Oh, and Sir Dave.
"Give us caaaaaaaaaaaandyyyyyyyyyy!"
We left friends on our porch to greet the neighbors whilst we hit the streets: Vampire, Grumpy Pumpkin, Princess Pumpkin, and Surprised Baby Ghost.
Monday, November 2, 2009
All Hallows Eve
Oh, and Sir Dave.
We left friends on our porch to greet the neighbors whilst we hit the streets: Vampire, Grumpy Pumpkin, Princess Pumpkin, and Surprised Baby Ghost.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
NaBloPoMo
This blogging thing is great. No, really it is. I've developed this outrageously active inner dialogue: I spend most of my days having quiet conversations with myself about how I could turn that last idea, that fleeting thought just now into a post. Every day I log on to Blogger and click 'New Post' and then..... stare at the screen. I stare at the screen for the 3 minutes that I have free before Small Person #1, 2 or 3 is shouting for assistance. And this, my readers, is how you end up with forty-two drafts in the Posts folder.
This is deeply irritating to me. Deeply irritating to have all these posts bouncing around in my head, crashing into each other and just confusing all of us.
So today it's November 1, and as luck would have it, the first day of NaBloPoMo. What is this silliness of which I write?? Well National Blog Post Month, of course. What started as a bit of insider riff on NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, wherein you attempt to complete a novel, or at least 50,000 words in November), NaBloPoMo acknowledges that not all of us have enough coherent ideas for a chapter, much less a novel, but that all of us have at least a blog post a day. Heck, I've got at least 16 posts a day, but herein lies the challenge: can I get 'em posted??
I've got high school friends who are working the novel angle, and a college friend who actually met the 50,000 word limit and finished the book last year (woo hoo Lisa!!). Me, I'm going to start small. I'm going to sit my backside down each morning, and work on just getting something posted. Something to entertain my TWO Official Followers (yay Heather & Harold!), maybe a recipe or two on the days I'm feeling less inspired. If any of you have bright ideas you want to hear about, let me know. I'm not proud - I'll write about it all. (Anyone who is happy to share stories of swearing in front of small children and elders, or of assuming deadly allergies were 'just a bad mood' doesn't set her standards that high.)
So join me for the ride, my peeps. I want to hear from you: think of yourselves as the virtual waterboys on my little virtual Marine Corps Marathon of Blogging. See you tomorrow!
This is deeply irritating to me. Deeply irritating to have all these posts bouncing around in my head, crashing into each other and just confusing all of us.
So today it's November 1, and as luck would have it, the first day of NaBloPoMo. What is this silliness of which I write?? Well National Blog Post Month, of course. What started as a bit of insider riff on NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, wherein you attempt to complete a novel, or at least 50,000 words in November), NaBloPoMo acknowledges that not all of us have enough coherent ideas for a chapter, much less a novel, but that all of us have at least a blog post a day. Heck, I've got at least 16 posts a day, but herein lies the challenge: can I get 'em posted??
I've got high school friends who are working the novel angle, and a college friend who actually met the 50,000 word limit and finished the book last year (woo hoo Lisa!!). Me, I'm going to start small. I'm going to sit my backside down each morning, and work on just getting something posted. Something to entertain my TWO Official Followers (yay Heather & Harold!), maybe a recipe or two on the days I'm feeling less inspired. If any of you have bright ideas you want to hear about, let me know. I'm not proud - I'll write about it all. (Anyone who is happy to share stories of swearing in front of small children and elders, or of assuming deadly allergies were 'just a bad mood' doesn't set her standards that high.)
So join me for the ride, my peeps. I want to hear from you: think of yourselves as the virtual waterboys on my little virtual Marine Corps Marathon of Blogging. See you tomorrow!
[Kid #3, by the end of November.]
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Misanthrope, Interrupted
So my last post was deep and all, but I'm starting to feel like anyone new around here might think this is all I talk about - gratefulness, counting my blessings, abundance, blah di blah di blah deedee blah. If this was an audioblog, I think I might be starting to sound like Charlie Brown's grandma on the phone.
