No One Said It Would Be Easy

Things like rocket science, investment banking, brain surgery - these are tough. Widely acknowledged to be challenging pursuits: those requiring a whole mess of education.

Raising a family - nurturing a crowd of respectful, inquisitive and creative future citizens of the Earth. Eating dinner together. Fostering connection with those next to you, those around you, those in your daily round. This is the easy stuff, right?

Today was a typical Tuesday afternoon here at the Yellow House: shouts of THE BUS!!! sprints to meet The Big Sister, rapid fire debriefing/homework/snack and then dashing back out the door to track down playmates. I managed the politics of three year olds in the sandbox, and whilst slapping at post-Irene late September mosquitoes, my mind wandered dangerously close to the Big Ideas that loiter in the shadows of half-thought and distraction.

I blinked twice and it was already 6.10 - far too late to be starting dinner but the very soonest it could've happened. Crouching in front of the fridge I waited to be inspired, then gave up & started heating tomato sauce, water to boil pasta, sliced zucchini to steam.

Then it was 7, and the lights were quieted through the house. My three kids sat, and somehow all the glow of the late evening centered itself around our long table. Tonight the candles - so often forgotten and left unlit - cast a spell that meant silliness spilled onto the plates more than salt. Our youngest held the floor as she told us all about her first day of preschool; Lars told us about his first official math test of 1st grade, and Ms ThreeDaysAwayFromNINE explained Brief Constructed Responses to mystified parentals.

I took a break from the milk pouring, the cheese grating, the Use-Your-Napkin reminders. I listened with all my heart - to the giggles, the elementary school jokes, the older two remembering their first days at preschool - and the truth shouted at me all around the table.

It isn't easy. In so many ways it's 1000% more difficult than rocket science or brain surgery because there are no rules, no degrees one can get that teach you how to build a family. That teach you how important the Tuesday night penne & marinara meal will be in the piece-by-piece construction of a life.

It's a beautiful quote from that Annie Dillard on writing: no one ever said it would be easy.

No one ever did.

Not the writing, not the parenting, not the building of a life.

No one ever said it would be easy. But the hard makes every living moment of our dinner time tonight worth it.

*******************

Time for Just Write again tonight my friends. I was humbled beyond measure by all the kind comments on the post last week, after such a very long time away from the keyboard. This may be a less lyrical attempt, but inspired by Heather and the incredible Annie Dillard, tonight I had to Just Write all over again. Until next time.

Uh, Dr Schneider? You're the BEST. love, your kid

Did you notice that the Universe tilted just slightly askew last November?

I'm not sure I remember any natural disasters that happened then, or any particular blip in the stock market, but I can say without question that the world hasn't been quite the same since November 2010, because that's when my dad retired.

Ah big deal, you say.  He's a baby boomer - those guys are dropping out of the work world like dozy August flies.

But my dad, every day of his working life, changed someone's life for the better.  Every single day.

My dad was - is - a pediatrician.  For forty years he prodded small baby bellies, palpated big kid sprained ankles,  took countless histories from overwrought and sleepless new parents, and gently broke bad news to families.  He worked in hospitals, as the single pediatrician in a town way out in the country, as a family practitioner in a busy Maryland suburb.

He was that amazing doctor who chatted with siblings in the examining room, took the time to find out family stories, who had boundless patience with the parent who had endless questions.   He encouraged moms to listen to their gut instincts, and he thoroughly enjoyed dads who wanted to be part of the parenting journey.

Most of all, he loved - loves - children:  all sizes, all ages, all stages.  When he left his practice, the parents in our part of the world lost one of those doctors who would value your family to his core, and do everything in his power to make your child well.

When he retired, I think I couldn't quite believe it.  He'd made the decision 6 months earlier, and none of it came as a surprise.  So I missed my chance to tell you this story back in November, because I was still getting used to the idea.

But I realized I don't share much about my dad here, in these stories I tell.  I'll often see him three times a week, and yet I don't often include tales of this person who has been such a huge part of my life, and so incredibly formative in my growth as a parent.

My sweet mom & dad.  Aren't they cute?

But this week, this week.  I decided I had to tell you what a gift my dad has been to me this week.

In the midst of CT scans and blood tests and a spinal tap (all for The Boy, not me), my dad has been my ally, my advisor, and my motivator to go out and advocate for my child.  To make sure that I had the information I needed, and had the confidence to fight to say you will figure out what's wrong with my kid.  Who has called every single morning to check on his little patient. Who has remained calm even though I knew with certainty he was as wild with worry as I was.

