Happy new year to remember

Happy New Year's Eve! 

In the spirit of documenting this journey called life, Mom's posted her Christmas letter for ease of access -- and for the enjoyment of those who may not have received a paper copy.

Cheers to 2014, and happy new year!

Ken

Christmas preparation has taken an online flavor this year as we balance the not-so-demanding-yet-ever-constant-requirements of Corrigan-Conrad life. Three cheers for free shipping! I hope this message finds you relaxing amid a handful of Christmas cards – perhaps sipping your favorite adult beverage as you read along.

Five-year-old Ken started swimming lessons. Note: He doesn't love swimming. Just the lessons. This week I watched as Ken and his fellow guppy-level swimmers latched themselves to the pool wall – birds on a wire – each awaiting a rotating 20 seconds of away-from-the-wall-teacher time. Smiling and splashing all the way. Ken saw me watching him and waved wildly – “Hi, Mom!” Beaming. (An aside: When did he get so tall? And, for how much longer can I watch with unabashed adoration before he responds instead with a semi-embarrassed wave and a mumble? I digress.)

His swimming lesson report card reads proficient in all but one guppy-level activity. “Comfortable with his face in the water” – not yet proficient. I don’t blame the kid. Who really wants to hold your breath, close your eyes and listen to the world disappear as you dunk your head underwater? Not unless my feet touch the floor at all times, thank you very much.

Interestingly enough, our 2014 asked us to put our face in the water a few more times than we’d planned.  And, when your feet stop touching the floor, it really doesn't matter how deep the water is. You hold your breath, close your eyes, and learn to swim together.

Four-year-old Sam goes to preschool now. Three mornings per week of school prove to be just the right recipe for practicing his social skills, putting on his listening ears, and solidifying his love of reading, writing, drawing, singing, and talking to anyone who’s ready (or not ready) to listen. His incessant chatter and ceaseless singing keeps us ever light-of-heart. When dressing for school one morning, Sam donned his best church pants and his Beatles t-shirt. Dad, ever the proponent of allowing age-appropriate decisions (and the Beatles), gently reminded Sam that his church pants should be swapped for a school pair. “Oh, that’s right,” Sam smiled and said matter-of-factly. “These are my funeral pants.”

Learning to swim together, we said goodbye to three beloved family members this year: Adam’s mom and brother, and my grandfather. All three lived good, full lives and shaped each of us in ways for which we’ll forever be grateful. Note: Sometimes it’s your children who prove the strongest of swimmers. Ken regularly reminds us that it’s okay to be sad, but God wants us back in Heaven with him, so we’ll see them all again when we get there.

Thirty-something-year-old Adam ended his role as household manager and launched into a full-time job. Having re-entered the workforce for a full year now, he’s traded playdates and walks to the park for spreadsheets, conference calls and a corporate vocabulary. The job is treating him right.

Learning to swim together, I decided to continue working full time, and we sprang into our first-ever search for child care. Two rock-star temporary nannies and one not-quite-the-right-fit-nanny later, we’ve welcomed into our home a full-time, long-term regular Mary Poppins. Ken, Sam and Georgia adore Stacie, and the household runs in a way that makes her another member of our family.

Still on the younger side of two, Georgia is our only two year old who wants to be five. She keeps up with her brothers the best ways she knows how, talks almost as much as Sam does, and steals your heart on a regular basis. Once, while settling her in her car seat on our way to the library – me in my winter hat, tousled hair and yoga pants – Georgia put her hand on my arm, kissed my cheek and said, “Mom. You beautiful.”

And so it goes. While we may not be proficient at putting our face in the water, we’re swimming together this year to more than a few valuable lessons – so grateful for the friends and family with us along the way.

Merry Christmas to you, and may your 2015 be abundantly joyful.

Love, Molly

Don't worry be happy birthday to you

Ken: Pedal bike!

A helluva fall, I say. It's been a helluva fall. Note: This helluva fall might mean a set of 70 degree days through October. It's possibly interpreted as that mean spill that lands you a fat and bloody lip. Even still, your helluva fall may define the progression of a relationship -- a downgrade or an upgrade -- a falling out or a falling in love, if you will. Whatever your definition of helluva a fall, I'm here to wish you a graceful falling, a decent landing and a speedy movement to the upright.