Perhaps I give the wrong impression of myself as author. As I recently commented on a friend's 'grass is greener' Facebook status: I find my own philosophy of "the grass is brown wherever you go" is a super uplifting way to live.
Yep, I'll go ahead and own it: I'm a natural pessimist. Tell me a great plan, and I'll tell you exactly why it won't work, and besides we don't have the money for it. And let me just say, it is sooooo much fun to live with someone like me. (Of course the upside of living with a pessimist is she is always pleasantly surprised when things do go well. )
So this summer, when my book club read Randy Pausch's Last Lecture, I have to admit that I was deeply irritated by at least 90% of the book. I found myself grousing inwardly 'what IS it with this guy? He must drive his wife nuts, even if he is terminal!' Beyond being overly cheerful for my taste, what grated the most was that he maintained this relentless optimism despite knowing fully what his wife would face after he was gone. I mean, his handy little Book o' Advice won't be much help when she and the kids hit those early teen years.
Around this same time, I ran into a friend at a swim meet, and as we made small talk between events, she asked what I was reading these days. I mentioned my feelings about The Last Lecture, and blathered on for a bit about how I was feeling more sympathy for his wife than for the author, how I just couldn't be that 'glass half full' along with him if I was his wife. I realized, mid-blather, how insensitive this sounded, and tried to backtrack, saying something along the lines of "oh I don't know, I suppose when something like that is presented it wipes the slate clean: it totally changes who you think you 'are'." And this friend, this woman who just a year ago lost her infant son after a sudden illness, looked at me with eyes filled with wisdom gained through pain and said quietly, simply - 'Yes. Yes it does.'
I read the remaining 10% of my book with a very different perspective. Stopped short by my friend's honesty, I wondered if it truly would take a terminal diagnosis, or a sudden illness to really let me see how full of gifts my life is.
I've been trying to write this post ever since. How do I say it in a fresh way? How do I talk about being thankful for every single day that I am given without sounding like Randy Pausch??
Here's my draft from last week:
I heard myself saying the words. I heard myself saying these exact words: "what have I done to deserve this??" And I wasn't saying it in a nice way. Oh no I was not.
Apparently, I'd forgotten to circle on my calendar that yesterday was National Tell Your Parents All That They Do Wrong Day. My kids were prepared, though, yessir. The morning started with everyone needing to wear different things, because I had tricked them into agreeing what they'd wear the night before. Annika - my ONE YEAR OLD - tried hitting me because I wanted her to go potty before she peed in her pjs. Yep. Then she wet her pants. The breakfast I made was 'us-guhs-ting' (steel cut oats), I hadn't signed Cecilie's homework page, I didn't understand from Annika's grunts that she wanted milk and not orange juice, in a cup like the big kids not a sippy cup. Oh, and it was my fault that my son tried to leave for preschool going commando: although I'd helped him choose the favorite red dalmation print underpants, I hadn't picked them up off the stairs when he dropped them on the way down.
So I was busy feeling woeful for much of yesterday, despite the fact that the beets have arrived at the farmers market!
And my point, in that particular draft, was what indeed have I done to deserve this?? What have I done that I deserve the loving family, cozy crazy home, and the profoundly patient and forgiving husband that I have?
I've finally decided that I am making progress in my misanthropy if I can just force myself to ask that every day: do you realize just how much you've been given? All of these posts, the reflections that I share on just how much there is in the universe for each of us, are simply my little happiness calisthenics. Maybe someday, I'll get my heart and head in shape to the point where the exercise is no longer necessary.
Then I'll just have to write about American Idol or something.
Perhaps I give the wrong impression of myself as author. As I recently commented on a friend's 'grass is greener' Facebook status: I find my own philosophy of "the grass is brown wherever you go" is a super uplifting way to live.
Yep, I'll go ahead and own it: I'm a natural pessimist. Tell me a great plan, and I'll tell you exactly why it won't work, and besides we don't have the money for it. And let me just say, it is sooooo much fun to live with someone like me. (Of course the upside of living with a pessimist is she is always pleasantly surprised when things do go well. )
So this summer, when my book club read Randy Pausch's Last Lecture, I have to admit that I was deeply irritated by at least 90% of the book. I found myself grousing inwardly 'what IS it with this guy? He must drive his wife nuts, even if he is terminal!' Beyond being overly cheerful for my taste, what grated the most was that he maintained this relentless optimism despite knowing fully what his wife would face after he was gone. I mean, his handy little Book o' Advice won't be much help when she and the kids hit those early teen years.
