Sprinkles or buried?

When Caleb and Noah were younger, we had one of those inevitable moments when they first started to really ask questions about what happened when a person died. Not so much the "where do they go" kind of questions, but more along the lines of "so what happens to their body???"

Overall we were rather honest and straightforward with them. Except for one thing. I couldn't quite go there on the concept of cremation. It was just a can of worms I wasn't willing to open. (And yes, sorry for the worm reference, I know it doesn't jive so well when talking about death.) Incinerators and burning bodies and ashes. Shudders. Just too much for little kids. So I just explained to them that you had two choices, you could choose to be buried or you could choose to be sprinkled.


What can I say, my kids like donuts, so that was enough for them. Sprinkled it was. A few weeks later, while Noah sat at lunch at daycare (he was about 3 1/2 at the time), he turned to his teacher preparing to ask a question. The other kids were discussing beans and naps and playgrounds.  But Noah turned and said, as only Noah can, "So when you die, do you want to be buried or sprinkled?"


Last night I couldn't help but think back to that story as I had a chance to be a guest of the Science Museum and tour their King Tut exhibit.

I can't say I know a lot about ancient Egyptian history, but I have long been fascinated by it.


But walking through the rooms of amazing artifacts and stories, you can't help but be struck by how incredibly attentive and focused this culture was on death.

Even King Tut, who died at only 19 years old had rooms and rooms of gold and treasures all for him in his afterlife.


Now I am not commenting on whether people believe there is or isn't an afterlife. Whether you want to be buried wearing your wedding ring or not. Open casket or closed. Or even the question of buried or sprinkled.


What it just got me thinking about the intense focus that the Egyptian culture placed on death. That many cultures do.


Me? Not that you care or should care what I think on the topic, but I for one would much rather be loved in life that revered in death. Cause I am pretty sure that you really can't take it with you.

Then again, I probably don't have to worry too much about that. I am not royalty and I didn't marry royalty (at least not in any official sense, that better Brian?).

For the record, I don't have any plans to go anywhere any time soon. But you can't help but think about it when you are standing over mummies. Pretty sure they never thought a random girl with a laptop would be pondering life's great questions while looking at their 3,000 year old body.


But just in case? I, for one, would like to be sprinkled.

I'm like a Grirl.

Mom! Mom, look at me, I look like a grirl!

A grirl is what he calls girls. And I just don't have it in me to correct him. In fact I kind of hope he calls them grirls forever.

But each night as we get ready for bed he stops just short of taking his t-shirts all the way off and jokes:

I look like a grirl!

Look at my silly long hair.

My hair is white mommy, and yours is messy.

 I find I can't help but just stop and laugh and suddenly realize how fast time moves.

Because I too remember doing just that. T-shirt pulled tight over my forehead, running around the house pretending I had hair that ran down my back. Laughing at the sleeves looking like rabbit ears. Giggling at how different I looked with no hair peeking out.

So yes, Eli. Yes, you do look like a grirl. Just like one I once knew.

I can dish it out. And take it.

So let it not be said that I can dish it out but not take it.


If I had the aforementioned anorexic turtle shots of myself, they would have been posted immediately.


But alas, I didn't have them. However, I did text my mom who was able to find them within 15 minutes. (Meanwhile, not knowing I had my mom searching, my dad texted me to tell me he knew where they were. How's that for accountability?)


So here you go. Take it how you want. Either proof that people can learn how to use a flat iron and a pair of tweezers, or proof that it can get better, or, perhaps, proof that it only goes downhill after you turn 20. I'll let you decide.


Me in junior high. The "Hey Mom! A photo that actually looks like me!" shot.

The anorexic turtle. Seventh grade.

For any of you looking for a tutorial on how to have frizzy bangs? I am so your girl. I do love that when my mom found this photo she commented, "It was actually better than I remembered, you did a nice job with your makeup." Thanks, Mom.


But she didn't stop there. Oh no. She went back and looked to see what else there was.

Then she found this treat which prompted her to write, "However, this year you weren't so good with the makeup..." Eighth grade. AKA: I now know why I didn't have boyfriends.


Because clearly there was a major wind- and fashion-storm that came through. It put a random, horrible "I went to Hawaii, did YOU?!" shell necklace, paired it with my "I am trying to be funky" silver earrings, and tucked away my "Best Friend" silver charm and chain, tossed my worst ESPRIT sweater over my head and pushed all my hair to one side. All.Of. It. Oh yeah, and I still hadn't figured out how to do my bangs.


My friends, I give you me, circa 1987.

