The Chipotle Halloween Deal (and you know I love me my Chipotle)

Anyone who knows me, knows I love me some Chipotle.  Love.  Love.  Love.  As in really can't ever eat too much of it, love.  And over the past few years, Chipotle has been well-known for giving out free food if you showed up dressed as a burrito on Halloween.

Oh the tinfoil that went into those costumes.


I have seen tons of people tweeting about it, Facebook-ing about it, and actual real people talking face to face about it (I know, novel, right?).  But so far, everyone I have encountered is still under the impression that this deal is still on.


The bad news?  It's not.


The good news?  While the new deal isn't as cheap (or free) at it's core it's really a better deal.


This year, if you head to Chipotle after 6:00 p.m. on Halloween (that is October 31 for those of you in parts of the country that have trick or treating tonight) dressed up as a horribly processed food you can get a burrito, tacos, bowl or salad for $2.

Where it gets really good is that they are donating proceeds (up to $1 million) from the night's sales to Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution.

So dig through the recycling and see what you can come up with.

Happy Halloween.




And nope, Chipotle has no idea I am writing this post and isn't paying me a penny.  Not even in chips and guacamole.  Indeed, that is how much I love them.

Nothing is that important

I was all ready to write about Halloween and how schools are in a tough spot with the whole costumes or no costumes thing.  Candy versus no-candy.  The: Is Halloween a formerly semi-religion-related day and so we need to call it Spirit Day at school?  Is a magic wand really a weapon?  I had the post semi-written in my mind.


And then I stopped at Target before work.  You know, because you can only squeeze so much toothpaste out of a totally flat tube and so much hair gel out of a dry tube.  Emergency run or the Snyders weren't going to look or smell very good this weekend.


On my way out, I stopped in to the restroom.  No worries, no over-sharing ahead.

I heard a woman enter the bathroom, walk into the stall next to me and proceed to dial on her phone.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.  Please don't do this.  Please tell me you have more sense than that.  Please tell me you are not.  Oh yes you are.

Hey, it's Kate.  Sorry for the noise.  Just in the bathroom at Target.


What is going on tonight?


She did what?

Oh man, this one is out of toilet paper, hold on a sec while I get the new roll down.


What I can't hear you, there are people using those insane dryers.

No , [laughing] that is the lady next to me. [note: not me, I was using the insane dryers]

I know, I know, I always say that on my tombstone they are going to write, "I. Will. Call. You. Back. I. Can't. Talk. Now. I. Am. Busy."

What?  Yes, indeed, you are.  Busy doing something that no one in the world needs to be a part of.  Let alone your friend who you might or might not be making plans with for tonight.  And certainly not the rest of us who now feel oddly uncomfortable that our moment in the Target restroom was transmitted through to neurons or protons and cyber bubbles to your friend's phone.


People.  Put the phones down.  Kate, this means you.  I am short on time, too.  I am the queen of multi-tasking.  But let me tell you something, nothing is so important that you need to choose to make a phone call during the 90 seconds you are in the Target bathroom.


Please, stop the insanity.



P.S. We're talking cell phone etiquette over on the Blog Frog Community.  Love to see you there!

Letting the family secret out

Sometimes we need to bring our A Game.  We need to step it up.  To give our families what they need.


Last night was one of those nights.  Brian was traveling.  And for the few hours I saw them over the span of the day, they kids were on edge.  I was on edge.  My car died.  The repair was expensive.  The weather tanked.  My mums flew right out of their pots in the wind and blew all over the neighborhood. Eli threw one two-year-old tantrum after another.  And, and, and.


So I pulled out the big guns.  The dinner I make that seems to put a band-aid on life.  To make it all better.  The meal that wipes away a day of drama and sends everyone to bed happy.


It would be selfish to keep it to myself, so I am going to open the secret family recipe vault and share this miracle dinner with you.

Here we go.


1. Boil water.  Don't watch it, it seriously will take longer.  While it's heating, I encourage you to take a break yourself.   Tonight, it was Diet Coke for me.  Granted I had to wait awhile to enjoy it as I dropped it running up the stairs.