I can tell you many stories about a childhood filled with adventure, with endless activity, with sledding and hiking and canoeing and football and ... all of it.  I can tell you about a dad who was wrapped around his only girl's finger on a pretty consistent basis (barring that tricky 13-17 era. Oh, and the time I crashed his truck.)  I can tell you all about how he taught me how to change the horn (in self-same truck), check the oil (only one time I forgot. in a big style black-clouds-of-smoke on the PA Turnpike way), and to throw a baseball the right way.

The stories about what a loving grandfather he is?  A whole 'nother book's worth of words.

But today I wanted to celebrate my dad not for the man he has been in my life, but for the man he has been in other's lives.  Because this week I lived with that man, and I was so blessed.  Am blessed.

House. And Home.

Sunday night found us pulling up to the Yellow House after the third party in as many days.  Kids were tired, hot, and weepy.

I squinted critically at the Great Prepare The House for Painting Project - whole swathes of cedar shingles in various stages of scraped or painted, giving passers-by the distinct impression of a bad case of mange.

On the way inside I kicked the kids' buckets, scooters and bike helmets out of the way disgustedly.  A pigsty, I muttered darkly to myself.  This place is a total pigsty. [A brief reality check here: who says pigs are so filthy?  I mean, did you ever see a pig with a million dusty tchochkes on the shelves, or hear a pig complain about paying too much at the Container Store for organizing products?]

I heard the tap dripping upstairs, all the way from the front hallway, and set my purse down amongst the pool totes, reusable shopping bags, and backpacks cluttering the rug. Sure would be nice to have a hall closet for the kids to ignore, I groused.

Stupid house.  Stupid old time-sucking money-hemorrhaging house.

And then.

Monday morning found me with a listless and crying six year old on my lap, pressing the sides of his throbbing head to somehow lessen the pain.  Monday afternoon found me in the pediatrician's office, the lab to offer blood samples, and, by evening, a radiology center for further tests.

Honestly I didn't think much about my house, or the junk inside or the case of mange outside, this Monday morning.  Didn't think at all about it, in fact, until I heard a wavery plea from the face buried in my neck: please take me home, Mommy.  I just want to go home.

This was the refrain I heard all day, as we waited the long minutes for our name to be called.  Please take me home, Mommy.  I just want to go home.

To him it was not the stupid old time-sucking money-hemorrhaging house.  To him it was rest, it was reassurance, it was cool darkness and sheets that smell like 'our' laundry detergent.  Home had not the first thing to do with peeling paint or dripping taps.

Etsy.com

That's how this house works.  Because this house is, to us, home.

************

This post is submitted as part of Peter Pollock's One Word at a Time Blog Carnival.  The theme is 'Home', and although I've been pretty clear with all of you that my true home will always be England, there is a pretty charming little spot right here near Baltimore that's got a tight hold on my heart. 

Snow Day 2011

If you live anywhere east of the Mississippi, you've heard about the snow blanketing us in the mid-Atlantic region. And those of you west of the Mississippi can't have missed all the chatter on Facebook/Twitter/smoke signals. (Huh, that's funny, I have the most distinct memory of typing that exact phrase last winter. Yep, that's because I did, right here.)

That post last winter was all about how the mom of the house doesn't ever quite get through the door, into the snow.  She stands in the doorframe, gearing kids up in snow clothes, handing out the camera, never actually stepping foot into the drifts.

This year is different.  The kids are eight, six and three.  (Three!!!) Big sister gets herself sorted out, and even helps Annika find mittens.  Lars does just fine, as long as I'm not picky about zipped jackets or matching gloves.  Annika... well.  She IS three, so getting dressed always involves some drama, but even more important is hanging with the big kids, so the motivation is there.

This morning, they were all out & in the snow before 7.30.  No lie. I shut the door, sighed, and went to fill my coffee cup.

Early morning snow man

But wait - if they're all out there, surely... I should be? 

Once upon a time I liked to play in the snow.  Once upon a time I would throw myself on a toboggan with abandon, scrape together a snow fort with my brothers, make giant batches of snow ice cream.  When was that? How long has it been?

I honestly can't remember the last time I played in the snow.  Sometime in the late 90s I borrowed a snazzy one-piece snowsuit from my mother in law in Norway (where snowclothes aren't optional.)  My brothers-in-law barely hid their snickers. (I'll see if I can find the snapshot. Maybe.)  But before then?  I am only remembering a ski trip in 7th grade.  To which I wore jeans and a Rossignol ski jacket.

Ok fine, you talked me into it.  Norway c1996, ski suit c1976.   aka Barbie Goes Nordic.

So that's it then.  Time to find a jacket that will seal around the cuffs, find boots that are more function than fashion, find waterproof mittens.  It's time to go out and play. Because I want to be the mom that plays.  I want to be the mom that shows my kids how to hurl themselves onto a toboggan.