 To Brian's great credit, when I pulled it out, he said, "It almost doesn't even look like you."

Almost. Except that it is.

No, many people wouldn't post their junior high photos. But that was me.

It's all just a part of the journey. A ridiculous part, but a part all the same.

If only I still had that sweater...

With photos this good...

The little black comb. I would stand in line and get excited to receive a new black comb. I collected them for years, those school picture combs.

Back then I had long, straight hair, so getting to run a comb through it before school pictures was part of the somewhat indulgent ritual.

And I'm a girl. So, you know, I liked to brush my hair.

Picture day was a day filled with great anticipation. Perfect hair. Most carefully selected outfit. Practice the smile at home the night before.

Each year I would bring home the packages of photos. Rarely would I peek preferring to keep them mysteries until we got them home to open them.

Afterall, these photos were taken on film. There was no chance to make sure they were good the day of. So the photographer would take his or her time. Encourage you to comb one more piece of hair out of the way. Tip your chin to the right just a bit.

Comb. Grin. Flash. Click. Wait.

That whole process went on each year until one year it didn't. It was junior high and I managed to close my eyes. I had them retaken on picture retake day and have a vivid memory of coming home with the package and holding it up next to my head declaring to my mom, "Look Mom! A photo that actually looks like me!"

And it did. Which wasn't good. We now lovingly refer to that shot as my "anorexic turtle" picture. Because if you can picture what a skinny turtle smiling with their lips pursed tightly to hide their braces would look like. Yeah, that.

Anyway, that was then. Now? No more combs. Which let me tell you is a big mistake. Especially if you have boys who actually seek to have their hair look like birds' nests. And strangely enough they now take photos twice a year. Double the opportunity to charge you $45 for a step above mug shots.

The twice a year schedule also means that at least once a year I completely miss that there is a picture day coming up.

No combed hair. No input on outfits. No smiling practice.

Leading to opening the backpack to find proof sheets that you didn't even know were coming home. Because you didn't know the photos were taken. As I opened the envelope, this headline was the first thing to catch my eye.

And wow. Are they ever right. But not in the way they thought.

Take this one.

"Look Mom, here is a portrait of me standing next to a picture of me wearing a brown t-shirt under a Colts shirt. And no, of course I didn't comb my hair." 

"And next up I will be painting some happy trees. I will use a background filled with an image of a confused boy."

And then we have Caleb, lost in space. I do like how he anticipated this ridiculous background and put a spacey look on his face to match.

But my favorite? Caleb in their "Designer" series.

Or, as I like to say, Caleb doing a tribute to Mork.

I mean really, if Caleb's expression and lack of a haircut and random baseball shirt weren't enough? That background? What could possibly look good on that background?

Maybe they are right after all, pictures this good would be a shame to miss. And now I have to go see if I can find my anorexic turtle picture.

Lessons we teach our children

Life is full of lessons. Some big. Some small.


Hold my hand when you cross the street.


Don't walk with a q-tip in your ears.


Don't jump on the bed.


Do say please and thank you.


It's not nice to burp at the dinner table.

Don't run with grapes in your mouth.


You have to have friends to be a friend.


And on and on and on.


But we had a big one at our house this weekend. It all started when I saw this.

Now it's not like I haven't seen this phenomenon happen at my house before. In fact, I see it pretty much daily.


But Saturday I thought it was time to break the spell. Tell the truth. Burst their toilet paper bubble.

Because not only did I see this, but I also saw that the roll that had been placed on the back of the toilet. You know, because it's too hard to change the roll? Yeah, that roll had been knocked off the back of the toilet and was floating in the bowl. An entire, new, double huge roll. (By the way, any and all claims that Charmin makes about absorbency are true. The roll had expanded to fill the entire thing. And yes, you are welcome for sparing you that photo.)


I called the two big boys into the bathroom with me and pointed to the empty roll.

Um boys, anyone see what I see?


Yup, there is a little bit left.

Right, and what do you see in the toilet?


Ohhh, um, oops. Sorry about that Mom. 

And they turned to walk out of the room.

Hey there boys, I don't think so, come on back. I am going to teach you one of life's great lessons. Right after I show you how to put a bag over your hand and use it to pick up gross stuff. Okay, now that that is done, I am going to show you the ease of, and importance of, changing the toilet paper roll.

And then I did, step by simple step, show them how to remove the old roll and place the new one on (yes, with paper over the top, as that's how we roll).


Surprisingly they actually seemed to be paying attention. It was as if they appreciated this little glimpse into the mundane details of adult life. It was almost as if it had never occurred to them that someone was having to change the roll for them.