2. Open a giant bag of meatballs that you bought from Sam's Club or Costco.  You know, the kind that fills half of a shelf in your freezer, but was such a good deal you had to get it. 


3. Dump a bunch of meatballs in a second pan.


4. Open a jar of pasta sauce.  Pour it over the frozen meatballs and turn the burner on low.

5. Big step.  When the water comes to a boil, dump spaghetti noodles in there.  You'll need to stir them to get them to submerge.  It's tricky, but it can be done.

6. Cook according to the package directions.  Really, that box knows that it's talking about.


7. While cooking, begin to prepare your Parmesan cheese.  And by "prepare," I mean open.

8. Meanwhile, make sure your kids are appropriately dressed for dinner.  This is a classy meal.  If they are a toddler, this usually means a bib.

If you are really fancy (and smart), it means no shirt under the bib.

If you are a kid like Caleb, this means you are too old for a bib, but still, an undershirt is best.

9.  Get out the cloth napkins.  This is going to be a good one.  And there is always bleach.

10.  Strain the noodles, top with sauce and cheese.

Swirl and enjoy.

11. Of course, be sure that everyone takes their time and takes appropriate sized bites.  And, of course, napkins always go in laps.

And when it's all over, scrape the plates, put them in the dishwasher or the sink and walk away.

Feel good about yourself.  You fed your family.  You made them smile.  You sat down to dinner. 

And that is what counts.

Kissing Cousins - Wordless Wednesday

Someday, they won't believe they both fit inside that teeny foot stool.

Someday, they will be able to pronounce each other's names.

And someday they will no longer be (literal) kissing cousins.

But for right now, I am just going to love all that is these two little cousins who think the world of each other.

Have a Wordless (or wordful) Wednesday? Link up!

You are not a superhero when...

Walking aimlessly around the store, searching for things I didn't yet know I needed, I spotted these:

In the Men's Department.  Yes, the grown up kind of men.


Going out on a limb here.  Sharing an opinion that might be controversial.

But I'll do it anyway.

Don't buy these.

These will not make any man look more manly.  More strong.  More superhero-ish.

They will make you look like an idiot.

Really nothing screams "I have self-confidence issues" like being 40 and wearing Superman underwear.

Not a good look on anyone.

Creepy, really. 

There you go, my good deed for the day is done.

You searched Google for what and landed where?

Not to get all inside-baseball, as I know that most of you reading this are actually not bloggers, but there are some hilariously funny things about having a blog.

I once heard someone say that she doesn't look at her analytics (or web traffic results) for the same reason she doesn't look at the scale.  She doesn't want to know.  I am pretty much the same way.  With one exception, I love to look at them from time to time to laugh.

For instance, just by putting a little Google Analytics code on my site I am able to see exactly what search terms brought people here.  A lot make sense (the #1 search is "Snyder 5") but a whole lot don't.

So just for kicks, I thought I'd look back at some of the most common, yet obscure, ones, where people landed searching them, and respond to them:


"How to wash black socks?"
Well I typically take them off my feet first.  And then I put them in the washing machine.  Add soap, turn it on and walk away.  Aren't you glad you landed on such an expert site?  I mean really, I should have a domestic tips blog.  And for those of you who have been asking "Should I wash black socks?"  Yes.  Please.



"Molly Thacker"
Hellooo ex-boyfriends.  Welcome!  How are you doing?  I could have sworn we were all connected on Facebook.  Well except for that one from 8th grade who ignored my friend request.  But yup, here I am.

"Molly Snyder Mizrahi"
Nope, never met the man.  So most definitely not married to him.  Not even sure he'd be interested.



"Bikini Bread," "How to make Bikini Bread," "Wear a bikini and eat bread"
People, there really is no bread that you can eat and look good in a bikini.  Stop searching.

"Snyders Corn Maze"
I didn't die there.  It was bad, but not fatal.  So no, they didn't name it after us.


"Lice bites on the back"
That is nasty.  And if that happened to you, I am so very sorry.  I am itching just typing that.



