I Used to Love Weekends ...

I've been trying to stay positive about this weather -- the cold, the wind, the snow. Overall, I'm actually OK with it, even with the roof's ice dam creating an indoor waterfall in my kitchen. Having Dolly (my new dog!!! ... a blog or two to be penned soon) has helped, well, has forced me to learn to bundle up and get outside no matter what Mother Nature is doing. Or maybe it has something to do with my Scandinavian heritage. The cold doesn't bother me so much, really.

It's the never-ending Christmas vacation (and c'mon, it's a Christmas vacation because if it were a 'winter break' it would start mid-winter, like now, not at Christmas), and now it's the never-ending weekend that's doing me in.

I love my kids. I love spending time with my kids. I love being creative and spontaneous and fun. But my kids have an energy that could fuel a nuclear reactor. And, dammit, I've got stuff to do. Yesterday I wore them out at the local (indoor, duh!) swimming pool. Today it was shoe shopping and closet cleaning. Clearly I won't win 'mother of the year' this year. Again. Boo hoo.

Just now my oldest guy needed the computer, this computer, the only computer in our home, to finish his homework, but it's been days since I've been able to sit down in front of it and delete the hundreds of unread emails that have come in over the weekend. So I told him, "No, I have important work to do and you had all day, in fact you had the past four days to do whatever it is you needed to do."

Which is why I threw together this post, which is really about nothing. And it's not important, per se. I figured it's been six months since my last post, and a little more than six months since I promised to write weekly, so it was time to get back on the horse. Again.

So, stay warm, stay safe and stay tuned. Now to those unread emails. Delete, delete, delete.

Cheers!

Diagnosis: A Serious Case of the Lazies

I don't know enough about The Simpsons
to know why, or if, this image is
related to my topic, but I believe it is.
Thanks to my neighbor, Jenny,
and April showers, for the photo op.

The symptoms started Friday, July 12, a full three days ago. An extreme desire to do nothing. Complete boredom with everything. Utter disinterest in accomplishing much.

I chalked it up to the birthday blues. Now, I like birthdays. They beat the alternative, right? Just ask anyone who's been denied. But let's face it, turning 45 was nothing for me like turning 40. At 40, I had all those miraculous pregnancy hormones ricocheting through my body, thinking it was 25 again. Today, I'm facing life as a mom with a very 45-year-old body but a very energetic 4-year-old (not to mention a demanding 6-year-old and prepubescent 11-year-old).

So Friday I coasted. I figured, it was my birthday; I'll be lazy if I want to. But then Saturday and Sunday, and now, Monday, rolled through, and I still didn't feel like facing the daunting projects before me.

Everything we stored in our unfinished basement sits in my dining room, living room and garage, begging to get sorted, cleaned, given away, sold or re-stored when our basement renovation is complete. All three children and sometimes one husband expects to be fed, again and again and again. Letters to a friend studying in Bolivia should be written and mailed. Phone calls, texts, emails should be returned. Baby showers and block parties demand to be planned. Fall PTO projects beg to get jump-started. And then there's the idea of generating income from actual work I could be getting paid to do, if only I'd make the time.

But I want to do none of it right now. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the birthday. I'm getting done what needs to get done, but not much more. I'm calling in 'sick' on everything else with a serious case of the lazies. I sure hope it's just a 96-hour bug, because I'm not a fan of lazy. Ask my kids.

Cheers, friends!

Destruction Junction

I love destroying stuff. I love how a hammer swinging in my hand and the resulting impact it makes upon a deserving piece of matter feels.

So I consider our recent decision to renovate our basement from "unfinished" to "completely and absolutely and without question unfinished" a bit of a rainbow after a series of storms. (Ha ha ... neighbors know what I'm talking about!)

Recently borrowed from my good friend and lawyer, who is also middle guy's Godfather, are a sledgehammer and crowbar, called by my alley neighbor, an accountant by trade, a "persuader." Imagine what Scott Turow could do with all that. 

I know that my job today while Kevin was out of town was to finish emptying the basement of all our stored (and now that I see them spread all around my dining room, back patio, garage and delivered and donated to the Maryville Crisis Nursery's resale shop) mostly unnecessary belongings.

But I had this newly acquired sledgehammer and crowbar. And it's been a long time since I've purposely destroyed something. (Surely I'm destroying one child or another's self-esteem or confidence on a regular basis, but we won't know for sure until they complete their therapy when they're adults, right?)

I bribed myself. Finish emptying these four shelving units, drag them out to the garbage ... then you can know what a crowbar wedged between wall and floorboard feels like, what a sledgehammer swung at older-than-dirt drywall sounds like.

Sweet. It feels and sounds sweet. 