Best quote from Modern Family tonight?  "You can't have two fun parents.  That's a carnival."  Bring on the freakshow and the clowns.  Carnival it is, and I'm buying the outfit.

Thankful: for Family, Trees, and Friends

In the middle of handing out mini-Snickers and Reeses Cups this Halloween, I was busy snipping pieces of kraft paper into a vague sort of tree outline:

It's our Thankful Tree.  I ran across the idea somewhere in the blogosphere last year, and it was a big hit here in the Yellow House.  The concept is simple:  each night, we go around the table and each family member names one thing they're thankful for.  If certain 2nd graders insist, they are given rights to the coveted brown Sharpie marker to write their own leaf.

The 2010 tree was extremely prolific:  as the leaves tumbled off the oaks, maples and poplars in our backyard, the paper leaves grew and grew on the Thankful Tree.  Some of my happiest moments this month have been craning my neck to check out all the funny little things my kids are grateful for.  Except, not so funny:  many of the adults' and kids' leaves turn up with some version of  'grandparents' or 'my friends.'



Ahh, friends.   Today on Classic Play I am guest posting all about a Friends Thanksgiving - the meaning of a holiday spent with The Other Kind of Family.   Let us never forget the gift of our families, crazy as they might be, but also?  Keep those friendships on your Thankful Tree.  There's nothing like 'em.

Grandparents

My eldest got really sick this afternoon, really quickly. She arrived home saying she felt 'tired' and an hour later had spiked a fever of 102 and was shivering on the couch in pajamas. She didn't ask for ice pops, ginger ale, or even Barbie movies. She asked for Grandma.

As I drove home from driving her to my mother's, I tried hard not to feel insulted. I mean, aren't kids supposed to want their MOM when they're sick?

Then I thought about my husband, travelling to Norway this week for his grandmother's funeral. I thought about the stories he told us at the dinner table, the night we heard she'd died: stories of cousins, of chocolate cakes, of a laughing, loving woman.

I thought of my own grandmother, who died in November 2006. My own memories were visceral, tonight - of her kitchen table, of her beautiful white hair, of her long graceful fingers on piano keys. She is present in so many of my day-to-day choices.

Today is November 1: All Saints Day. A day to remember the "great cloud of witnesses." Today, I am grateful for grandparents - those magical people in our lives who have the extra time, the extra space in their evening for sick little girls or the surreptitious morsel of cake to share.

Today I focus my heart on the gifts and wisdom of those who have traveled the path ahead of me, and I'm not insulted. I - we, we who have had loving grandparents in our lives - we are given the most profound gift.

The Grandparents of NilsenLife on the beach in the Lofoten Islands (and lil ol' me)

Where I'm From

I am from ancient quilts reeking of mothballs, from lemony furniture polish and well-tuned pianos.

I am from suburban bricks on a cul-de-sac, from spaces filled with books and inherited furniture, from darkened rooms with flickering Super8 family movies on Friday night.

I am from the redbud, the azalea, the tall oak and maple - the riotous daffodils, the drifts of cherry blossom.

I am from Friday's meal of potato and beans and from the Family of Righteous Indignation, from Joan and Jack and generations of Klooster.

I am from the corner of Stubborn and Devoted - the two intersect in many places.

From a house where rowdy boys riled a peace-loving sister; where quiet quirkiness was venerated.

I am from a remnant church, a community in the world but not of the world. I am equally from the wider world that then found me. I am from faith, I am from love, and I am from a life that offers grace at every turn.

I'm from Malaysia, from England, from Veja-Links and cucumber sandwiches.

From the steel-grey and ever-elegant piano teacher who guided a crowd with laughter and poise through war, heartbreaks and car crashes, always taking the higher road. From the gifted and also-elegant elementary teacher who is everything and nothing like her mother, who has a heart forty three times her size.

I am from no place - I am from Family, located on eight hearths before I was eighteen. I am the books, the photos, the film reels, the stories: the memories of a host of genetics. At the core is Family.

***********

This post is linked as part of The Red Writing Hood, over at The Red Dress Club. The assignment this week asked us to participate in a long-running writing exercise in which we were all invited to complete the same basic form, delineating our perceived roots: where we are from. You can read more about the exercise here. I'd encourage you to try it, even if (especially if!) you don't see yourself as a writer.

Adventure

Say you're a girl who likes a routine.  Say you're the kinda gal who might run the same route every day for 2 years, just because you love knowing exactly how many miles you've run, how fast you've run it, and knowing right when the hills can be expected.

Say you're the kind of person who loves to know what's happening today, tomorrow, and the next day.  The kind of person who tries not to cringe when an acquaintance casually says, "Oh, we'll just figure it out when we get there."  What? No plan? Ack ack ack ack ack.