"Phantom lice bites"
Yeah, I am guessing those are what I am feeling right now typing about lice.

"Belly buttons for Haiti"
Wow.  Don't know what these people were thinking.  But while the Haitians truly need many, many things.  Belly buttons probably aren't one of them.

"The Snyders 5 ????????"
Sure, I often get people giving me way more credit than I am due thinking I have five kids.  But otherwise we are pretty straightforward.

"Justin Bieber in Sweatpants"
Who in the world searches for that?  Wait, I guess I don't want to know.

"Balance bike for a preemie?"
Now granted our kids had a great experience learning to ride on a homemade balance bike, and I do wish we had started it earlier, but I gotta say that starting the method with a preemie might be pushing it.


"Declutter jerk."
I hope you don't mean me.  But in case you don't, I think the answer is "You don't declutter him, you break up with him."
 
"10 things not to say on an aeroplane"
This one comes up a lot.  And it's always "aeroplane" which makes me think the Europeans are far more concerned about this than we Americans are.  Which is why elderly women are getting hauled off airplanes.


"1950s housewife dream life"
Yeah, you have definitely landed in the wrong place.


"A man rocking a skirt"
You're not going to find that here.  Pretty sure they were supposed to land on Tracy's blog.

"Can fat girls wear skirt suits?"
 I really don't have the answer here.  But the worst part is the people who have searched for this have tended to stick around for over 15 minutes.  I wonder what their answer was after that.  You know what else they search for and stick around from?  "Fat girl skinny boy."

"Can you make styrofoam jewelry?"
I can't.  Maybe you can.  But it sounds kind of ugly.

"Do nuns curse you?"
If you have to ask, they just might.  But I have no idea what I have ever said about the topic.

"How to get rid of 500 pairs of shoes?"
If you are a 7 1/2 or 8 and have good taste, my contact information is in the "Contact Us" tab at the top.


"If you like chipmunks get your hands up, if you like pound cake get your hands up."
I don't even know where to begin here.  What if I just like pound cake?  Can I just put one hand up?

"Prostitute etiquette Craigslist"
Well how nice of you to ask.  Being the considerate john you are... Fortunately, I have never been a prostitute on Craigslist or otherwise, so I can't really help with this one.


"Ralph Lauren + Elitist"
Yes.

"Why does Facebook keep untagging photos?"
I'll let you in on a little secret.  Facebook doesn't.  Your friends are doing that and don't want to tell you. So they blame Facebook.

"Death resulting from watching Scooby Doo."
If it could happen, I have to imagine I am close.

"What does the F word mean?"
Did someone let Noah on the computer?  What in the world...

"Will I get in trouble if I use the F-word?"
Noah.  Get off the computer.

And yes.


If you have written about searches that brought people to your site, please link back here and include your link here.  The linky will be open all week.

The Lost Tortoise - Part II

An open letter to all of you who have landed here because you lost your tortoise:

I am sorry for your loss.  But I don't have your pet.


As I mentioned this morning, I am allergic to most animals (well probably not tortoises, tortoi, tortoisess -- how would one make that plural really?) so we have no pets.


All I can suggest is that, if you indeed have lost a tortoise, perhaps the best way to begin looking for it is not by going to Google and typing in:

I lost my tortoise.

Despite that whole Tortoise/Hare story, I really don't think they are very fast.  And you are losing precious minutes on the internet looking for it when I am pretty sure it's not here.


But don't feel bad.  You are not alone.  I've had a lot of you come looking for your lost tortoi, tortoissses, tortoises here.


In honor of all of you who have joined us while looking for their lost reptiles, I thought I'd go dig into the Google Analytics archives and see what other surprising searches have brought people to the blog.


I'll post the results and my responses to them on Monday along with a linky.  So for those of you who are bloggers, feel free come play along and link up your funny search results come Monday.



P.S. Have you checked out the new Family Community on BlogFlog?  We're having a great time talking about a wide range of topics (including, perhaps, lost tortoi, tortoisses, tortoises.)  And you don't have to be a blogger or a tortoise-loser to join in.  Come visit.