A Confession and a Promise

This starts like a confession: Dear Readers, it's been seven months since I last blogged. During this time, I've often thought about blogging. I've missed blogging. I've often blogged in my head, while running or driving or trying to fall asleep. It's not that I didn't want to blog. It's just that often my blog thoughts were not good thoughts. They weren't wicked or anything. They just weren't that positive or uplifting, and I really try not to be a complainer or whiner (at least in the blogosphere). After all, my life is pretty awesome despite the chaos that I work on loving. A bowl of cherries, if you will.

But seven months have passed. It's been a busy seven months, but that's no excuse to not do something that you enjoy and proves to be a healthy way to relieve stress.

So I'm back. Heck, my 11-year-old son is blogging now, and he's taught me something in his writing. It's not the number of words that count, it's the message. Shorter is often better.

So, I'm making my promise to myself official right here, right now. I'll write at least once a week. I guess that's my penance. I hope you missed me; I missed you.

How the Tooth Fairy Got Hoodwinked

A classic 'disappointed' look.

Our middle guy FINALLY, just days after his sixth birthday, lost his first tooth. Hours later he also lost his second tooth. We're calling it a "two-fer."

I say FINALLY because the "grown up" teeth had already entered the picture and those front two bottom baby teeth had been dangling for quite a while. It was uncomfortable to eat with him.

It's been a four long decades since I first lost a tooth, but I think I 'get' the fear factor. To a six-year-old, losing a tooth, at least the first one, is a pretty scary deal. He might be thinking 'if my tooth can just fall out, and if Uncle JB's hair falls out, what else? Will my eyeball just fall out some day?'

So the Tooth Fairy entered our home again last night. I woke up earlier than necessary this morning worrying, "Did we forget?" So I woke Kevin to get his confirmation that he did indeed take care of the Fairy visit. He had; I caught a few more winks.

Then Toby came in, box of teeth in hand, claiming the Tooth Fairy didn't come.

Well, that woke me up.

I thought quickly and said, "Oh, the Tooth Fairy must've thought you wanted to save those special teeth, so she* left them for you." (Unlike the mean, nasty Tonsil Fairy, who said it was against hospital bio hazardous waste rules that we couldn't take his tonsils and adenoids home with us.)

Toby added, "But she didn't leave me anything."

A quick visit to his room, turning over pillows, a dozen stuffed animals, blankets, pulling out the bed from the wall, sure that the $20 (Tooth Fairy pays big for the first tooth, and when you have a two-fer, well ...) had simply fallen somewhere.

The bill was not to be found. Kevin joined in the search, confused. In desperation, not wanting to let his son down (he looked so genuinely hurt), Kevin grabbed a second $20 bill and planted it between the mattress and box spring and suggested Toby look a little longer.

He found the new money and was thrilled. And only then did he share that in fact, the Tooth Fairy had come. He then pulled out the original $20 from his book case, adding, "See, I hid it over here."

Not knowing whether to scream, cry or laugh, I excused myself and laughed in private. Then I wondered, "What was that boy thinking? What is going through his head? Why would he hide the money, very convincingly lie to us, with very genuinely saddened face, voice, body, demeanor, and tell us the Tooth Fairy had forgotten him.

Those are the questions I plan to take with me to our first therapy visit.

And that, my friends, is how the Tooth Fairy got hoodwinked. Be warned.

Cheers!

*Is the Tooth Fairy male or female? I believe it is male. Kevin, female. Discuss among yourselves.

The Ring's The Thing

It's been, as of today, 15 years since I married my first husband. So we're celebrating big tonight, with him leading our oldest son's baseball practice and me cooking up some spaghetti. Perhaps I'll change out of my yoga clothes and not put on my sleep pants before 7 p.m. 

Such is life after 15 years of wedded bliss and three young sons.

But there have been some gestures.

The man I married 15 years ago sent me a dozen beautiful roses. Romantic, classic.

My lead-by-example inlaws (married 49 years, and counting!) sent a card and called early in the morning.

My 'best woman' (I hated the term 'maid of honor'...how is it an honor being any one's maid?) sent me a congratulatory text message. Thoughtful, modern.

And I visited John, my local jeweler to investigate repairing my wedding ring. Yep, I broke it a couple of weeks ago. Caught my finger in a folding chair that I happened to be folding at the time. It's now oval shaped, although my finger remains round, and the solitaire diamond, although in tact, is bent backwards.

Turns out repairing a 15+-year-old ring that's been smashed is not as simple as you might think. Turns out that a decade and a half of cleaning as well as swimming in chlorinated pools with the ring on has made the gold band very fragile.

At least the marriage is stronger than the ring, which is really the point of this 'happy anniversary' blog. (Romantic, modern, right?)