You may be the kind of person who is mortified by these tendencies.  You may wish daily that you were a fly-by-the-seat-of-yer-pants kinda gal.  You may wish that it didn't give you an ulcer to be lost in a strange city, or to rushing for a flight, unsure if you'll make it in time.    You may watch people who operate without a wristwatch with envy, wondering if it EVER bothers them not to know what time it is, or if they're late, or how many minutes it is until the next appointment.

It's funny how life works.  Because say you're that kind of person, and you fall in love with a person who approaches life in exactly the opposite way:  someone who always flies by the seat of their pants, someone who never knows where their watch/wallet/keys are, but lives in faith that these items will turn up eventually.  Someone who hates to brush their teeth the same way twice, much less drive the same road, run the same course, or wear the same shoes two days in a row.

These two opposites might get married, might delight in this particular element of opposite-ness, and might make a darn good life from it.

And then might come a cosmic event where the kids had a day off from school, the Farmor would be in town from Norway, and the forecast for the beach would be sunny sunny sunny.

Then the Seat of Pants Man may come up with the bright idea of taking off for the ocean - driving into the night, and then spending tomorrow at the beach.  Mrs OCD might struggle mightily with ditching her schedule, with leaving all of her routines at home, with just "throwing sleeping bags into the car" and driving off towards the coast.

But she will do it.

Because man oh man does she love the adventures that Mr Seat of the Pants comes up with.  She loves that he has passion for possibilities as-yet-undiscovered, and loves that he ignores (in the nicest way possible) her protestations of practicality.

So we're off, dear readers.  Off on our next adventure.  Look for photos of the Not-Plan soon.

Different Kind of Family

This post was written in response to two photographs - the first was over at The Pear Tree's blog, where they featured this image, and asked for our responses to it.  

Shortly after that, I came across the photo below, and decided I wanted to tell you about a family member who shares none of my genetics.  There is nothing else this person can be for me, except Family - Family in the most profound way possible.

*************************

We met when I was 13 - a gangly, awkward and - frankly, ugly - 13.  He was 14, newly arrived in the country and at school.  The seventh and eighth grade were all a-flutter over his Australian accent.

We found out we were both into Oingo Boingo and Talking Heads when many of our peers were embracing Bon Jovi and Richard Marx.  And thus began a music geek friendship that would take us to concerts around the world - from outdoor festivals to huge stadium events to tiny grotty clubs in London.  My parents trusted him implicitly, and as soon as I assured them I'd be with Jamie!, I was allowed to go pretty much anywhere.

We commiserated over crushes as well as breakups through the years. He was best friends with my high school sweetheart, and yet he said nothing unkind when we broke up; he found a way to stay friends with both of us.

J and K, circa 1993? 1994?

He went off to England for college, and I missed him.  I'd get the infrequent letter scrawled on pale blue aerogrammes, apologizing for not writing more often.  The next year when I was utterly lost at the University of Maryland, his letter came:  Kir -  You sound really unhappy.  Get on a plane and come to England already.  I'll look after you!

Five weeks later I stepped off the plane at Heathrow and was met by his friend (thanks  again, Brian!).  Jamie had arranged it all for me ahead of time.  We adventured all over Europe - rode silly bikes in Belgium, slept in parks in Paris, stayed out all night in a club in Berlin.  Again, my parents were happy with only the occasional collect call because they knew - I was with Jamie.

We've seen each other at our our happiest, our saddest, our most inebriated.  I attended his eighth grade graduation, his high school graduation, his college graduation.  He once changed a tire for me, I cooked a fair few dinners for him. We've watched each other get into dustups with friends and partners, but I can't think of a single time we've fought.  (Of course, sarcasm and snide remarks don't count in that tally.)

I sat in the car with him the day he decided to leave America for good.  We knew it meant he'd miss my wedding two weeks later. We also knew we wouldn't see each other for such a long time.

I've only seen him once since then. And every minute of that visit was like having all of our teenage years back again, only better.   That visit he brought with him the beautiful Justine, who was (and is) perfect for him.   The day it was time to take them to Heathrow, my heart broke all over again - knowing it would again be years before we would hang out.

Jamie has taught me much, but most important is this:  he taught me that family can be many things beyond shared genes, the same blood.  Jamie is my family, just as surely as my brothers are, and he owns his very own place in my heart.

Miss you, my friend.  Miss you so very much.

Oil & Vinegar

It's a good thing this ol' blog is a typed out thing.  Because at the moment I'm biting my tongue.  Biting my tongue and not saying the mean and vicious things that I want to SCREAM at my beautiful, bright and constantly bickering children. 