Around this same time, I ran into a friend at a swim meet, and as we made small talk between events, she asked what I was reading these days. I mentioned my feelings about The Last Lecture, and blathered on for a bit about how I was feeling more sympathy for his wife than for the author, how I just couldn't be that 'glass half full' along with him if I was his wife. I realized, mid-blather, how insensitive this sounded, and tried to backtrack, saying something along the lines of "oh I don't know, I suppose when something like that is presented it wipes the slate clean: it totally changes who you think you 'are'." And this friend, this woman who just a year ago lost her infant son after a sudden illness, looked at me with eyes filled with wisdom gained through pain and said quietly, simply - 'Yes. Yes it does.'
I read the remaining 10% of my book with a very different perspective. Stopped short by my friend's honesty, I wondered if it truly would take a terminal diagnosis, or a sudden illness to really let me see how full of gifts my life is.
I've been trying to write this post ever since. How do I say it in a fresh way? How do I talk about being thankful for every single day that I am given without sounding like Randy Pausch??
Here's my draft from last week:
I heard myself saying the words. I heard myself saying these exact words: "what have I done to deserve this??" And I wasn't saying it in a nice way. Oh no I was not.
Apparently, I'd forgotten to circle on my calendar that yesterday was National Tell Your Parents All That They Do Wrong Day. My kids were prepared, though, yessir. The morning started with everyone needing to wear different things, because I had tricked them into agreeing what they'd wear the night before. Annika - my ONE YEAR OLD - tried hitting me because I wanted her to go potty before she peed in her pjs. Yep. Then she wet her pants. The breakfast I made was 'us-guhs-ting' (steel cut oats), I hadn't signed Cecilie's homework page, I didn't understand from Annika's grunts that she wanted milk and not orange juice, in a cup like the big kids not a sippy cup. Oh, and it was my fault that my son tried to leave for preschool going commando: although I'd helped him choose the favorite red dalmation print underpants, I hadn't picked them up off the stairs when he dropped them on the way down.
So I was busy feeling woeful for much of yesterday, despite the fact that the beets have arrived at the farmers market!
And my point, in that particular draft, was what indeed have I done to deserve this?? What have I done that I deserve the loving family, cozy crazy home, and the profoundly patient and forgiving husband that I have?
I've finally decided that I am making progress in my misanthropy if I can just force myself to ask that every day: do you realize just how much you've been given? All of these posts, the reflections that I share on just how much there is in the universe for each of us, are simply my little happiness calisthenics. Maybe someday, I'll get my heart and head in shape to the point where the exercise is no longer necessary.
Then I'll just have to write about American Idol or something.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Taking back Twilight
I sat outside in the deepening twilight the other night - [I love that phrase, deepening twilight, don't you??] - and watched the long shadows cover the yard, the neighbors' houses, and creep right up to my back door.
I looked around a backyard strewn with toys, bikes, push-cars and sand pails, and watched as my baby girl busily constructed 'woads' and 'ouses' in the sandbox, right into the very last minute of the day. I turned my eyes up to the house at the top of the yard and in the bright rectangle of the kitchen window could just make out Torbjorn & Lars at the table, deeply absorbed in elaborate Lego structures.
It's a beautiful time of day, those moments just before people start shutting the blinds, when the warm light of their homes shines out of their windows and staves off the encroaching darkness just a few seconds more. I looked at my own home, registering all of the untidiness around the yard, the shingles that desperately need replacing on that one corner, the windows that could do with a good scrubbing, and hours of yardwork needed to bring things up to scratch, and I was grateful for the shadows, for the softening light that didn't show everything.
The common literary convention is to see twilight as the death of the day (and the whole twilight/death thing is just so regrettably obvious since that crazy vampire story.) But here's my question: could we perhaps see the end of the day as the time of focus, the time where all the silly details fade away? See it perhaps as the curtains closing on one act of a very long play, where, as the footlights fade, what is left on the stage in the spotlight are the central elements of the scene: all that is important.