But I can't wrap this up without my favorite wedding ring story from the past 15 years.  Only a year into our marriage, Kevin had a work trip to Las Vegas. I knew he'd spend a fair amount of time out in the sun, as he was training for one of his many marathons, so I had nagged -- I mean, reminded -- him to pack sunscreen and to use it.

When I got home from work, I noticed his sun screen still on the bathroom sink. So later that evening when he called, I believe I said, "I have a bone to pick with you," or, "I'm some kinda mad." Anyway, the rookie says, "Oh, yeah, I know, I left my wedding ring on the dresser."

What? You went to Las Vegas without your wife or your wedding ring? Forget about the sun screen.

Happy anniversary, Kevin!

Good Grief!

Good. Grief. Good, grief. Good grief!

As they say, punctuation matters.

I was brought up in a world, or at least in a culture, in which grief is not a shared emotion. I came to believe that was a good thing.

Be strong.

Have faith, or Faith, if you prefer.

Remember it it not your will but God's will.

I heard those phrases during many a crisis ... parents' deaths, fertility challenges, fleeing Manhattan after 9/11. And I believed them.

I live in that same world now as an adult, a world in which we give very little credence to grief, in which there's all but a note in our i-calendars that says, "OK, time to move on."

Grief has been on my mind for a week now, since the unexpected death of a neighbor and friend, the dad to two of my boys' friends. Of course, I've been very sensitive to what my boys are feeling and thinking. So I keep asking them about what they are feeling and thinking. Then my oldest snapped at me, "Why do you keep asking me about this? Leave it alone."

That's when I realized it was my grief I was trying to get my son to feel, to express. He may or may not grieve. As long as he supports his friend, he doesn't need to, I suppose. But I need to, and I've sensed that many in our community need to as well.

I need to grieve a little more publicly than usual. Hence, this blog entry.

But as usual, my sons bring a much-needed lightness to me when dealing with dark issues. Last night at dinner, after Kevin, Luke and I returned from the memorial reception for our friend, the youngest grilled his Dad on death. "How many sleeps until you die? Until mom dies? Until I die?" And it kept coming back to the simplest thing for the little guy. "But who would fix me breakfast?"

While their self-centeredness drives me crazy at times, it saved us on this tough subject. Because I feel safe in assuring the boys that there will always be someone to take care of them. When they are as old as we are, they will have friends and perhaps their own children to do it, just like my boys take care of me and shine their light all around on those dark days.

Cheers! La Chaim!
 

A New Kind of Soccer Mom

If only my husband and eldest son had not laughed maniacally at the mere invitation from a new gal pal that I join her newly forming soccer team, I might not have even considered it.

But when you laugh at The Mom, you will suffer The Consequences.

In this case, they will be required to attend every Friday night game, just like I've attended nearly every Saturday morning soccer game for years for my oldest, and countless baseball games.

Their laughter is not without warrant. Not only have I never played soccer, or any team sport for that matter -- in my life -- I am simply not athletic. Most friends and acquaintances know that I've run five marathons and countless shorter distance races over the past 20-plus years, as well as completed a couple of triathlons and duathlons. But friends who know me well, know that I run only because I'm not coordinated to do much else.

Karen's Recipe for Running:
1. put one foot in front of the other, quickly
2. repeat

Race medals ... perhaps soccer medals
will adorn my basement walls next?

But a fellow baseball/t-ball mom said she was putting a team together to play in our sleepy suburb's women's league and assured me 'no experience necessary.' In fact, she wrote in her recruiting email, the league is "really just an excuse for spry women well out of their college years to laugh a lot and then drink on Friday evening."

She had me at 'spry.' I mean, I've never been called spry before, and I was flattered. And as the saying goes, flattery will get you everywhere.

I just hope it doesn't get me a trip to the ER.

Bucket List-Making Time



My boys looking down on creation (from Sears/Willis Tower).

A wide berth exists between the 'great' ideas in my mind for my Chaos blog and my mediocre execution on paper, or, more precisely, on screen, of these ideas.

The ideas pop up several times a day -- often after surviving a Poison Control scare or while enjoying momentary peace on a child-free run or when experiencing a evanescent moment of clarity brought on by a glass of really good wine.

But while the ideas come and go, time only goes. And goes fast. Rearing children makes for long days but fast years, as my husband likes to say.

I once told a friend who asked why I wasn't blogging more regularly that I either need inspiration or I need time. If I have the time, I will find the inspiration. If I have the inspiration, I will find the time.

That is true for everything it is we want to do in life but just don't get around to it.

Which is why a bucket list is in order. I'm looking back on 44 years today. Yep, this is my birthday blog. And I'll cry if I want to.

No, just kidding. We're going to keep this light, per usual.

But lately I have been reminded of the tenuous nature of this thing we call 'life.' What is normal and good, albeit often challenging, today, can be gone tomorrow.