No shedding allowed (with a giveaway)

We are a pet-free home.  I waffle between thinking we are smart and sane and that we are totally depriving our kids of that pet-ownership experience.


But that is another topic for another time.  Long and the short of it is that I am horribly allergic to anything with hair (other than people).  And yes, I know that there are dogs that don't shed.  And yes, those are better for my allergies.  But I am also allergic to dust and mold and pollen and, well, most green stuff, too.  So unless dogs hop themselves in the shower each day, I still end up allergic to them.  If you stopped bathing, I would probably be allergic to you.

Oh yeah, and I really don't appreciate anything that pees on my floor.


I sound like a ton of fun, don't I?


But I digress.  We have no pets.  And so my kids have gotten creative.  They have created entire tribes of rocks, complete with faces and names.  They have made villages of Play-Doh families.  But what they like most of all?


Bugs.

They spend hours looking for, caring for, naming and playing with bugs.

In our back yard, there are truly no stones left unturned, as they turn them, on a daily basis, looking for bugs.

Problem is, they seem to be crossing a bit of a boundary.  The boys have been gradually moving the bugs from "outside pets" to "inside friends."

In just the past week, I have found a bucket of worms on my kitchen counter (want to come for dinner?) and a tub of caterpillars on their desk.

And it's grossing me out.


It just might be time to redirect.

Or to give in.


Maybe we need to get some more fish.

Or maybe, just maybe, I can convince them that Eli is their pet.

P.S. I have a full set of the Insect Lore Buzzerks bug goggles like the boys are wearing to give away.  And not just one set, a set for you and a set for your child's teacher.  Come on over to enter.

Speaking in tongues

I have learned that the rest of my family must speak and understand a different language than I do.  Kind of like Family Pig Latin or Backwards Speak or something. 

Take last night for example.  It started off like this:

I asked the boys:

Why in the world does my car smell like apples?

 We dunno.

Stopping at the gas station on the way home, I asked the boys to clean out any trash near their seats.

Noah promptly handed me this.

So evidently, at our house, "I want to bring an apple in the car" really means, "I want to bring an apple in the car, eat it and leave it there wrapped up in tissues.  And then pretend it isn't there and just hope it decomposes."

We got home and I was making dinner.  I asked Eli what he was playing with.

The owls.  I playing with the owls.

But that also doesn't mean what one might think.  "I playing with the owls" really means "I am going to let Mom think I am innocently playing with my owl magnets like I usually do...

... when really, I have gotten ahold of her phone and am playing with this guy.

(And again, my apologies to anyone who he sent a direct message to.)

I reminded Noah that my floor is not a garbage can and that throwing trash away in the garbage can is really a fine way to handle it.

Nope.  That meant:

Please, throw trash on the floor!  It saves garbage bags!

I asked the boys to clean up their toys from the living room and told Noah to take the Star Wars spaceship to the basement.

Evidently, what he heard is:

Shove it under a chair (not in the basement) and hope Mom doesn't notice.

After that, I found myself asking Eli,

Would you like more food?

To which he responded,

I want another hot dog with more mustard, pleeeeaaaseee!

That really meant:

There is no way in the world that I am actually going to eat another hot dog.  And I might just throw it on the floor. 

 And me saying,

Get in the shower now!

That actually means:

Please run around like a crazy boys in your underwear and make a big mess.  But definitely don't shower.

But they aren't the only ones who misunderstand.


Because at the end of the night, just as I was lamenting all of this to Brian, complaining that I get so tired of repeating myself.  Tired of being frustrated and tired.

He asked how he could help.

Well, you could get that darn spaceship out from under the chair and take it to the basement.

But really, that must have meant:

Put it right next to the antique lamp cause it would look outstanding there.

Learning to Fly

So often in life, we get caught up in what we are supposed to do.


Over-thinking before we act.

Wondering how we will look.

Worrying about possible missteps.

When instead we should just do.

Go.

Fly.

We really need to just fly more, don't we?


Have a Wordless Wednesday? Link up!