What the diminishing daylight on this recent evening revealed were the gifts that I've been given, and for which I so often fail to be grateful. There are, inside my home, three bright, healthy and profoundly sweet children who forgive me daily for my failings, and continue to trust that I will do right by them. There is, inside my home, a husband who faithfully goes to work, drives hours and hours and hours to get there, all to provide for this life, this place of peace for us. There are, inside my home, pictures and dishes and teacups (oh my!) that are tangible memories of many people who love us, who have shared their lives and gifts with us, and therefore make our lives richer.
I find twilight - yes, the deepening twilight - so profound. It is a few quiet moments to reflect on the sheer grace of being given another day: the lights fading on the trivial, and the spotlight focused only on that which is central to life - those whom we love.
I looked around a backyard strewn with toys, bikes, push-cars and sand pails, and watched as my baby girl busily constructed 'woads' and 'ouses' in the sandbox, right into the very last minute of the day. I turned my eyes up to the house at the top of the yard and in the bright rectangle of the kitchen window could just make out Torbjorn & Lars at the table, deeply absorbed in elaborate Lego structures.
It's a beautiful time of day, those moments just before people start shutting the blinds, when the warm light of their homes shines out of their windows and staves off the encroaching darkness just a few seconds more. I looked at my own home, registering all of the untidiness around the yard, the shingles that desperately need replacing on that one corner, the windows that could do with a good scrubbing, and hours of yardwork needed to bring things up to scratch, and I was grateful for the shadows, for the softening light that didn't show everything.
Weathered Sunset by Fort Photo / © All rights reserved /via Flikr
The common literary convention is to see twilight as the death of the day (and the whole twilight/death thing is just so regrettably obvious since that crazy vampire story.) But here's my question: could we perhaps see the end of the day as the time of focus, the time where all the silly details fade away? See it perhaps as the curtains closing on one act of a very long play, where, as the footlights fade, what is left on the stage in the spotlight are the central elements of the scene: all that is important.
What the diminishing daylight on this recent evening revealed were the gifts that I've been given, and for which I so often fail to be grateful. There are, inside my home, three bright, healthy and profoundly sweet children who forgive me daily for my failings, and continue to trust that I will do right by them. There is, inside my home, a husband who faithfully goes to work, drives hours and hours and hours to get there, all to provide for this life, this place of peace for us. There are, inside my home, pictures and dishes and teacups (oh my!) that are tangible memories of many people who love us, who have shared their lives and gifts with us, and therefore make our lives richer.
I find twilight - yes, the deepening twilight - so profound. It is a few quiet moments to reflect on the sheer grace of being given another day: the lights fading on the trivial, and the spotlight focused only on that which is central to life - those whom we love.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
New York, in pictures
Cecilie's first effort at photo-journalism. (It was brisk up there on the top of the ferry!)
One of the many snack stops along our way. But the camera just couldn't resist those stripey tights.
Battery Park Playground - just before she dominated the monkey bars.
And then she showed the swings what's what.
Another documentary effort. She seems to be very fond of the knees & toes shots.
A soft pretzel after a long day's toy shopping at...
FAO Schwarz: Linda helps Cecilie make critical Barbie decisions
at American Girl Place: trying on the big girl outfits. We bring you.... Uptown Cowgirl.
Cecilie doing a little tap routine, she is so overcome by all the outfits
One of the highlights: brunch at American Girl Place. It was almost too exciting. Luckily Felicity the Colonial Girl kept her cool. She's got the mad tea-taking skillz, remember.
Little Boy Breather, in between all the NYC excitement
Favorite Larsisms these days:
"Statue of LiVerty"
"Handcups"
"Toys R.S."
Just had to write 'em down before I forgot. I love little boys in all their madness.
"Statue of LiVerty"
"Handcups"
"Toys R.S."
Just had to write 'em down before I forgot. I love little boys in all their madness.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Big Apple: Mother Daughter Edition
This balmy weekend at the end of September found Cecilie and I boarding a train bound for New York City. The trip had been cooked up as a way to soften the blow of switching schools and having a birthday at the very beginning of a school year.