When my mini-tutorial was done, both, without nudging or prompting, thanked me.


For teaching them how to change the toilet paper roll.


All I can say is that, somewhere...somewhere out there, there are two 9- and a 7-year-old girls who should both just preemptively thank me. Let it not be said that I never taught their future husbands anything.

Because you have to laugh

None of these things have anything to do with one another. No great cohesive thought pattern here.


Other than that they all caught my eye within three hours of one another. And they all made me laugh. Out loud. As in that, "oh life is ridiculous sometimes and I love it for that" way.


First was on my walk to my parking lot after work.

Note: Buying the clearance "New Baby" color-themed balloons and letters doesn't necessarily jive with a hockey night. And that applies to both boys' and girls' hockey.


Then I got home and was putting away groceries.

Are you kidding me? Sugar is naturally fat-free? Well get me a spoon. No. Stop. Get me a trough. Because I can now just eat sugar all day long. Especially if it's made in the USA. And only 15 calories per teaspoon? Well sweet, then skip the rest of the food, I can eat about 133 teaspoons of sugar each day. Perfect. Just don't tell my dentist, okay?

But the hardest laugh of the night? Discovered while I was trying to strategically stash and hide things clean up before having company throughout the weekend. I found this. Thank you kids for helping me creatively stash clean.

I don't know, kids. Yoda is one bad dude and all. But I am not sure he can take on my IKEA bamboo. If those things can survive mass merchandising and my domestic skills, I am pretty sure they are no match for plastic light sabers.

Mom, you have homework.

I have shared my great disdain for homework before.

By now though, I kind of feel like we have the homework routine down. Don't get me wrong. I still hate it and feel like it gets in the way of what little quality time we have.


But we kind of have it down. As much as you can when you are a family with two parents who work full full-time jobs outside of the home.


While I have come to deflatedly (and yes, that is totally a word) come to expect homework each night, there is one phrase that makes me want to gouge my eyes out.

"Nope, I don't have homework, but you do Mom."

Let me preface this by saying I love my kids' school. They have great teachers and are getting a fantastic education. There is no doubt about either of those things.


But I am a grown woman. I am not in school. I am away from my house and kids from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. every day. I am working a job that I love. I think, I write, I plan, I analyze. I work.

But good gravy (sometimes it just feels good to use a phrase like "good gravy") I haven't even joined a gym because, frankly, the thought of sending my kids off to more time with other people watching them makes me horribly sad and guilty.


And I see my kids for about three waking hours a day. And a good hour of that time is spent getting ready or unready for/from the day.

I have gone to pre-making all of our meals on Sundays. I do marathons of laundry on Saturdays. All in an effort to not be doing the rat race during what little weekday time we have.


I, frankly, don't need homework.


I don't need to type bibliographies that would perfectly fine hand-written. I don't need to play obligatory math fraction games. I don't need to try to make "my" homework fun by making a trip to the book store to buy new resource books only to find out that the assignment has changed and I have to buy more books.


My homework should be playing with my kids. Making dinners. Blowing bathtime bubbles in faces. Heck, I'll even take having time to teach my nearing pre-teen (gasp) boys the importance of washing their faces.


But no. I get homework. And it makes me kind of a crazy lady.


And yes, as I wrote this it was 9:10 p.m. and Brian and Noah were finishing up a homework project. A "Mom (or Dad) you have homework" project. And while it's important for parents to know what their kids are doing at school, to be invested in it, to support it. This isn't quality time.

I have a theory.



I'm not a researcher. I am not an educator, I have not studied this. I am just a parent. A working parent.


But my time? My homework? It would be far better spent just talking to my kids.

So yes, I still hate homework.

Coloring outside the lines. Way outside the lines.

Just when you think you have an angel child.

Just when you think there is no way a child could be any sweeter.

Just when you are patting yourself on your back that your child cleans up his dishes and says please and thank you (and usually without being told).

Just when you marvel that you don’t have to worry when your almost three-year-old goes into a room by himself and doesn't ingest harmful substances.

Just then... Just then you walk in the family room where is appears that a prisoner has been marking off the days of his confinement. 

On the wall. 

For years.

Seriously, if child services showed up at our house I am quite sure we would have been investigated based on appearances of keeping someone in captivity in the basement.

Hashmarks. On every single wall of the basement.

Like 80 years of confinement’s worth of desperate hashmarks. And, no, I didn't take photos. It was so shocking. So much. So. Wow.

Aforementioned perfect child? Was lucky to be sleeping.

And me? I once again would like to kiss the makers of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers.