It's the oldest two in particular:  Miss C is almost 8 and as frilly feminine as they come.  She loves dolls, dresses, and writing long stories about the Revolutionary War and the wives those soldiers left at home. (I kid you not.)  Mr Lars is 5, and All Boy.  If he knew what snips and snails were, or had access to puppy dog tails, he'd be all over those.  As it stands, he's been obsessed with machines, tools, building and mechanics since before he could walk. To him, happiness is the chance to mow the lawn with his dad.

They are oil and vinegar.  Gas in a diesel engine.   Sunscreen and eyeballs.  Anything you can think of that doesn't mix well - those are my kids. 
 
Now they can play beautifully with other children - on playdates, or with cousins, the play is happy, considerate, imaginative.  They are able to involve opposite genders in their play, and are so gifted at finding ways to include, to incorporate, to facilitate. 

When asked to play together for 30 minutes, there is excellent money to be made on a bet that it'll end in tears, shouting, screeching, or - more typically - all of the above.

Deceptively cute.  So deceptive.

I am ill with jealousy when I hear stories of other siblings who get along well.  Siblings who will make up elaborate games of make believe, will troop through the yard on adventures together, will snuggle in bed and let the elder read them all a story. 

Not at our house.  The sibling rivalry has reached fever pitch, to the point where if one claims to love say, watermelon, the other will swear a jihad on all melons until he/she takes their dying breath.  If one child finds a certain bedtime story scary, the other will deliberately choose it every night.   If one sibling does something uniquely noteworthy, the other will find the snidest thing possible to say, even if they know it'll earn them a session on the timeout step.

Just now, I sent them both to their rooms.  I couldn't bear to hear one more whine, one more exasperated 'LAH-RUS!', one more slap fight.   I'm done.  I'm out of ideas. 

So I'm asking you to help me out here.  I've gone ahead & lowered the veil, shown you the dark side of NilsenLife, and I genuinely need a good solution.  I have an abiding and profound affection for my two brothers, and would love to be laying the foundation for that with my children.  But right now?  I think I'll be doing well to get them both to 18 without permanent bodily harm inflicted.

Got any tips?  Any bright ideas that your parents used for you and your siblings - that you do with your kids?  NOW WOULD BE THE TIME TO SHARE, PLEASE.  Thankyouverymuch.

Signed
I Might Lock Them Up Otherwise

Wordless Wednesday

You want my whole world, in one photo? Here you go.

(Don't those Nilsens scrub up good?)

You make me laugh

Maniacal giggling as they scheme to overturn their grandpa's float in the pool.

Happy shrieks as they chase the Westie around and around and around in circles.

Silly guffaws as Daddy slays them with ridiculous knock knock jokes. 

Sly chuckles as someone wonders if they'll get busted breaking the rules of Candy Land.

Snickers from the adults as a series of entirely inappropriate double entendres get tossed above the kids' heads.  

Uproarious, gut-aching laughing at the dinner table as we remember stories of other childhoods, of other grandparents now gone, of other family vacations together.

I posted a few months back about wondering where my sillies had gone.  I found 'em this week.  They were right here - right with the same 3 kids that I scold all week to pick up laundry, hang up towels, and take dishes to the sink.  My sillies were right here in the minivan on a 12-hour drive that could only be survived through fits of giggles and a suspension of all seriousness.  They were right here with my husband, snorting with laughter late in the night as we tripped over small bodies in sleeping bags to get to our bed.  They were right here with my second grade girl as she and I swam like seals and slipped on our bellies on top of pool floats, off into the water.   There were here with my aunt and I as we traded dirty jokes about yoga poses and ended up laughing hysterically. They were here with my uncle's dry wit, my dad's tragic puns, and my own quirky take on the world. 

Yep, that's right.  I found my sillies. 

My grandmother,  profoundly wise woman that she was, would often wipe her eyes after a good chuckle, and say "it's no laughing matter, but its no matter if you laugh."  I can't offer anyone the recipe for success, the no-fail technique for a happy life.  But I have the most distinct hunch that a crowd that can laugh - laugh so hard your sides ache and tears squeeze out of your eyes - is a crowd that can make it through most things.  

"You make me laugh." - it's ultimate compliment around here.

This post is linked to Bridget Chumbley's One Word at a Time blog carnival on Laughter.  How could posts on that be hard to read? Go check 'em out!!

Nothing new under the Sun

I put up corn yesterday.

Do any of you even know what it means, when I say "I put up corn" ??  Maybe you do, if you've been reading your kids the Little House on the Prairie series this summer.

It was me, my mom, and SIX DOZEN EARS OF CORN, fresh from the farmers market, in the kitchen yesterday.  95 degrees outside, two huge pots of boiling water inside, and two women never more glad of the decision to install air conditioning in the Great Money Pit Renovations of '05.