Cecilie had two heart's desires: 1) visit the American Girl Place and 2) visit the Statue of Liberty. With this as our rough itinerary, and a few tips from friends & former residents, Torbjorn helped me plan a Big Apple Getaway that was exactly what a newly-minted 7 year old and her distracted, distractable Mommy needed.
As with most things, my eldest child made the trip memorable for me through sheer force of personality - the city through her eyes was in turns overwhelming, impressive, smelly, and exhausting. That the "very best part of the trip" was the fact that "Mommy can sleep next to me the whole night long!" just about sums up what was the very best part of the trip for Mommy too.
Thought I could share her thoughts, and then mine.
New York - Cecilie's Version:
the morning of departure, 6am: Mommy! I am ready for adventure!!!!!!
Mommy? I know why the Statue of Liberty has to be so big. [Why do you think?] Because everything in New York is big! The buildings are big, the taxis are big... look, even the squirrels are big!! Especially the squirrels.
in Toys R Us, Times Square, looking at the Barbie display: this is a little...... ugly. They look like Bratz dolls. In fact, they look mean.
walking by a steaming grate near Times Square: This city is putrid! [what do you mean by putrid?] I mean smelly and gross!
as the taxi pulled up to the hotel: [in a very shy quiet voice] Umm, is this our hotel? Don't you think it's a little.... fancy for us?
in the hotel bathroom: this is the most luxurious, most wonderful hotel bathtub in the world! [she'd filled it up & hopped in immediately upon entering the room]
upon being offered a visit to the Museum of Modern Art in the two hours before our home-bound train: I would go with the NO on that one.
And as for my thoughts? They were random and frequent, and I wish I'd taken the time to write them down as I did her quotes. I found it vaguely alarming that I persisted in spending the 48 hours taking mental notes in the form of Facebook updates, despite the fact that I had no resource for mobile FB or iPhone to feed my self-publishing addiction.
So here was my take on New York, the GrownUp Version:
Cecilie had two heart's desires: 1) visit the American Girl Place and 2) visit the Statue of Liberty. With this as our rough itinerary, and a few tips from friends & former residents, Torbjorn helped me plan a Big Apple Getaway that was exactly what a newly-minted 7 year old and her distracted, distractable Mommy needed.
As with most things, my eldest child made the trip memorable for me through sheer force of personality - the city through her eyes was in turns overwhelming, impressive, smelly, and exhausting. That the "very best part of the trip" was the fact that "Mommy can sleep next to me the whole night long!" just about sums up what was the very best part of the trip for Mommy too.
Thought I could share her thoughts, and then mine.
New York - Cecilie's Version:
the morning of departure, 6am: Mommy! I am ready for adventure!!!!!!
Mommy? I know why the Statue of Liberty has to be so big. [Why do you think?] Because everything in New York is big! The buildings are big, the taxis are big... look, even the squirrels are big!! Especially the squirrels.
in Toys R Us, Times Square, looking at the Barbie display: this is a little...... ugly. They look like Bratz dolls. In fact, they look mean.
walking by a steaming grate near Times Square: This city is putrid! [what do you mean by putrid?] I mean smelly and gross!
as the taxi pulled up to the hotel: [in a very shy quiet voice] Umm, is this our hotel? Don't you think it's a little.... fancy for us?
in the hotel bathroom: this is the most luxurious, most wonderful hotel bathtub in the world! [she'd filled it up & hopped in immediately upon entering the room]
upon being offered a visit to the Museum of Modern Art in the two hours before our home-bound train: I would go with the NO on that one.
And as for my thoughts? They were random and frequent, and I wish I'd taken the time to write them down as I did her quotes. I found it vaguely alarming that I persisted in spending the 48 hours taking mental notes in the form of Facebook updates, despite the fact that I had no resource for mobile FB or iPhone to feed my self-publishing addiction.
So here was my take on New York, the GrownUp Version:
- The magic of the train journey was palpable - my girl loved [almost] every minute of train life.
- Penn Station is really unattractive.