Hello, dear readers! We've had a stretch of a season this fall - with a slew of 70 and sunny all the way through October. It's as if the Almighty said, "Here -- I know I handed you a sub-par spring, a delayed summer. And that most of you slipped into a slow depression this past winter. Enjoy this glimpse of wonder -- free of charge." The leaves, the colors, the sun, the crisp. We're soaking it all in.

Sam: Age 4

You'll recall that I recently turned five. Well, Sam turns four today. TODAY, I tell you! Four! He's forever the sweetest part of our Halloween celebrations -- we opened his first birthday present over Cheerios this morning, as his true birthday party will likely happen a day or so after the Trick or Treat festivities. Nothing like clustering the cake, frosting and small gift-wrapping indulgences all into one season. Happy birthdays to us. The quick ditty on the Trick or Treating: We've taken full advantage of Target's BOGO costume offerings this season. And with Georgia's recent inheritance of cousin Greta's dress-up bin, we're proudly touting a Super Mario Bros. trio: Mario, Luigi and a dragon -- or maybe a princess with her "tune-tune." (She hasn't quite decided yet. That's tutu, for those of you less familiar with toddler talk.) Ready or not, here we come!

Georgia: Age 2

In other news, the three of us are in the business of climbing slides. That's right -- at the park. Climbing slides. Who needs the ladders, the plastic stairs, the rock wall? Sam and I prefer to start at the bottom, dig our feet in, and step up -- one foot at a time. And you know the best part? Reaching the top, crouching sideways, and sliding all the way back down again. Weeee! Georgia's following along, learning as she goes. While the slide trick may have landed her a couple few fat lips, I do think she's enjoying the challenge. I think.

Of course, this relatively harmless children's activity has me thinking a bit. Because Sam -- Birthday Boy Sam -- is the best of all of us when it comes to climbing that slide from the bottom. He inherently has the grit,the gumption, the why-wouldn't-i-give-er-hell-because-i'm-not-sure-what-else-there-is-to-give in him that so many of us have to learn as we live. And yet, as we embark on each climb, we often hear phrases: "Don't climb from the bottom! Take the stairs -- it's easier. Use the ladder; you won't get hurt. Why are you doing that the hard way?"

And I wonder -- why this type of encouragement? For, trying is half the fun. In fact, trying is really

Sam: Climbing slides

all it's about. Why do something if it's easy? Why work at something if you're going to reach the same finish as the next person? Trying and failing -- trying and falling -- doesn't feel good. (Take a look at Georgia's latest fat lip.) BUT, trying, learning, adjusting, moving against the grain, setting up your system in a way that works for you -- so that you can give it all you've got and reach your own finish line -- that's it's about, I tell you. So, the next time someone gives me a ribbon for finishing -- parades a trophy because I participated -- I'll say no thanks. Because, there really is only one reward. And that is the knowledge that I did it. I started slow, fell a few times, wanted to stop, but learned and kept going. And, I did it.

And so, here's to the slide-climber in you. Whether you're just beginning, the climb, picking yourself up after a mid-slide fall, or reaching the top and ready to enjoy the slide back down, keep your grit. Keep you spirit. You can do it. And when you've done it. Step back. Be proud of yourself. Call it enough. And enjoy the slide.
Until next time,
Ken

I think I can, I think I can you find the pattern?

Ken: Age 5

Ken here! To report the latest fall festivities. The mild chaos. The lessons we're learning. And the good, clean fun.

A variety of September life events have passed at the Corrigan-Conrad abode. And yes, it's high time to document them: We've started school. Mom launched into a new job at good ol TGT. Our summertime nanny returned to her full-time fall gig. (We miss her, but schedule regular dinner parties with her -- just so we don't lose touch.) Dad brewed 10 gallons of home brew -- 5 gallons of an IPA and 5 of an ESB -- from the hops grown in the backyard. The annual Conrad Brew Review ensued. Regular visits to Grandpa Conrad's are beginning to heal our hearts.

Most notably -- My fifth birthday coasted to the curb and stayed just long enough to celebrate with a

First day of school

few gifts, pizza and cupcakes with the cousins. Thanks for the party, gals!

That's right! The big oh-5. To which I declare permission to embark on the following challenges:

1. Learn to ride a pedal bike (training wheels optional).
2. Visit the Mall 'Mur-ka (a.k.a. the Mall of America) to ride the bumper car ride.
3. Eliminate all whining from my repertoire when asking for things. (Truth: Mom suggested that one.)
4. Learn to tell time with my cool new Lego watch. (Thanks, G-ma Corrigan!)
5. Begin the count-down to our next parish block party. (I missed this year's block party due to an unexpected fever and weird cold virus. Only 327 sleeps till the next block party!)