We shucked - and shucked some more.  (No child labor laws were broken.)  Filled a whole laundry basket with uncooked corn cobs.  Dropped corn in boiling water - no longer than 3 minutes, per the matriarch! - and then plunked unceremoniously into an icy bath in the sink.  I was in charge of separating millions of kernels from cobs - spraying corn juice and stray niblets all over the kitchen.

Maybe it felt a little throwback.  Maybe it felt a little excessive, bagging and freezing 72 cobs' worth of corn for the winter months when you can buy a tidy little pound bag of frozen corn at Trader Joes. (Ooh!  Another trip to TJs?  I'll go! I'll go!)

But I'll tell you.  What felt exactly right was standing in the kitchen with my mother, slicing kernels in the same way, with the same knives, that my grandmothers did.  I listened to my mother's stories of canning and freezing with her mother, her mother in law - my grandmothers.  I heard tales of my great-grandma that were entirely new to me (imagine your mother chaperoning you through college! Out of state! For four years!)

What felt exactly right was taking my place in the rhythm of things.  Repeating the patterns, traditions and activities of generations before me, and living lessons for at least one generation after me. This, this is how we preserve the fabric of history.  We remember what has gone before.  We value what has gone before.  We re-live what has gone before, even as we learn - daily - all of the lessons required of us in this brave new world.

As wise old Solomon told us, there truly is nothing new under the sun.  And the sooner we learn to celebrate that, the wiser we all will be.

Busy weekend?

Why yes, yes it was a busy weekend, now you mention it.

Let's see... swim team potluck & pep rally (Friday night) :: swim team photos (Saturday a.m.) :: swim meet, 7.30 a.m. to 1pm :: lunch with grandparents :: big manly chainsaw project :: Tour de France Junior party, complete with a red dotted hill-climb jersey, flags to wave, and Gallic cocktails for grownups :: early Sunday 4-mile run :: church :: lunch at Grandma's house :: Slip n' Slide on grandma's front lawn :: dinner with friends

= EXHAUSTED.   

And no clean up time.  At all.  The entire weekend.  Wanna see?

This is our front hall.  The place where Every. Single. Blessed. Item got DUMPED as we walked in the door this weekend.  Dumped, forgotten, and abandoned as we moved on to next activity, next activity, next activity. [Do you love Mr NilsenLife chilling in the middle of it all?? Oh yes, I do too. Mmm hmm.]

Clearly, I have no shame.  My poor mother will be mortified when she sees I've published this evidence of my slothful housekeeping.

But just wanted to say that even people trying to keep it simple sometimes....... don't.

Have a great week y'all!!

Water. Where Else?

Spent the day in the water today.  Really. THE ENTIRE DAY.

Baltimore came close to breaking ALL TIME RECORDS today for the heat - local experts put the official temp at 104 degrees Farenheit.

I made the executive decision that nothing productive could happen in weather like this.  Oil change?  Forget it.  Laundry?  For another day.  Endless hours on the phone with phone company? Postponed indefinitely.  We had to hit the water, and stay there.

Kicked the day off at 9.45 with swim team for the big kids, and survived that hot 50 minutes by splashing in the already-warm baby pool.  But the minute the all-clear whistle blew for the big pool, Little Miss Two made a bee line for the deep end, and launched herself off the wall bellowing CANNONBALL!!!!!!!!

And so it went, hour after hour.  In the pool, catching one small child, one medium child, one tall child, over and over and over.  Mommy played Dolphin (swimming along the bottom with child hanging on for dear life around my neck.)  Mommy played Tidal Wave (standing firm whilst child tries to drown her with 'giant' splash.)  Mommy watched as the big kids hurled themselves from the diving board, attempting dives and flips and tricks inspired by the hallucinatory heat.

The only food that anyone wanted to eat was watermelon and fresh raspberries.  Peanut butter sandwiches weigh heavy when you need to float on your back in the diving well.  Temperatures above 100 require many doses of freezer pops - homemade AND purchased with our stash of Snack Bar Dimes.

The heat?  Nigh on apocalyptic.  The water? The balm which will stave off the End Times.

The meaning, the metaphorical significance of the elemental, primordial call of water?  It'll have to wait 'til it cools off a bit.

Raised by Wolves, or, What A Girl Learns from Brothers

It is late. The kids are very tired, and up way too late. Big Sister and Baby Sister are in full voice, weeping about the injustices of the world and OneLastBinkWatah!!

Mom lays down the law. Insists the lights are going out and the noise will stop. It is quiet for a brief second.  The Brother - the Lone Male in the room - mutters Well. That didn't achieve much, did it?


The silence is deafening - at least it is until Mom's snorts break up the whole off-to-dreamland vibe.