So before I'm "looking down on creation" permanently, I'm going to pull that bucket list together, but not until the round of golf my husband promised me for my birthday. (Ok, #1 on bucket list -- learn to golf.)

Fore!

Puberty? Again? And Again, and Again?

God help me. Puberty the first time, that being my own, was terrible enough. I mean, it's been 30 (plus?) years, and I still remember how terrible it was.

As a parent of a 10-year-old boy (and two more younger ones), it has dawned on me that I'm going to have to go through it at least three more times.

God help me.

I realize I probably have it easier, as a mother of three boys than a mother of three girls. Really. I get it.

Still, I'm not liking what's happening in this house. The moods. I'm not talking about mine. We're all pretty used to mine. I'm talking about Son One, the one who sorta smells, the one who thinks I'm a total idiot. The one who is eating me out of house and home.

One minute, he's a happy-go-lucky fourth grader; the next, he's a brooding, sulking punk.

One day, he's begging me to drive him to and from school; the next, he's shooing me away when I creep up in my swaggerwagon in a downpour. Oh, is that a GIRL you're walking with, in the rain? My bad.

Harry Potter and the Hunger Games are put away on the bookshelf. But I find a Spanx catalog under his pillow?

So I tell the dad, the husband, about these developments.

He says, "It sounds like it's time to have The Talk." I correct him. "It's time that YOU have The Talk."

We discuss whom we can go to for advice on how, when to do this. We decide maybe one of our closest friends, who's so far gotten three of four of his kids through puberty, might just want to give our son The Talk. But that doesn't seem right, to delegate The Talk.

In a conversation the other day about why Son One couldn't see a particular movie, the word "sex" came up. Father/Husband asked, "Do you know what 'sex' means?"

Son One says, sheepishly, "Yaaayyh." I prod, "Ok, what?" He answers, "It's when people are kissing in bed."

OK. I'm good with that. Yep, that's what it means when your are 10 years old. That's all you need to know. Until the book, How to Talk to Your Kids About Sex arrives from Barnes & Noble.

I'm a sucker for those parenting books. They look good on my bedside table.

Good luck out there!

Who's in Charge Here?

I have a book next to my 'reading chair,' a.k.a. my 'clothes-awaiting-folding-and-putting-away chair,' titled "Who's the Boss?" It is subtitled, "How to Regain and Maintain Your Parental Authority When Kids Rule the Roost."

After yesterday's shenanigans, I think I'd better move it up my reading list, because the day was not pretty from a parenting standpoint.

First there was the half-naked almost-3-year-old son dancing on my yoga blocks. I posted a (discreet) photo on my Facebook status, prompting my husband to later ask why our youngest son didn't have on any pants. I explained that he had taken off his own underpants and was trying on undies from one of his older brother's dressers. He's pull them on and say "See, they fit," when of course, they didn't. Then he would say, after every try-on, "I'd better put these back or Tob'll get ANGRY."

So after trying on about 10 pairs, he just decided he didn't need any at all. He found an old broken set of headphones, placed them on his head, pulled out my yoga blocks from my dusty 'fitness paraphernalia basket,' and started demonstrating his finest Solid Gold moves.

I put away the work I was attempting to do, got some pants on the boy, and played puzzles with him. Figured if this were a cry for attention, I'd better give him some.

Later in the day, this same son came in from playing outside. This time, he had on pants but nothing else. Yes, it's a warmer-than-usual winter, but clothes are still required for outdoor play. I asked why he took of his coat, hat, shirt, mittens, socks and shoes and he said that the slide was "slippier" this way. It was then I noticed one of our many snow sleds on top of the garage. Fun, in his mind, and catastrophe in mine, was clearly avoided, so I'll put this in the win column.

Only a few hours later there was a knock at my front door. Opposite me stood one of my oldest son's buddies. I was certainly glad to see him but was confused when he told me why he'd walked home from school with Luke. "Toby called this morning and said it was ok with you that I come over."

Well, of course, I always enjoy Luke's friends to come over to play. But why, and when, exactly, was the middle guy making calls and setting up his older brother's social life for him?

My husband of course had the same question when I told him about my day. "Where were you?" he rightly asked. "I was standing right there," I countered. "He'd asked me to help him call Papa and Grandma, and I showed him how he can scroll caller ID to find their number. God only knows who else he may have called this morning!"

Clearly it's time to up the parenting during the day here. So if I don't return your call, your email, or update my Facebook status for the next few months, know that I'm trying to pay a bit more attention around the house here, and I have a few parenting books to devour.

I may be the same woman I was when I woke up yesterday, but, kids, there's a new sheriff in town.

In the words of Rihanna, "I'll drink to that." Cheers, my friends and happy weekend.