The case of the missing tortoise

Laying in bed this morning, cruising through Facebook on my phone while Brian showered...I should stop there for a minute.  Yes, after his alarm goes off and he stumbles off to shower, my wake-up routine is picking up my phone and flipping through Facebook and Twitter.  What can I say, people are funny in the middle of the night (and are a good reminder never to drink and Facebook/Tweet).  But I digress.

One of my friends, who is a passionate animal lover, had a status update worrying about the recent missing pets of people in her neighborhood.  She commented that she was praying for the safe return of the lost "beagle, cats and tortoise."

Somebody lost their tortoise?  Seriously?

I lay there wondering what in the world the back story was. Now mind you, I hadn't had coffee yet, or my thought process might have gone in a whole different direction.

But what was the story?

Really smart tortoise, with abnormally long legs, scales the side of the tank?

Darn kids let the house-trained tortoise out in the back yard and forgot to put the leash on him?

Tortoise with amazing leaping abilities?

Something more sinister?  Cat got jealous of tortoise and buried him in the litter box?

But really, all I could imagine was a family taking the tortoise out back for some good, old-fashioned quality fun.  I get it, I am allergic to all things furry and fluffy, so a pet tortoise that you play with is not outside the realm of possibility.  Strange, but not entirely unbelievable.

But the kids got distracted, as kids do, and ran off to do something else.  And before you know it, a hare shows up.  Not a rabbit, a hare.  And no, I have no idea what the difference is between them.  Some trash talking ensues and before you know it, insults are being hurled and the challenge of a race is thrown out there.

I don't know who won, other than that I was driving in her neighborhood the other day it's possible that I saw the rabbit hare on the street.  And I mean on the street.  And the tortoise no where to be found.


And then I heard the shower shut off.  It was time to put down the phone and get ready for a Tuesday.

But I appreciated the moment of random thoughts before I had to get out of bed.

I really do hope they find their tortoise.


P.S. Speaking of Facebook, I am giving away a meal for two over there today.  And no, I promise it includes neither rabbit hare nor tortoise.  So pop over to enter.

The problem with Q-Tips

There I was, just brushing my teeth, gearing up for another day when the box of Q-Tips caught my eye. 

And as I brushed away, I absent-mindedly read the back of the package.


It struck me as particularly amusing.


This was a box of 750 Q-Tips.  Now when you think about it, that is a heckuva lot of Q-Tips.  And let's just call it what it is, we all know that we use them for all things related to the ear.  Sure you might grab the occasional cotton swab for a project, but people use these fuzzy white sticks for their ears.

I don't really know anyone who has come up with a better solution for all around ear, um, maintenance.


And I know that Q-Tips (and their generic friends) don't really want us using them for the cleaning of the ears.  After all, someone might clean their ears during a moment of intense emotion or aggression and do permament damage.

Or like an old friend of mine who was once cleaning her ears while multi-tasking.  What can I say, she's a mom.  So she was carrying her infant, talking on the phone, walking and, oh yeah, cleaning her ears.  Her child tried to wriggle loose, she dropped the phone, tripped and fell into the door frame jamming said QTip into her ear.  (Sorry, I just cringed writing it, if that helps.)  Yup, she couldn't hear well for a month.

They're cute and little, but those buggers are dangerous.

And I do recall reading a Facebook status update from a friend who is an ER physician and had just come off a shift at the hospital that said something along the lines of, "Come on people!  Q-Tips are for the outer ear only!"


So I get that it's possible to do some damage with those innocuous looking little sticks.

However, I do think it's particularly amusing that, in a solid effort to CYA, they provide you with other possible uses for the 750 Q-Tips you just bought.

You could, perhaps, clean your computer's mouse.  Which is great.  And if you did that once a week this box of Q-Tips would last you approximately 14 years.

While you are at it, you can use the other side to clean your keyboard.  (Or you could just shake it upside down like I do, telling yourself, yet again, that you really shouldn't eat at the computer.)

Eye makeup, sure.  Okay.  Typically I use the brush it came with or buy a nice one.  But in a pinch a Q-Tip could do the deal.