But the little man woke up. And had to own up to his crimes. This was the moment I asked him about it for the first time. Oh yeah, and I am sure Brian will want this disclaimer...the bang trim is not his fault. And we fixed it last night. And by "we," I mean "Brian."

If only it were that easy

Mom, I have an idea.

How about you...

Go and clean out my potty chair.

And then? Then you can take a ride on my in-biz-a-bull spaceship.

Yes indeed, that was the best request to go clean a potty chair that I have had to date.

Did you make any new friends?

Every day that I have come home from work this week, Caleb has excitedly asked me the same question:

“How was work, Mom? Did you make any new friends?”

I laughed the first day and let him know that, sitting all day in employee orientation wasn’t really a prime spot for picking up new friends.

But Tuesday he asked again.

“How was work, Mom? Did you make any new friends?”

As the week has gone on, I have tried to share with him a bit about all that is going on around me. The thousands and thousands of people that stream by every day. How much you find yourself struck by how little you know when you start a new job. And that, as grownups, we don’t really get recess or group play time.

But all the same, I loved the simplicity behind his question. And what, I thought, he was really saying.

Then yesterday I got it. As we all piled into the car at the end of the day he said,

“A bunch of the girls in my class had to stay in from recess today. They were having social problems. It all started with Katie. She was left out by Julie and told Julie she wouldn’t be her friend anymore. Then Katie decided to be friends with Anna and Maddie and Maddie told Julie that she was mean. Then Emily got involved and broke one of Julie’s Silly Bandz and they all ended up crying and fighting.”

I smiled to myself, said a quick “Thankful I have boys” chant and said, 

“Oh Caleb, at times like this, aren’t you glad you are a boy?”

 He agreed:

“Yeah, because girls sure have a lot of social issues. They are really kind of weird. But how was work, Mom? Did you make any new friends?”

And then I knew what he was getting at.

“Why yes, Caleb I did. No one broke my Silly Bandz and I am sure we’ll all get along just great.”

 He smiled and got it. And perhaps I gave him a little hope that girls aren't weird forever.

Living life through your kids

You know those moments when you have such immense pride in your kids you just want to burst?


It might be for a silly reason or a really good reason. But whatever it is, it just lets you know that somehow things are going right in your little corner of the world.


In a family not dead set on sports, we don't have those on a weekly basis. Or, better said, they might come on a weekly basis, but not in obvious fashion. We're not running around winning games, scoring goals, running faster, better or jumping higher.


But we had one last week.


Pinewood Derby.

Did I mention that we are a family not hell bent on sports? What can I say, these are the kids of parents who excelled in theater and competitive speech. They'll be killer in politics someday.


But as a family of boys we have some outstanding Cub Scouts led by a specific, dedicated leader who is also known as their dad.

Letting them design their cars this year, we had one designed for style (a Wii remote)...

and one for speed...

I admit that heading to Pinewood Derby, at least on paper, was not really my thing.

Entertaining a two-year-old who thinks he is seven for three hours in a room of cars he can't play with was, let's face it, trying.


But then I stepped back and took it all in. Let go. Let myself be the mom of boys in all its noise and mess and greatness.

Sweet moments where Dr. No had no second thoughts about having his little brother climb up on his lap to cheer along.

 

Letting go of everything and just counting down madly while our cheap blocks of wood waited to be dropped down the rickety track.

Tearing up over the sheer joy at a first place finish.

But even greater than that was the pride in seeing one brother cheer on the other.  One brother who missed getting a medal by two one hundredths of a second...One brother who is usually the first to compete, the last to admit defeat, still reveling in his little brother's success.

And a dad, a husband quietly leaning over and saying that this, not just this night, but this whole process, might just be up there with finally seeing them learn how to ride bikes.

Because there we were. Living life through our kids.

But not in that way. That loaded, oh-you-have-lost-yourselves-way.

Oh no. In the "this is why we do this" way.

Because whether you "won..."

or "not..."

We all won. We showed up. As a family. They played. As individuals, as brothers, and as sons.

And we all left with our heads high and full of pride.

And if that is living life through your kids well then I'm all for it. Because I am pretty sure we learned something about our own lives, too.

'Ello, Guvnah!

With my change in job, Brian now takes all three boys to school and daycare each morning.


Unlike riding in the messy, but roomy, van with me, when they are with Brian, they are packed like sardines in the back of a Jetta. Sardines wearing winter jackets.

And while that does lead to lots of "Keep your hands to yourselves! I said, keep your hands to yourselves!" moments, it also generally multiplies the potential for hilarity, too.