TJ's new PJs

TJ's new PJs are purple with decorative birds.  I know the design is intended for girls. But he doesn't. He says he's 'warm and cozy,' and has been begging for 'footie' pajamas for weeks. They're hard to find in a 5T. But Costco had a table-full of Carter's footie flannel pajamas yesterday when we made a quick stop for the essentials (eggs and wine).

My first stab at the dinosaur, pirate and sporting-themed designs netted me about 20 pairs in 3T and another 15 in 6 months. Neither was going to work. 

So I dug deeper, trying not to make too much of a mess (I worked retail once; I know how it goes). The sign told me I had a chance: Carters One-Piece Pajamas, 6mos-5T, $7.99.

My second go of it netted me another few dozen 3Ts and several 18-months. Finally, a dinosaur 4T and the purple, birded 5T. I held up the 4T to TJ's back. Nope, way too small. The 5T was going to fit perfectly.

"But those are girl ... ," Luke started before I shot him one of my shut-your-pie-hole-before-I-shut-it-for-you looks.

"I love them," said TJ. "Can I wear them now?"

I figured for $8, if after only two weeks he decided they were too girly, I'd send them on their way to our pint-sized niece. But for now, the boy is warm and cozy. 

Which melts my heart.

Happy new year! Stay warm, stay cozy.



Where's Your Crisis Nursery?

The little guy loves his time on the farm.

The irony of it was not lost on me when I had to bug out of a Maryville Crisis Nursery tour a few minutes early so that I could drive the two-and-a-half hours north to the nearly-half-way point between my home and my inlaws' farm to pick up my 2-year-old.

That was just after Halloween.

Eight weeks later, I'm readying myself for another trip to pick up the tot. I admit to getting pretty greedy this time. Eight weeks ago, Andy spent three nights with grandma and papa simply because we'd met at our half-way point for another purpose and it seemed like a good idea to 'take a break.' Plus, it meant Halloween night for our two older boys without the stress of having to get 'the baby' down by 6:30 p.m. and then worrying every time the door bell rang.

This time, it's been four nights for my little break. It was going to be three nights, but then I realized how much more I could get accomplished during these fast, last days leading to Christmas, without Andy underfoot. And I had a timing challenge on our originally scheduled day. How was I going to drive the five-plus hours to get there and back and still be back in time to pick up the middle guy from his standard two-and-a-half-hour preschool day?

So I asked for the extra night, and my wish was granted. And did I EVER accomplish great things with my extra day (mostly sorting out/wrapping Christmas gifts that have been shoved into a crawl space, the only hiding space I think is still unknown to the boys.)

I consider my inlaws my "crisis nursery." When I'm drawn in too many directions or simply feel I'm getting sucked into a vicsious parenting undertow, I know I have dependable and loving people in my life who will throw me a lifeline and keep me afloat.

I'm so lucky to have these generous people in my life.

Many parents are not as lucky, which is why the Maryville Crisis Nursery opened five years ago. Whether their crisis is like mine (but x10) -- or one of a more dire nature, such as hospitalization of a parent or sibling, some parents have no one they trust to care for their children.

I first discovered Maryville Crisis Nursery nearly five years ago when we'd moved (back) to the area and (incorrectly) thought we were done having children. I was looking for a worthy place to take all my old baby gear, and discovered the nursery, which could either use my stuff in its facility or sell it at its resale shop.

Halloween without the youngest brother. Scary.

Many parents are not as fortunate. Many parents have no one to care for their young children if tragedy, simply a hard turn, or plain-old exhaustion befalls them.


They may be single parents, young parents; they maybe parents who are trying to stay away from trouble that seems to come knocking at their doors on a regular basis. They may be parents just like me, but with no one to depend on. It doesn't matter. They are parent who care deeply, who love their children enough to know they need a little help.

They're parents, just like me, a Mom who needs a little help from time to time, no matter the reason.

I soon learned the the Maryville Crisis Nursery:

• is a short-term shelter for children when parents are in crisis
• provides care at no cost to families
• is the only crisis nursery in Chicago and one of only six in Illinois
• can show that 98% of families who use the Crisis Nursery indicate they are better parents through its use
• have had  more than 3,000 admissions since it opened its doors five year ago.

I'm so very thankful that my inlaws can take care of any (and sometimes all) of my children when I need them to. I'm just as thankful for the Maryville Crisis Nursery to provide the same comfort to other parents. That's why our family chooses to support Maryville Crisis Nursery.

Cheers, and happy holidays!

Getting to the Art of the Problem

When my oldest was little, and for the nearly five years he was an 'only,' every art project his brilliant, creative hands and mind engineered was a Picasso. Sometimes we could even determine what it was 'meant' to be (unlike most Picassos, which leave me scratching my head).

Many of his Kindergarten and 1st grade creations are framed and adorn our otherwise art-less walls.