And did you know that they are portable and convenient for travel?  Wow, that would have never occurred to me.  They look so large and unwieldy.

Not sure what the image that looks like a tube of toothpaste is all about.  Last I checked, dentists were recommending toothbrushes.  But maybe that's just ointment.

But baby grooming?  Really?  I mean, my kids were bald and all.  But it never occurred to me to use a Q-Tip to brush their hair.  And even as baldies, I am not sure what brushing a Q-Tip on their hair would have accomplished.  But maybe I am missing something. 

In the meantime, I think I will just hold still and continue to throw caution to the wind, using them for exactly what we are not supposed to.

Seep wiff me

We don't have a parenting philosophy.  Other than skimming "What to Expect When You are Expecting" 10 years ago, I have never really read any parenting books.

I have no issue with having a philosophy, clearly a variety of them work for a variety of people.  I think that there are as many approaches to parenting as there are parents.  I just don't have a defined one.

Sometimes we do it better than other times.

Thinking back, Caleb was a horrible sleeper as a young child.  Took him years to sleep through the night.  We tried a variety of different things.  Rock.  Nurse.  Cry.  Pull hair (ours, not his).  Let him cry.  Wait.

As he got older, we'd find him crawling into our bed each night.  He is an incredibly restless sleeper.  So it was kind of like sleeping with a large dog.  He would flip and roll and turn and kick.  It didn't make for great sleeping.  Pretty crappy sleeping, really.

But through it all, I just kept saying to myself, "He won't want to do this forever.  Soon enough he will be 12 and the last thing he will want will be to come and cuddle with us."

I thought back to those moments two nights ago.  Indeed, Caleb doesn't sneak in to cuddle anymore.  Now, Eli is now the one waking up in the middle of the night.  He is crazy, stealth-like quiet and I am usually awoken by the sound of him standing right next to my bed drinking my water (again, with the dog-like behaviors from our kids).

Inevitably, he has lost a silky or animal and wants me to come, in my sleepy stupor, to find it.

Wednesday night after digging my arm down the skinny crevice of his bed to find the aforementioned silky I started stumble back to my own bed.

He wailed and cried and pleaded with me to come back.  I crawled in next to him and listened as his breathing evened out.  Once I thought he was asleep, I slowly began to sit up to leave, making every effort not to have the bed creak.  In the dark, his soft little hand shot out and grabbed mine.

Seep wiff me.

And while my big bed, my bed not filled with stuffed animals, my bed may have sounded better for getting a good night of sleep...This little bed had a sweet little boy in it.  One who is in a stage where he wants to cuddle with his mom.

Seep wiff me.

And so I did.  And that may go against some very smart parenting philosophy.  But in my little world, the one where I really don't have a plan, it felt right.

Addendum: So I wrote this on Thursday night.  And then at 2:15 a.m. on Friday morning Eli came into our room and got into our bed.  He then proceeded to kick, scream, undress (himself, not us) and demand "Monkey Jammies" (which, by the way, we don't own) for an hour.  Maybe I need a philosophy after all...

I hate homework

I hate homework.  I mean, I didn't love it as a kid.  But as a parent, I really, really hate it.


And here is my confession.  That thing I can't tell the kids.

I don't get why kids need to do it.  Especially young kids.


My older boys are in second and third grade.  And every night they have homework. 

As a parent who works outside the home, their days are, by default, longer than mine.  They get dropped off before we go to work and get picked up after I am done.  It's hard to be the kid who has two working parents (just yesterday we had tears again over why I can't be a chaperone like the other parents). 

When you are a kid and your parents work, you just don't have as much time to just be a kid.

And then we come home and have to dive into worksheets and reading and projects (don't even get me started on the paper mache, more on that soon).


I have written about this before.  Nothing has really changed.  It's still really enough to just about push me over the edge.

Noah hit that moment earlier this week.  All he wanted to do from 5:30 to 6:30 was run and play and throw balls and ride his bike.  But he had this worksheet.  This worksheet that was a thorn in his side. 