For instance, each morning they drive by the Minnesota Governor's home and have taken to greeting him as they drive by.

Just like this.

Happy Monday everyone. (And you have to imagine I said that to you using my best Dick VanDyke in Marry Poppins accent.)

Sage career advice

With me leaving job today and starting another on Monday, there has been a lot of talk in our house about being a grown up. Working. Careers.


The kids can't seem to fathom the idea that we will likely have to work at least another 30 years.


Then again, some days, neither can I.

But I had to laugh when their most recent issue of "Boys Life" came last week.

In honor of 100 years of Scouting, it features 100 of their best tips. (Side note, it cracks me up when magazines have "Special Collector's Editions." People really shouldn't collect magazines. All it will do it make their family mad when the die someday. But I digress.)

Dealing with mean dogs. Healing a blister. Avoiding bears.

All good stuff. Things little boys like to think about and learn about.

But then this caught my eye.

I don't know "Boys Life." That might be a bit too much of a reality check for 9-year-old boys to handle.

The thought that someday they will have to put on dressy clothes and go to a beige office for 45 years is already brutal.

Planting the seed that it might be lethal? Wow.

(Oh, and in related news, I kind of wonder if the graphic artist at Boys Life is experiencing some job dissatisfaction.)

But today, that is my goal. Get out alive. Which really means "Get out with my makeup still intact."

The drug store thinks I am a liar

We have been fighting the crud around our house. Caleb kicked it off with a sinus infection earning him a course of antibiotics.


As I gave him his dose this morning, something caught my eye.

"CALEB"?


What is that about? Is the drug store calling me a liar? Do they think his real name is Sally but he just goes by Caleb? Do I look like I am in witness protection and they are trying (but not very hard) not to blow my cover?


Or do they know that I never seem to be able to call my kids by the right names. Is this really for Noah?


Or is this sarcastic? As in [finger quote] Caleb [finger quote]. [eye roll]


What if, instead of reading that way, it said:

Shake "liquid" well...

 or

Give Caleb 2 "teaspoonful"...

So confused.

But for now I am just going to continue to give "Caleb" his antibiotics and hope I am doing the right thing.

I am not naturally this average looking

So last summer I met this woman. I am not going to name names, well, because I am not mean. But she was a piece of work. With a capital P capital O capital W.  

When she first met me, she within minutes was lamenting my fluffy, frizzy hair. She said she didn't know what she would dooo if she had to deal with hair like that.  

And then went on to tell me that, actually she did know what she'd do. She'd get Keratin. Because. It. Changed. Her. Life. She was a coast girl and lovingly referred to me as being from flyover land. Which I am, but still. P O W.  

She shared that her Keratin treatment cost her $600. P O W.  

She told me my skirt swimsuit was cute and that she might have to get one. She was 5'10" and a size 0. She also said this while wearing a string bikini that was 1.5 inches short of being a thong. P O W. 

I later shared the story with Brian and it became something of an inside joke. Changed. My. Life.  

And then I got curious. And I googled it. Because being the flyover girl I am, I had no clue what Keratin was.  About the same time, I started up with a new hairstylist. Who was also from flyover land. But was also cute and stylish and very, very real.  

Meet Ashlee.

And the first time she met me and spent a good 20 minutes figuring out my hair (which, admittedly is very challenging hair, or, as Brian calls it "hair that was made for products"). Then, she suggested I consider Keratin. 

But Ashlee was not a piece of work. Suddenly my whole world had been turned on its head.

The benefits?  

She said it would cut the frizz completely. Um yeah, about that. You had me at hello. Because, this, my friends is what I was dealing with every morning.

 
It might relax the curl and it might remove it. And no, it wasn't cheap, but it also wasn't $600. And on an educated whim, I decided to give it a whirl.  

You see people, I am not naturally this average looking. It was taking a lot of time and work to get there. As in like 45 minutes a day to tame that frizzy mess.

So I gave it a whirl.

And what do you know. It worked.

Not kidding. I wash it now, blow dry it for 5 minutes, put a teeny bit of product in it and I am done. 7 minutes tops.


Used to be easily 45.


And that? An extra 266 minutes a week? More than four hours? This was worth every penny.


Oh yeah, and that woman? Still a total P O W. But I'll give her (anonymous) credit on this one. I can't say it changed my life, but it sure made a big difference in my mornings.




P.S. Yes, I paid for my Keratin on my own. I didn't get any special treatment or the promise of any in the future. Yadda yadda yadda. You know me, I just can't resist the opportunity to put a ridiculous image of myself out there on the intertubes.