But then more "art" came home from school. While the "art" didn't really improve much in the past few years, we added two children to our family, both of whom create equally beautiful one-, two- and three-dimensional artworks at preschool and with their talented babysitters. That's a lot of art.

I view them; I appreciate them. Entering any of my children's bedrooms, you will walk into a gallery of beautiful, unique and often curious works. What doesn't get Scotch-taped to the bedrooms' walls, I usually toss into the recycling bin. I'm usually narced by Someone. "You're recycling THIS?," Someone cries regularly. So I've had to get sneaky about getting rid of all the artwork, but get rid of it I do.

Do I feel guilty?  A little. I'll get over it. I hope they do too, someday.

To the many artists I am proud to call my friends, cheers! I wonder if your Moms kept everything you created as tots?

"He Didn't Do His Farming at the Tavern"

Earlier this week I dug into the box of family history salvaged from my mother's place when she died nearly five years ago. I'd never bothered to look at it before Wednesday, the day before my 4th-grader's Ellis Island project was due. 

I always work better with a deadline.

My favorite line from a letter written by my Grandma Anderson, when my Mom and I were compiling the histories more than two decades ago, was the one about my Great Uncle Jack Martin, who, according to his niece-in-law, my Grandma A., "never lost any money farming because he didn't do his farming at the tavern." I'm not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or simply a slam on the relatives who lost their farms in the Depression and the years following, all who and ended up becoming successful railroad men.

The box is rich with history, although there are a lot of holes I need to fill. I'm hoping an uncle on my Dad's side can fill in the details for the Bennetts, but it'll be a little more difficult for the Thompson/Anderson/Hogle side of the family, as my mother was an only child; her mother had been adopted (although we do have stories of her biological mother, including the one of her stealing my grandmother, forcing my great grandparents to move from Minnesota to North Dakota to try get away from her!); and my grandfather was also adopted, but never legally, after his biological mother died a few month after giving birth to him, her 10th child, in the flu pandemic in 1914; so things are a bit of a mess here).

For Luke's project, I sent him to school with a picture of the trunk, pictured here, that my Great Grandmother Anderson (then a Hansen) brought with her on her voyage, alone, from Norway to America at the tender age of 17. She came in steerage and went through Ellis Island, according to the notes I've discovered.

I also sent with him the same woman's wedding dress. Her actual wedding dress! Why was that in a Sharper Image paper sack in my flood-friendly basement?! Horrors! (I am now in the market for a dress dummy I can use to display this simple but beautiful $6 JCPenny dress worn in 1910 in Ransom County, ND.)

Luke was required to include 'three interesting facts' about his ancestors in his report. He included a story of his great, great, great grandfather (Thompson) who was shot to death and robbed of $300 of gold he'd withdrawn from his bank before walking 28 miles to Fargo, ND, with the intention of buying farming supplies. He included a story of my great great grandfather Anderson, who is said to not even be an Anderson ... that his name was likely a form of Buvick when he came to America but was allegedly told there were too many people already with that name, so he had to change it. We don't know if this is true, but I've heard of similar stories of immigrants having to change their names upon entering the country. And he included the story of my Nora (Hansen) Anderson's emigration from Norway, with said trunk, with a job lined up as a farmer's wife's helper in North Dakota.

So a routine 4th grade project has reignited my interest in my ancestry. Of course, this family tree project will have to get in line, right after pulling together my boys' baby books, cleaning out my linen closet and learning to knit.

Wish me luck. I might just be successful, if I can keep away from the tavern.

Cheers!

Memory Road Trip

Of my most vivid, positive memories of growing up the only daughter and middle (favorite) child of John & Luella, our weeks-long, summer road trips are among my favorites.  Granted, I'm not sure I thought so at the time. My father didn't meet a roadside historical marker he didn't want to stop to see. My mother wouldn't let my father pass a greasy, local diner where she might find a reputable BLT or piece of cherry pie. (This picture is from one of those trips, but none of my folks' slides -- which I recently had digitized -- were dated or marked in any helpful way, so I have no recollection of where we might be.)

These were the days before straight-jacket-styled car seats and booster seats, so my two brothers and I were free to annoy one another in the back seat of our purple-ish Ford LTD (complete with "UffDa" license plates and stickers in the back window of every state we'd visited). Lines were drawn dividing the back seat into three parts, but, with a brother younger than me by nearly eight years, difficult to enforce. We enjoyed the requisite road trip games, including trying to spot license plates from the most 'foreign' state, or, even, crazy as it seemed then, from a province of Canada. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall was sung. A lot. (And no one thought it might be inappropriate at the time.) No hand-held computer games, no cell phones, no I-Pods. Not even much radio, considering all of our trips started in Chicago and ventured west. Lots of dead air there. 