While these challenges may seem a trifle minor relative to the scheme of life in store for me, I contend that each is important in its own rite. For with each challenge, I learn something new. And, new is exciting. New is hard. New requires being not-good at something for a bit -- until you figure out a routine. Find your voice. And discover a pattern.

Georgia: Age 2

Dad scored a handful of new coloring books last week. As Sam and I
settled into the business of deciding which pages needed the most work, Sam declared, "Look, Ken! A pattern!" He'd arranged his coloring tools into a row of neatly organized shapes and lines. Impressive.

Georgia's also into patterns. Checkered, spiral, floral, striped -- you name it, she loves it. Her best days entail a mixture of patterns -- ones that she has hand-selected from her collection of articles sized 2T. For an example of the completeness of her patterned paraphernalia, see attached photo.

Sam: Almost 4

Much like little-sister's love for eclectic combinations of patterns, the cadence of our days this Fall are eclectic, new, and not-so-easy. But, we're discovering new patterns together. And I'm finding that with each new challenge, you sort out what's important, arrange your pattern, and weave it all together -- one step at a time. Soon, you're flexing your new muscles, not repeating your mistakes, and rising to the occasion of this not-so-new-anymore pattern.

For now, dear reader, may the patterns of your life be readily arranged and full of enough challenge and color to keep you honest, grateful and striving for even better.
Until next time,
Ken

Spoiler alert: Missing my mother-in-law and order

I've been trying to construct this blog post since ... well ... about August 24. The truth is, I'm afraid to write it. Why? Because I despise the grieving process. Grief has a way of swallowing you. Upon hearing the news, your world tips askew, your stomach starts to roll, and sometimes, a hint of a lullaby begins to sound in your ear. As if the Almighty knows you'll need a heavenly guardian's hum to find sleep tonight.

Despite my despising, it is absolutely necessary that I grieve a bit, and pay tribute to one rock-star mother-in-law in the most eloquent way that I know how. And maybe, just maybe, dear reader, this tribute can assist you in any sort of loss or letting-go that you also may be experiencing. Bear with me as I once again remove my eldest son from the blog-writing seat, allow myself to be momentarily grief-swallowed, and offer you my own voice.

I should have told her how much I admired her, how much I hoped to be like her, how much she made me feel like -- in her presence -- I was home. I should have been more intentional about in-person visits, regular Scrabble games, occasions to let her care for my children. I should have listened more carefully. I want to know more about her childhood, her adulthood, her motherhood. I want to hear her singing voice.

I'd like her to know that her son -- my patient, loving, courageous husband -- is everything that he is because of her care, her humor, her talent, her confidence and influence. For as much as I tumbled head over heels for my Adam, it likely happened because he reflects so much of her compassion, loyalty, and humble strength.

Perhaps this is what it means to be a matriarch. A female leader of a family or tribe, says good ol' Webster -- but a true matriarch is that and so much more. Whether a mother, grandmother, mother-in-law, godmother or mother figure to another, a true matriarch leads her tribe and offers the heartbeat. The order. The model. The strength. The rhythm. We look to our matriarch for wisdom, for courage, for permission and affirmation. We lean on our matriarch when we're searching, weary, sad and troubled. Most of all, whether we know it or not, we emulate the rhythm of our matriarch with each success, milestone and proud life-moment.

So fortunate am I to be a part of her family. For, whether she knew it or not, my mother-in-law was heroine to all of us. She'd guffaw at that, I'm sure, but much like my own mother, Barbara Conrad is the heartbeat of her family. We looked to her; we leaned on her; we laughed with her; we lived with her. So lucky am I to have called her mother.

As it turns out, I can't tell her all of this anymore. And so, I have to show her. Help me, Barb, to grow into the matriarch that you are. Help me emulate your rhythm, so that I can offer your same wisdom and strength to my family. Remind me -- remind all of us -- that no matter what kind of letting-go we're experiencing, that we'll grow through this grief. We'll adapt to our new normal, and we'll once again feel life's constant tug of heartache and hope, and once again discover life's delicate balance of loss and love.

Prayers up, dear matriarch. You are deeply loved and greatly missed.