So I started thinking about the lessons you learn from brothers - in my case, two brothers.  It might be a stretch to argue that you learn everything you need to know about the human condition from male siblings, but there is a fair bit of core knowledge to be gained.

To wit:

Drama is generally off-putting to a guy.  Especially drama for the sake of more drama.

There will be smelliness.  There will be a lot of sweat.  Most likely some naked smelly sweat in your life.  And not in a good way.

When boys get mad at each other, they hit each other.  They'll probably yell, loudly. And then they're over it.

It's not all about you.  Sometimes, in fact often, their perplexing behaviors have nothing to do with you.

Occasionally, they just don't want to talk.  At all.  Not about feelings, not about what's for dinner. (doesn't matter how much you've got to say.)

Dirt is a good thing.  Dirt is a tool, a plaything, an occupation all of its own, and its removal will be just as messy as its acquisition.

Climbing trees has merit.  As does climbing rocks, but these are less readily available.

There will always be some sport in which a guy takes interest.  Probably several, but always at least one. [Corollary to this: there will typically be at least one machine or mechanical item in which a guy takes interest.  This might be an iPhone, this might be a chainsaw, this might be a sewing machine.  It is the mechanics, make no mistake.]

I had my little brother visiting today, and he made me cry laughing, remembering the time he & my older brother decided I needed to snap out of my latest Mood.  Imagine trying to be your Most Pissed Off 16 Year Old Self, and having your brothers croon this to you:

Kiiiiiirsten, your conscience is calling yooooooou!

Don't be so sad and blue! 

Time for a cheery you.

Yeah.  Didn't really work for me either.

Now, I've already posted about some of the things I might've missed out on, not having a sister.  And really, what can you do about birth order and sibling gender?  You just gotta suck it up.

But readers:  have I missed anything big? Anything glaring?  Now's the time for those guys who keep *saying* they read the blog to step up & tell me everything I missed - or even better, what you males learned from your sisters! Time for the girls who loved (or tolerated) their brothers to let me know how they changed your life.

If you don't tell me I might get my brother to make up a song about you.

I Feel Pretty, Oh So Pretty...

There's not really a cool way to say this, so I'm just going to dive in:  I felt beautiful today.

Now, I just clicked through 4692 photos taken today that say otherwise - in the photos I saw the Me that I see most days. The Me that has taken a bit of a beating in recent years - the Me with dark shadows, weird skin, and more double chin than I'd like to see.  The Me that has clearly had far too many short nights, far too many early mornings, and just a few too many glasses of wine.  The Me that hasn't had enough time to work out, and way too much time sitting still during potty training (them, not me.)

Nonetheless:  today I really felt like one of the prettiest girls at the party.

It wasn't my outfit - although it was just fine. It wasn't my makeup - although I did take the time to put on eyeliner.  (Woot!)  Sure as heck wasn't my genetically cursed hair.

You know what? It wasn't even just me that noticed.  An acquaintance stopped me after church and told me that I looked 'just radiant' today.

Then, later, I got an email from a friend (one who'd also been at church).  It said "you...and your family positively radiate love. It makes me smile."  And the light bulb clicked on. 

The thing is, it wasn't anything physical about me that looked at all different today.  What was different about today is that I went out into the world knowing in the deepest parts of my heart that I am loved - and that equally, I have a tremendous amount of love to give.   

This has transformed me in ways entirely unreachable by any plastic surgeon's instrument, and in ways entirely unaltered by losing ten pounds or by purchasing a new dress.

Love has changed me - it has made me beautiful in all the ways that matter.

Is it Happy, or is it JOY?

Happiness is getting your three-mile run in on the treadmill.
Joy is early-morning running in the woods, watching the sun rise in front of you.

Happiness is watching your daughter onstage in her ballet recital.
Joy is watching your daughter twirl by herself in the backyard.

Happiness is hearing your toddler giggle with her 2-year old buddy.
Joy is making her giggle yourself.

Happiness is hearing on the phone that your husband will be home early.
Joy is him walking through the door early, as a surprise.

Happiness is dropping off your preschooler at school without a fuss.
Joy is when he proudly leads you to the gym for the Mothers Day Luncheon.

Happiness is sleeping through the night.
Joy is sleeping through the night, then waking up & realizing your kids are at your parents', and going back to sleep UNTIL NINE O'CLOCK.

Happiness is a new pair of jeans.
 Joy is putting on an old pair of jeans that fit perfectly, straight out of the dryer.

Happiness is a cute pair of flats.
 Joy is your favorite pair of boots, the ones that have traveled 1000s of miles, 3 continents, 2 dormitories and 5 homes.

Happiness is a mailbox with no bills.
Joy is a mailbox filled with a lumpy box that can only mean Care Package.

Happiness is making a new friend on Facebook.
Joy is finding out you can be friends in real life.