Central Kansas was always on the route, given that's where my father's family was. North Dakota was usually on the itinerary, to visit with the few members of my mother's family. In between these requisite family visits we saw the Badlands, the Rockies, Yellowstone, Mt. Rushmore. I didn't appreciate any of it at the time (just being honest here), but I do now.

What I do remember valuing was staying at various Holiday Inns and Howard Johnsons, where we would eat puffed Cheetos and drink root beer poolside with my Dad. My mother didn't like the water. She'd spent too much time, and money, on her hair to want to ruin it. But my Dad was all about the end-of-the-day swim with my brothers and me. Like most dads of that era, he spent a lot of time at work and not a lot of time doing dad things, non-disciplining dad things, that is. 

Monday would have been his 78th birthday, if he hadn't died too soon at 69. I'm not terribly sentimental, but I am very sorry my sons didn't know him. And I do miss him.

So, to John R., cheers.

A Simple Lesson in Humanity, Or is it Insanity?



Mrs. Mouse, before her parole.

I've come to accept that the occasional mouse in my 100-year-old house is to be expected. I'm even able to swallow my initial scream at the sight of such vermin if my boys are nearby, with the intention of not making them scaredy cats, too.

However, while I've accepted that rodents will find their way in to our home, I will not provide them with unlimited room and board. When identified, they must be, well, evicted.

Which brings us to our recent removal/replacement of a 30-year-old, over-sized basement fridge that led to the discovery of a mouse, of the dead variety. The kind delivery man calmly asked me for a plastic bag, and he disposed of the corpse. I didn't give it another thought.

... Until later that day when I started down the basement stairs only to be met with an excited, confused, grieving Mrs. Mouse. I called to Toby, my middle guy, who was nearby, to share my excitement.

"She's soooo cuuuuute," he responded, "can we keep her, you know, as a pet." [read: because Dad won't let us get a dog.]

Me, "Oh, yah, she is cute, you know, but, I really don't think she'd be happy in a cage. Why don't we help her get home, to her mouse friends?"

To the garage I went, where, miraculously, I remembered we'd left the Live Mouse Trap, given to me a decade ago by the woman after which my parents named me, when we were plagued by mice at a previous home. Karen died many years ago, and we'd moved many times since the original mouse problem. Never had the heart to tell her that we poisoned the life out of those mice, but I also never had the heart to get rid of the "Humane Mouse Kit."

Seriously. The packaging on this contraption includes, "Teach peace. Be Nice to Mice!" Also fun is the illustration of a mouse peeking out of a traditional mouse door and the words, "Mommy, must we kill the mouse?" ... "No, Honey. The world is big enough for all of us."

So I recently made a trip to an undisclosed location just outside my sleepy suburb, where we released Mrs. Mouse.

Live long and prosper, Mrs. Mouse. Just don't come home to visit any time soon.

Returning for a Bite of the Big Apple

Somehow I had managed to not return to New York City, a city I 'heart,' but a city I fled just as soon as my employer could get me a rental car after the horrific events of 9/11 ten years ago. 

At first I simply couldn't. I didn't want to leave the safety of my townhouse, which we were readying for the birth of our first child. I didn't want to travel anywhere, much less to the epicenter of the nation's worst (current generations') nightmare. I was scared. And like everyone else, I was sad and even a little shell-shocked from what I witnessed that otherwise-perfect fall Tuesday morning.

Like most of us, I got over it. When conversations turned to the attacks, sometimes I shared my story, but sometimes I was just so bored of it I couldn't imagine anyone would want to hear it. I still tear up or worse when I catch news coverage or when I quietly and truly reflect about all our country and our world lost that morning.

But still I didn't go back. It started to become a 'thing.' Kevin would suggest I join him on many of his NYC trips for work, and I always had a good reason why I couldn't (starting with one, then two, then three children).

As this much-hyped 10th anniversary approached, I decided I would return. Whether it would be an emotional, gut-wrenching journey or simply a great couple of days and nights in the Big apple, it would be done.

So last month, with the boys under the loving care of my generous in-laws, we caught an early morning flight. I spent my time in the air reading a Fodor's history of Manhattan, which gave me wonderful perspective of my walking tours the next few days. While I'd been to NYC many times prior to September 2001, mostly for work commitments, I never approached it like I did this time, with eyes, arms and heart wide open.

The morning started with a walk to The City Bakery for pretzel croissants (the maple-bacon biscuits were sold out) and gazpacho. Yummy. I was back in love already. Kevin left for his meetings, and I started my journey uptown, to the Museum of Modern Art. Six floors of art! Looking out the windows was a feast for eyes alone. 