- The ability to swipe your debit card in taxi cabs, and have the little machine calculate your tip for you? Magic.
- The internet really can make hotel spaces look much larger than in real life.
- If that was 4-star, I would really hate to see what 3-star is like.
- A trip to the Statue of Liberty is not to be not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently and soberly. The security screening process for us to reach the ferry (as in, remove all metal items and place them in the x-ray bin) took an hour. And then when we arrived on Liberty Island, you were expected to go through another screening to get into the Statue itself. Cecilie put the kibosh on that - she was happy just to be there & read a book about it.
- Grumpy Park Rangers ought not volunteer to take people on guided tours. She actually yelled at two little 4-6 yr olds for not listening. We ditched the tour.
- A playground is an attraction if you are in New York City or in Smallville USA. Who can resist the siren call of the monkey bars?
- Times Square is impressive, but only for about 30 seconds. Then it is just crowded.
- Cecilie and I share mild agoraphobia. Not so great at Times Square.
- Australian girls shopping at Sephora for nail polish are heretofore stereotyped as very sweet to small 7 year olds picking polish for their first pedicure. (We went with matte purple. Very on-trend.)
- When a restaurant says they serve 'family style' they do indeed mean family style. This means enormous portions. What are you meant to do if you are just a party of two getting takeout?
- Swedish Fish, SourPatchKids, Pringles, Raisinettes and root beer will give you a stomachache, no matter how long you'd looked forward to a movie party in bed with Mommy.
- Sometimes the pressure of a Very Special Brunch at a Very Special Doll Store all by yourself with Mommy does get to you, and will make you bounce in your seat and then bang your chin on the water glass and then burst into tears.
- Having a [limited] amount of real cash money on hand in the American Girl store is HIGHLY recommended. The visual aid of making dollars disappear as the items chosen accumulate is hugely effective.
- Evidence that Disney has lost its magic powers over my 7 year old was amply demonstrated by a visit to the Disney superstore. We toured 3 floors, and whilst much was touched, held and examined, nothing was worth using up those precious dollars. (See above.)
- Evidence that innocence remains a bit longer: a visit to Tiffany elicited no response other than "hmmmmm..... Can we go now?"
- Entertain no expectations that you will do any shopping for yourself. 1) there will be no available funds (just speaking for me here) and 2) no inclination whatsoever from your travel partner
- FAO Schwartz has earned every inch of its reputation. An incredibly impressive store catering to all levels of indulgent elders and small demanding individuals. (Also larger demanding individuals.)
- Those bike rickshaw contraptions are a total ripoff. (sorry Laramie Flick - they are. I was looking for yours though.)
- Hot chocolate at Starbucks sounds better in principle than in practice, even on a cold rainy day. Three sips, and we were done. (Another dis-inclination that C and I share. But as the mother who paid for said hot choc, I was duly annoyed that she wouldn't drink it.)
- Biggest logistical challenge? Organizing food. Sounds silly, in NY, where you can get any cuisine your heart desires, but getting the stars to line up between hunger pangs, good food sources, and tourist locations was nigh on impossible. We ended up eating soft pretzels and wrapped sandwiches most of the time.
- My top indulgence of the weekend? Reading a WHOLE chapter book in bed with my girl, all the way until she fell asleep.
- My favorite memory of the weekend? A happy little sprite hopping down the sidewalk on 5th Ave under her umbrella, singing to herself and jumping over puddles. It was truly all that my Cecilie Girl is.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The Notebook
Ha - not the movie. Fab chick flick, but what I've got for y'all today is so much more than popcorn & Kleenex.
Anyone else have boxes of journals packed away? The ones with locks and heart-dotted-i's from your elementary years? The hundreds of spiral bound notebooks from high school, where the i's start being dotted by tears, and the angry capitals sometimes rip through a page here and there? The college journals that might be leather-bound graduation gifts, containing complicated prose, experimental poetry, and still the angry capitals?
Yep, thought I wasn't the only one.
Have you looked at them recently? How'd that go? I smile over some entries - the first time I heard the Beatles, for example, at the age of 11 and they Rocked. My. World. Some still make me cringe, and yes, some still make me weep. Somehow I am mostly able to forgive myself much of my youthful ignorance. Looking back I see how poor my judgement was at times, and in other spots I am actually impressed with a few of the smarter decisions that still seem to make sense to me.