Happiness is the sound of coffee dripping into the pot.
Joy is the first sip of the first cup.

Happiness is the mashed potatoes.
Joy is the gravy.

Happiness is a walk in the park.
Joy is finding a climbing tree when you're there and getting to the tippy top branch.

Happiness is the moment.
Joy is the journey.

******

This post is a [very late] submission to Bridget Chumbley's One Word at a Time Blog Carnival.  I've done Kindness, Patience, Faithfulness and Self Control so far, and I have to say Joy was one I was looking forward to.  Check it out - the pursuit of Joy is always fruitful.

Making more room

Franciscans use the term 'detachment': the less that 'stuff' preoccupies your life, the more room there is for God, as well as for yourself and for other people.

As if I needed any confirmation that I needed to make more space in my life for God, myself, and my family, I came across Layla Grace's blog tonight: about a family losing their two year old to Stage 4 Neuroblastom.  They will lose her soon.

I go upstairs and I watch my two year old's sweet cheeks squish around her eyes, just like mine do when I sleep.  I smooth the growing-out bangs away from my big girl's face (an outrage she'd never let me perpetrate in daylight hours).  I lift Lars from his perpendicular position on his bed, and re-cover him with his favorite blanket-that-was-Daddy's-once. 

How is it possible that I have ignored their growing moments?  What would I change if I knew there wouldn't be endless days of sibling battles, lunch preparation, and carpools?

Here's what I would change:  I would be more present.  I wouldn't turn away from their bubble-blowing triumphs, their Lego creations, their requests for WeedWe? [translated:  Please Mommy will you read this to me?]

With this in mind, tonight's post is to say that I want to live with some more intent.  With more awareness. With more....... focus.  Tomorrow is the beginning of Lent, and what I'll be doing is offering some intentionality to my household:  I'm giving up Facebook.

Woo hoo, the crowds say.  Big deal, FACEBOOK.  For the casual check-in-every-three-days-or-so Facebooker, this will make no sense.  Surely, surely it must be trickier to give up dessert. Chocolate, at least.

But for me, Facebook is the thing that diminishes my focus, distracts me from my daily rhythms (to the point of being my daily rhythm!), and yes, sometimes even keeps me from writing a blog.

So in exchange for the absence of scintillating hourly updates from the Yellow House, what I can offer you is blog posts for Lent.  Hopefully, they will be posts with some intentionality, some awareness, some focus.  (They may, however, just be posts begging to know what's happened on Facebook.)

Transformed: More than meets the Eye

The decade between 26 and 36 is not overly obvious in the changes it wreaks.  Most definitely there are few bits & pieces headed south that weren't, ten years ago, but it's not like there is puberty or even a graduation to mark the passing of the years.

But on the last day of The Aughts when we review such things, the transformations of my life in this decade couldn't be more profound.

I added the title of Mother to my resume.  And have been sure that I'll be fired, every day since.

I started the decade loving good food.  I end the decade with a love of honest food.

I moved house, I moved continents, and I created Home.  (Even after leaving the place I call home.)

I consciously voted for less snark in my life. (Less is a moving target, of course.)  For those that knew me in the years before, you will grasp just how groundbreaking this shift was.

I went from believing that marriage is easy to knowing that marriage is hard, but absolutely worth any and all work required.

I went from thinking friends were just lovely to believing that friends belong in the same category as water, food, and oxygen.

I went from traveling to seven different countries in one year (2001) to traveling to seven different preschools in 2009.  (Really only one preschool and one elementary, but it feels like more.)  I also haven't traveled further than the next state over for two years.

I became an excellent cook.  And in the last six, I've cooked spaghetti, black bean chili, and macaroni and cheese at least once a week.

I found a community of faith that, literally, surprised me with its joy, and its depth.  Here is a sermon that left my jaw hanging open.

I realized I am a writer.  I spent so many years believing that my unique skill laid in appreciating what others wrote, never understanding that my time would come.

I fulfilled almost every childhood dream, and then learned that even a Dream Come True is complicated.

I became more educated than I ever imagined.  And I finish the decade aware of just how little I do know.


Somehow, all that I have learned in the last ten years seems to have 'settled' in 2009.  More and more I find myself feeling that finally I am glimpsing the Big Picture:   that all of the disparate elements listed above have come together to show me the way forward.  Is this all a bit mystical for you?  I'd say that's something new to me in recent years too.

I am willing to believe there is a great deal out there we don't know, or understand. I know that we must show love, and kindness, to make anything work. So there's my Super Duper Schmooper Big Idea:  be kind, show love, and don't ask Kirsten, because she's just figured out she doesn't know all that much.

Happy 2010 to all of you.  May it bring you great joy.