Love,
Molly

On the sunny side up

Eagle Bay Lodge: 2014

Ken here -- to report that our June-time rain has ceased, and Georgia, Sam and I are basking in all sorts of summertime glory. Trips to the zoo. Entire days of swimming in our back-yard Target pool. Roasting marshmallows over the stove. Who knew that the purpose of graham crackers could be elevated to such delicious levels? (Georgia's learning how to devour the gooey goodness with minimal remaining evidence.)

Georgia: S'mores!

Sam: Goggles!

We spent a week in Northern Minnesota with the Grandma Corrigan side of the family. Cousins galore! I counted. There are 20 of us -- aged 9 and under. Totally. Awesome. I figured out how to float in the pool (with life jacket) sans clinging to an adult for dear life. So proud. Mom said that this, coupled with my recent summer soccer success, may warrant a look-see for swimming lessons this fall. Excitement.

Ken: Cows!

In all of the sweetness of summer, I'm learning that both Sam and Georgia are genuinely coming into their own when deciding whether or not to agree with my four-year-old wisdom. When Georgia disagrees with me, she screams. When Sam disagrees with me, he stops talking to me. I tell Sam, "Sam - That's not ever nice!" Nonetheless, he's mastered the silent treatment. While I question the fairness of his behavior, I find that I'm forced to re-think my tactics for successful facilitation of sibling activity. Nothing like keeping a guy on his toes.

Enjoy the sunshine, loyal reader!

Until next time,

Ken

In my comfort zone defense

Georgia: Age 2

In the spirit of documenting this thing called life, I must say: June and all of its wonder marked more than a few milestones. (Yes, I'll figure out an appropriate four-year-old way to sum up July in the next week or so.) In no particular order of importance, we've tallied up the following events: Cabin time with Aunt Val and family, a road trip to Chicago and Madison, a lesson in finger snapping, the inaugural summer soccer league, and Georgia's 2nd birthday. Two, I tell you! Not sure how the world got itself in such a hurry, but we're having a ball.

Ken: Age 4

The latest ball involves my YMCA Youth Sport Thursday night soccer league. Yes! Soccer! Destination: World Cup. I think, though, that the best part is the running. I used to think that being the goalie was cool. But no -- soccer really is all about the running. And the friends. Once, while applying my newly acquired knowledge of zone defense, I toppled into my friend Veronica. We go to the same park. The soccer play all but stopped as we embraced and exchanged our latest summer happenings at the mid-field line. Soccer. Is. Awesome.

Sam: Loving summer

In all of my four years, I've never experienced Val's lake as fully as I did this year. She has a four wheeler. Enough said. We fished, we ate, we rocked in the hammock, we gained intimate knowledge of mosquitoes and their bites. So comfortable was it to hang out with Grandma and Grandpa Conrad, the aunts, uncles and cousins.

Hooray for family! And fishing. And four wheelers.

Georgia: Swimming

We planted tomatoes a few weeks ago. (Yes, a tad late for planting season) Four plants, to be exact. Sam decided to name each plant in order to ensure proper backyard blooming. And so, each evening, we venture into the backyard with Dad to inspect Larry, Junior, Bob and Cassie. So far, they're growing at the same delayed pace with which they were planted. But, they sure seem happy. Sam sings his special tomato song to them -- to help them grow. Ask him to sing the tomato song to you, and he'll decline. Apparently the song is saved just for the tomato plants.

Ken: Soccer!

Chicago! Madison! Two road trips and a few hotels in one week -- you can call me a pro at back seat driving. Amid countless family and friends, we witnessed Mom's cousin become ordained as a Catholic priest. So full of faith and peace was Andrew and his family, that I have a renewed belief in the power of community, prayer, and the ageless rhythm of "Veni, Sancte Spiritus." Congratulations, Andrew -- and may we always and everywhere give God thanks and praise.

We wrapped the week with a splash in Madison: To dance at cousin Sarah's wedding reception, drop a few tokens at uncle Mike's pizza shop, and kibitz with timeless friends over chocolate-laced ice cream. I could get used to both the comforts and adventures of summer vacation.

