missouri Synod Lutherans. As one might imagine, this leads to considerable suspicion and some uncomfortable situations.
Case in point:
My son is seven. He is nothing if not a very logical, fact-embracing, rules oriented kid. Those are obviously all recessive genes, but that's a topic for another day. Anyway, this son of mine comes home from practice this summer, obviously disgusted. He throws his glove on the floor and proclaims that his friends are all stupid.
"First of all, don't say people are stupid. And, just out of curiosity, why do you think so?"
"All of my friends actually think that they were made by GOD!"
Fuck! What the hell am I going to say? How am I going to explain that? What should...
"Don't they know that they were made because their parents had sex with each other?!?!?"
FUUUUCK!
"Honey, ... did you say that to your friends?"
"No."
"Okay! Do you want a snack or something?"
Sometimes you just have to take the Scarlett O'Hara approach and think about it tomorrah.
I am a blogger. The awesomeness consumes me.
Well. Here it is. My very own blog. I'm obviously going to need to acquire some design skills, as this thing has all the visual panache of a can a generic beer. I'll work on that.
So let's bring you up to speed. I have a husband and three kids, a job that I like sometimes and a dog. This will probably end up being mostly about the kids, because they suck most of my energy, time and money. That's actually fine with me. I love my kids and really, really enjoy hanging out with them. That will work out best for you, too as the kids are vastly more entertaining than I am. Oh, I'm also going to write under a pseudonym. Now don't get all "Ooohhh. Who IS She?!?!?" and start trying to figure it out. I'm not somebody cool or important or famous. I've always wanted to write under a pseudonym and this is my blog damn it, so I am. If it makes you feel better, you are all welcome to comment under fake names, as well!
So let's bring you up to speed. I have a husband and three kids, a job that I like sometimes and a dog. This will probably end up being mostly about the kids, because they suck most of my energy, time and money. That's actually fine with me. I love my kids and really, really enjoy hanging out with them. That will work out best for you, too as the kids are vastly more entertaining than I am. Oh, I'm also going to write under a pseudonym. Now don't get all "Ooohhh. Who IS She?!?!?" and start trying to figure it out. I'm not somebody cool or important or famous. I've always wanted to write under a pseudonym and this is my blog damn it, so I am. If it makes you feel better, you are all welcome to comment under fake names, as well!
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