So far, all I felt was excitement and gleefulness for my good fortune to be out-and-about in NYC. I started to walk back toward Gramercy Park, where we were staying, but stopped at the Lego Shop at Rockefeller Center. I asked the clerk why they were cordoning off the plaza. Was someone really famous coming to NBC? No, in fact, he explained, there was 'a jumper.' Someone was about to jump off the building. Why, I asked were thousands of people standing around with their cameras, then? Sick! Just 10 years ago people were jumping to avoid being burned alive, and now this sad soul was jumping, and worse, people were standing around waiting to capture it on the cell phone cameras? (A New Yorker friend of mine said that things weren't so bad, that before 9/11, people would have been shouting "jump!")*

I moved on, enjoyed a great evening of drinks, dinner and grown-up conversation with Kevin and his team, then started our next morning with a run to and around Central Park, wondering why we didn't live there. We stood at the bar at Antica Bottega del Vino for a creamy, very traditional cappuccino, then a little bit later enjoyed lunch, if you can call it that, at Doughnut Plant in Chelsea. Carrot cake, coconut creme, creme brulee, chocolate chip cookie. This was no Dunkin'.

Then it was time to visit Ground Zero. To take in as much of the city in as short of time as we had, I insisted we walk from our hotel to Ground Zero. It was also because I was very intimidated by the subway system. Above ground, I don't get lost. So we managed to take in most of Mid and Lower Manhattan's highlights as we strolled to the memorial site.

At the memorial preview site, we read individuals' stories and viewed a chronological photo and video essay of the morning's events. I cried, just a little cry. We made a modest contribution to the memorial fund, peaked at the beautiful fountains, still under construction then, and it was done. It was moving and cathartic to stand on those streets and bump elbows with a menagerie of the human race. But it was done.

It is done. New York City is as wonderful as its advertising claims. I look forward to many happy returns.

Peace.

*The man did jump, but I'm happy to report that NYC's rock star firefighters caught him.

Camp Mom Closes for Season

Whew. Summer's over.

I know there's an entire month of meteorological summer ahead of us, but as my only school-aged child left to meet his 4th grade teacher this afternoon (and the preschooler started last week), summer is over at our house. This means that Camp Mom is now officially closed.

Like parents everywhere, I have mixed emotions about the start of another school year. I'm sad to see go the lazy days when we had no particular place to be at any particular hour. The sometimes impromptu, often loosely pre-planned, picnics, playground outings, museum visits, swimming excursions, bike rides to DQ, train rides to nowhere in particular ... I will miss those.

I'm also not sad to see them go. Because at my core, despite my desire to embrace this chaos that is my life, breathes a woman who thrives on structure.

And the school year, with its four Rs -- reading, 'riting, 'rithmitic and rules, gives us structure.

And, honestly, it gives me a break for a few hours. Because the thing with three boys at home, if you take one of them out of the equation (we're back to 'rithmitic), the two remaining boys get along so much better. It does not matter which boy, or factor, if you will, is removed, the outcome remains the same. A little bit of sanity. Of peace ... no quiet, but peace.

Which is good, because while I was running (and enjoying) Camp Mom this summer, I woefully neglected a few responsibilities around here. So I'd better get back to them now.

Cheers to a happy and productive school year for children and parents (and all of you who put up with us)!

Celebrate Good Times, C'Mon!

So it's my birthday and the 1st anniversary of my blog.

TJ & Luke get along, if only for my birthday.

I started Chaos is the New Calm to meet a need I had for a certain creative release, even a level of mental discipline, lacking in my life. Days filled with laundry, meal planning, prep and cooking, cleaning, and, ultimately, caring for three small boys was making me a bit cranky, and I did not want to be a cranky person. So this blog was born to help me embrace the life I was leading, not the life I thought I should be living.

Though I sought order in my life, chaos was the norm. I gave up fighting it, embraced it and made it my calling card.

Andy enjoys today's picnic.

Today was no exception. Years ago I might have pouted or whined about not being wined, dined and otherwise catered to on my birthday. I think birthdays are a big freekin' deal, whoever is celebrating, and whatever birthday is being celebrated.

My day was chaotically awesome. The boys and I hit the gym early (where I got a workout and an awesome massage, just what the doctor ordered after a 3-week-long respiratory infection); we had a picnic at a local park, created DQ-enviable sundaes at home (on a Tuesdae, TJ pointed out), napped, hit the pool with our long-term b-sitter, Christine, followed by dinner at Noodles & Co., found a flower arrangement at home, left by my husband who was busy with in-town board meetings, dinner and other work chaos all week and read numerous text and FB messages from friends far and wide. After the little guys' baths and stories and bedtimes, Luke & I enjoyed the first hour of the sixth Harry Potter film (we've never seen them but are trying to get them all in before Friday's big game).

Life, and this birthday, are good and worth celebrating.

Cheers!