(Do you like the wrinkled, ripped part?  Yeah, that was from when he came to ask me a question and set it down on a blob of tomato sauce on the counter.  Welcome to our lives.)

He had to figure out the answers and then write an explanation of how he got to his answer.  This process baffled him.  Why should I have to explain it when I just get it?  He is a pretty logical, straight thinker.  He finds answers and goes after them.  But what the teacher is looking for is for him to answer the "why's" of how he got it.  His answer?  "I just knew how to do it."

Which led to 45 minutes of weeping and whining and worrying and questioning.

Which led to me doing some of that myself.

Why do little kids need homework?

As he asked me that question, I struggled for the answer myself.  The best I could come up with was that maybe it got parents involved in the process and encouraged good work and study habits.

But really, is that what we need?

I am not an educator.  But wouldn't our time with our kids be better spent sitting down to dinner.  Or reading.  Or running around outside.  Or talking.

And I work at all costs to avoid bringing my own work home.  As a grown up, I don't do homework.  When I leave the office, I leave the office. 

I just wish that, more often than not, when they left school they could do the same.

Because I am quite sure that we'd all be happier and more fulfilled if we spent our one quality hour a night together just enjoying one another than explaining the why's behind math triangles.

Wordless Wednesday - The Joy of a Pogo Stick

Caleb has discovered he has a new talent.  He's wicked good on the pogo stick.



I also have some fun news to share about my involvement as a community leader in a new Twin Cities Family Community on Blog Frog.  You can get the scoop on all the details here.

And, of course, if you have a Wordless Wednesday of your own, please feel free to link up!
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That guy in the bleachers

We are huge Northwestern Wildcats football fans.

What can I say, we love an underdog. 

That and we are alums.  During most of the time we were there, they lost.  In fact, until our time there, they hadn't won a Big Ten title sine 1936.  (Clearly we were responsible for changing that.)  So, yeah, we know underdog.

But we went.  Rain, shine or snow.  We cheered.  We sang.  We believed.  We went. 

And then, our senior year, they won the Big Ten title.  And went to the Rose Bowl.

After that, it was even sweeter.  Because, sometimes, they actually won.

Not the Rose Bowl.  But that was okay.  It was, after all, just a game.

But regardless, we watched.  We listened.  We cheered.

Our kids have been raised on Wildcat football.  For better or worse.

A week ago, they were in town playing the University of Minnesota.  We were given four tickets and decided to take Caleb and Noah.

We sat down, in a sea of maroon and gold, to watch the game.  It was Homecoming and we were the visitors.

As we walked in to the stadium we talked to the kids about being "visitors in someone's house" and what that meant.  And that it applied to sports, too.  Just like you wouldn't go into someone's house and yell "I hate you and your cooking!"  The same applied for sports.  Good sportsmanship didn't stop on the field.  It applied to the fans, too.

Within the first few minutes, the Wildcats scored a touchdown.  We all jumped to our feet and cheered.

And behind us, I heard a voice heckling the team.  But not just heckling the team, heckling the fans.  Us.

We ignored it.  But Noah, in his infinite enthusiasm kept clapping.

And then, loud and clear, the man yelled to Noah,

"Oh yeah, sucker!  We'll see how much you'll be cheering later."

This guy had been obnoxious since the start.  You know him.  There is one...  No, not one, sadly there are hundreds of him at every game.

But I couldn't "ignore bad behavior" (as I tell the kids) any more.

I turned to him and laughing, said,

"Really?  He is seven.  You are going to take on a seven-year-old?"

He shrugged and quieted down (somewhat) for the rest of the game.

People.  This is a game.

Sure.  We would have been bummed if they lost. In fact, they did just that last weekend against Purdue.

Teams win.  Teams lose.

It is a game.

But let me tell you, we have been there.  We have stood there soaking wet mourning losses that were double digits to no digits.

And it was still, just a game.

Can we please remind ourselves what sports are about?  I know we will all nod and recognize that guy (or girl) in the stands.  We have all seen it.

I just wish I knew what could be done to stop it.  Or at least make it better.