But something that each and every one of my old journals has in common is the sheaf of empty pages at the end. Some journals are almost 90% blank, and often those are the ones where the pages that are filled are so raw I just couldn't live that pain for a whole book's worth.
My girl Heather over at the Extraordinary Ordinary wrote about those empty pages this week. A powerful, powerful post on misspent youth, mistakes that we can't forgive ourselves, and the redemption offered to us by the blank pages, and the people who will finally help us fill the pages. (Hint: their capitals are a little wobbly still.)
Heather's post may not suit everyone out there - maybe you've forgiven yourself everything, maybe you filled all your pages, and continue to write the New You every day? If so, well done - keep it up. But this one is for those of us who find the idea of redemption compelling, and for those of us with the blank pages everywhere.
Anyone else have boxes of journals packed away? The ones with locks and heart-dotted-i's from your elementary years? The hundreds of spiral bound notebooks from high school, where the i's start being dotted by tears, and the angry capitals sometimes rip through a page here and there? The college journals that might be leather-bound graduation gifts, containing complicated prose, experimental poetry, and still the angry capitals?
Yep, thought I wasn't the only one.
Have you looked at them recently? How'd that go? I smile over some entries - the first time I heard the Beatles, for example, at the age of 11 and they Rocked. My. World. Some still make me cringe, and yes, some still make me weep. Somehow I am mostly able to forgive myself much of my youthful ignorance. Looking back I see how poor my judgement was at times, and in other spots I am actually impressed with a few of the smarter decisions that still seem to make sense to me.
But something that each and every one of my old journals has in common is the sheaf of empty pages at the end. Some journals are almost 90% blank, and often those are the ones where the pages that are filled are so raw I just couldn't live that pain for a whole book's worth.
My girl Heather over at the Extraordinary Ordinary wrote about those empty pages this week. A powerful, powerful post on misspent youth, mistakes that we can't forgive ourselves, and the redemption offered to us by the blank pages, and the people who will finally help us fill the pages. (Hint: their capitals are a little wobbly still.)
Heather's post may not suit everyone out there - maybe you've forgiven yourself everything, maybe you filled all your pages, and continue to write the New You every day? If so, well done - keep it up. But this one is for those of us who find the idea of redemption compelling, and for those of us with the blank pages everywhere.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
It's a DownHome Revival over here, I tell ya
Lars had a friend over today, who wanted to watch 'that seal movie.' The kids proceeded to empty the entire cabinet of DVDs in search of the elusive Norwegian-translated-to-English TV series Lars the Polar Bear. Tricky bit being that we have one movie only in Norwegian/Swedish/Danish, and then one film that is actually in English. The kids unearthed the non-English one. Following conversation ensues:
Cecilie: Oh no, not that one Lars, it doesn't come in American.
Lars: Well we can make it the language he knows.
C: Which language? Catholic?
L: [laughing] NO WAY, he doesn't know Catholic!!
C: Sure you do, J, you're like a Catholic kind of guy, right??
On Sunday, Lars sat in church with us, looking for relevant things about which to chat quietly with Mommy during the sermon. Mommy! Look at this! [in a loud almost-whisper, pointing to his Polo-insignia'ed shirt] It's the Lamb of God!
Before you get very alarmed by my children's theological education, Lamb of God is the school Cecilie attended last year, with a very distinctive logo. Let's go for a visual on this one, shall we??
Exhibit A:
Exibit B:
It is no secret that I think The Lamb of God School is about as good as elementary education gets. So I think, actually, I'm happy that my little guy sees the Lamb of God instead of Ralph Lauren's total world domination. Bless his cotton (non-Polo) socks.
Cecilie: Oh no, not that one Lars, it doesn't come in American.
Lars: Well we can make it the language he knows.
C: Which language? Catholic?
L: [laughing] NO WAY, he doesn't know Catholic!!
C: Sure you do, J, you're like a Catholic kind of guy, right??
On Sunday, Lars sat in church with us, looking for relevant things about which to chat quietly with Mommy during the sermon. Mommy! Look at this! [in a loud almost-whisper, pointing to his Polo-insignia'ed shirt] It's the Lamb of God!
Before you get very alarmed by my children's theological education, Lamb of God is the school Cecilie attended last year, with a very distinctive logo. Let's go for a visual on this one, shall we??
Exhibit A:
Exibit B:
It is no secret that I think The Lamb of God School is about as good as elementary education gets. So I think, actually, I'm happy that my little guy sees the Lamb of God instead of Ralph Lauren's total world domination. Bless his cotton (non-Polo) socks.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Millions of peaches
Day 2 of the weekend finds the intrepid Nilsens deep in the peach orchards. Is there any plan for bushels of fruit? Indeed there is not, but the memories, honey, just think of the memories.
Just one more. And one more. And one more! We had to quit eventually (one time we got stuck with $60 worth of peaches.) It's unanimous: onward to the blackberry bushes then.
Deep in the thickets we find a not-altogether-subtle allusion to the Garden of Eden. The kids' imaginations were less consumed with allegory and more with whether the snake would Eat Daddy. (For the record, we are reliably informed it was a common black snake, relatively harmless, but ENORMOUS. Really. Like, 6 feet long. Maybe 20. Or so.)
Lars makes the executive decision to haul his sisters out of harm's way in the Radio Flyer.
And is handsomely rewarded for his efforts. (This is one of the rarest photos in Christendom, ladies & gents, please ooh and ahh appropriately.)
Annika decided to give her lovin' to her mama, a port of refuge in the storm of enthusiastic siblings.
The trick with peaches is to know when to stop picking them. They are so beautiful and so scrumptious, so alluring and so easy to pick and heck - suddenly you find yourself with 20 lbs of peaches and no deep freeze.
Deep in the thickets we find a not-altogether-subtle allusion to the Garden of Eden. The kids' imaginations were less consumed with allegory and more with whether the snake would Eat Daddy. (For the record, we are reliably informed it was a common black snake, relatively harmless, but ENORMOUS. Really. Like, 6 feet long. Maybe 20. Or so.)
Lars makes the executive decision to haul his sisters out of harm's way in the Radio Flyer.
And is handsomely rewarded for his efforts. (This is one of the rarest photos in Christendom, ladies & gents, please ooh and ahh appropriately.)
Annika decided to give her lovin' to her mama, a port of refuge in the storm of enthusiastic siblings.
At Grandma and Grandpa's
We call it the Riviera, well at least it is south of here...
..and the parks have teeny tiny trains that carry people around for a penny...
...and what glorious people...
...it really is sweet (Kirsten used to ride this train as a kid with her grandpa)...
How can you not feel like a movie star....
or a dashing Valentino to the rescue...
...or a super hero...
...open top vehicles abound...
...even sherpas if you're super sweet...
...and the valets...
...oh the valets... (see how we worked the new debt car in there???)
But even in the Riviera the day must come to an end, and the teeth must get clean.
..and the parks have teeny tiny trains that carry people around for a penny...
...and what glorious people...
...it really is sweet (Kirsten used to ride this train as a kid with her grandpa)...
How can you not feel like a movie star....
or a dashing Valentino to the rescue...
...or a super hero...
...open top vehicles abound...
...even sherpas if you're super sweet...
...and the valets...
...oh the valets... (see how we worked the new 
But even in the Riviera the day must come to an end, and the teeth must get clean.
Monday, September 7, 2009
One final splash at the pool...
With Labor Day the summer is officially over, but what a summer...
We're not sure where he got the idea from, I promise there were no pushy dads involved...
...but somehow Lars got the idea...
...that flips off the diving board would be a great way to go...
No Fear.
His big sister...
...having a somewhat competitive spirit...
...faced her fears...
...and followed suit...
Bless their hearts
We're not sure where he got the idea from, I promise there were no pushy dads involved...
...but somehow Lars got the idea... 
...that flips off the diving board would be a great way to go...
No Fear.
His big sister...
...having a somewhat competitive spirit...
...faced her fears...
...and followed suit...Bless their hearts
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