It's about spirit.  And having something frivolous to "believe" in.  Perhaps blindly.

About history.  And heritage.  And tradition.

About respect. 

About getting out and enjoying a fall day.  About finding joy and excitement in tradition and pride.

And recognizing no one is perfect.  Whether it's a face mask or a holding or a fumble.  No one is perfect.

Now can we sit down and stop heckling little kids.

So we can get back to enjoying the game.

Go Cats.

Corn mazes are highly overrated

If you know me at all (or perhaps if you have been reading here for any length of time) you might guess that hosting birthday parties really isn't my thing.  The kid-friend ones, that is.  I get it that they are special and important and a kind of a I-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine kind of a deal when you are growing up.  But I really, frankly, loathe them.


And yes, I have boys.  And as much as I eschew the stereotypes, boys at age 7 and 9 can get loud and physical and active and messy.  All things I also eschew in my house.


We had kind of ducked birthday parties for a few years.  We had a round of so-so excuses.  Preemie, newborn, opening a clinic, opened a clinic so we're broke, etc.  But it had caught up with us.  Time to get back on the birthday party bandwagon.


I had a few requirements:

1. Not in my house,
2. Not too expensive and,
3. No gift bags.


So we headed to the apple orchard.  Caleb was particularly excited to do the corn maze.  So was I.  I love a good puzzle and with an 85-degree October day (which, yes, is an anomaly in Minnesota) it sounded perfect.

We packed up and headed 40 minutes away to the orchard.  We got there and the boys immediately took off to the hills.  And by the hills, I don't mean the Sound of Music hills, I mean the giant pile of dirt in the parking lot.

Again, this is why I don't do this in my house.

A bit of redirection later and we were running through the Phase III corn maze.  Phase III as in the hardest one.  What were we thinking?  We weren't.  We were racing after 9-year-old boys who had run off ahead of us.  And before we knew it, we were in the hardest maze trying to track 7 boys.

This is about 1/4 of the maze.

After all, it's bad to lose your own kid, it's really bad to lose other people's kids.

It was really fun for about 20 minutes.  Guessing which way to go.  Laughing at ourselves for going in circles.

Less fun after 30 minutes.


No clues.  No maps.

Really, really not fun after 40 minutes.

It was at this point that one of the boys suggested I get out my GPS.  I had to point out to him that GPS typically doesn't account for rows of corn.  He agreed.

And at 50 minutes we were sweaty and ready to be done.  Really ready.

Did I mention it was 85 degrees?  And it didn't occur to us that this would be, well, at all like this.  So the juice boxes were in the car.

At an hour, I caught a glimpse of the parking lot and actually suggested to Brian that perhaps we should break the rules and just dive into the solid rows of corn and cut our way out.

Cooler heads prevailed and we kept on keeping on.

The boys were panting like dogs and I am pretty sure all Brian and I could think was "I need a beer, but I am watching 7 kids, so that would be a mad move, plus all we have in the car are juice boxes."

At an hour and ten minutes we finally found the way out.

And as we walked back to the car, we glanced over to the "Corn Shack."  On the way in, we had both seen this building but just assumed it was a place to buy concessions.  Like, oh, I don't know, corn.

Not tickets.

So imagine our surprise when we realized that we were supposed to have paid for that event.  $9 for adults and $7 for kids.  So for 70 minutes of misery, we could have been out $67.  Normally I would have felt compelled to go make good.  But in my given mood, I confess, I did not.

Now we were almost out of time.  We again corralled the boys off the giant pile of dirt, supplied them with juice boxes and we dashed to the orchard.  We hopped a hay ride.

And let them pick out their own pumpkins (in place of treat bags).

We made it back home, only 30 minutes late.

Our boys were snoring by 7:30.  And both of us were falling asleep on the couch by 9:00 p.m.

However, before he went to bed, Caleb told us that, despite the fact that he doesn't ever need to do a corn maze again, it was "one of the best birthdays ever."

And just for that, I agree.

But I am pretty sure we all also agree that, next time, we can skip the maze.