And so it goes. Sam and I continue to link arms and dive into life together. Georgia is always nearby -- and behaving as if she's leading the way. I'm not sure what we'd do without her. Most of the time. Here are a few more tidbits -- just to complete the most recent picture of toddler-dom:

• The three of us -- Sam, Georgia and I -- have been introduced to the practice of fishing off the

  

  Sam: Age 3

  pontoon. (Thanks, aunt Val!) After a few rotten casts (and a few respectable ones), I asked, "How long is a fishing line?" To which Sam immediately responded, "As long as it needs to be, Ken." Huh. Sam. The altruistic one. 
• Georgia continues to request "Mom music" when we're in the car. Typically, this means a few minutes (only) of country music, followed by  decent selection of current pop music. Upon Dad's request that his children are exposed to all types of music, Mom now has us humming long to artists like the Beatles, Elton John, Eric Clapton and Billy Joel. Not bad, really.  Any other suggestions for Mom? Send 'em along. Until then, we'll be humming memorable bars of "Piano Man," "Running on Faith" and "Paperback Writer."
• Thanks to the aforementioned exposure to classic rock, I've figured out how to snap my fingers. Watch out, world.
• Yesterday we celebrated the end of my soccer game with dinner at the local (and I mean really local) hamburger joint. Sam looked out the window at the gentleman with the smoke stick (I think you adults call them cigarettes) and said, "Look at that man steaming." I guess that's one way to look at it.
• And finally -- I'm proud to report -- that Georgia is starting to master the English language. While I still hear phrases like, "My did it!" vs. I did it, and "My wash teef" when reaching for her toothbrush, she now calmly reaches for Mom's morning hug and says, "I slept well, Mom."

Hope the summer is treating you right, loyal reader! 

Until next time,

Ken

In full swing low sweet chariot

L to R: Ken, Sam, Georgia

The month of May! What happened? Spring arrived, and life just started trippin' right along. Ken here -- to report that I've been hanging with the sibs and nanny Kate, finishing my preschool year, and exploring a variety of slides and sandboxes across the Twin Cities. And now: Summer is officially in full swing. Huzzah!

The last six weeks or so have introduced us to the intricacies of tire swings, inflatable swimming pools, backyard barbecues, nightly ninja baths* and toddler-sized sunglasses. And we're still weeks away from the annual family reunion(s). Does life get any sweeter? I think not. 

Nanny Kate and us

Occasionally, we have movie night. This entails the choosing of an all-audience appropriate movie, and dinner together in front of the aforementioned flick. We recently watched the movie The Rise of the Guardians. It's good. You should watch it. I speak of this because, in addition to the sweetness of summertime, we're also learning the ins and outs of saying goodbye. From the lighter goodbyes -- like our goodbye to the spider we sent down the bathroom toilet -- to the more serious goodbyes, like to our graduate school-bound nanny, Kate -- Mom and Dad are carefully and confidently explaining to us the importance of change. Of the goodness of growing up. Of giving thanks for and believing in our guardians -- whether they're physically with us or not. (We love you, Kate. Thanks for safely guarding and growing with us!)

Uncle Rick and Sam: 2011

And sometimes our guardians are suddenly guardian angels -- whether we're ready for it or not. On Mother's Day weekend, Dad's oldest brother, our best uncle Rick, entered hospice care after a lengthy battle with his health. A few weeks later, we learned from Dad that the doctors couldn't fix Rick anymore, and that Rick was done living. Dad misses him. So does Mom. I am sad, for sure. Rick had a great laugh. He read us good stories. Being done living is tough business, becuse, as three-year-old Sam so eloquently put it, "Living sure is fun." 

Watch over us, Rick, and may your chariot ride to heaven be glory-filled and pain-free. We love you.

Spring 2014: h/t Kahnke Brothers

The next few weeks promise a glut of sunshine, new friendships and family time. I'll return more regularly with reports of outside adventures, pictures of toddlers in sunglasses, along with ideas and reflections big and small. Until we meet again, keep your guardians close, and always believe in the goodness and power of change.

With love,

Ken

*The ninja bath differs from the typical bath, in that it is conducted assembly line style: Kid One follows Mom into the bathroom and completes the following steps, in this order: 1) Clothes off. 2) Jump in. 3) Remain standing for the body lather and hair cleansing. 4) Jump out. 5) Towel off. 6) March into the bedroom for jammies, books and bed. Kid Two = Repeat steps 1-6. Kid Three = Repeat steps 1-6. Kids One through Three are clean and bedtime-book-ready in 17 minutes. Flat. (Note: A layer of sunscreen and dirt will remain on the floor of the tub after every ninja bath. Be prepared to clean regularly.)

That's not fair weather fan

Ken: At the zoo

Another march madness come and gone, and I can officially say that -- even with a busted bracket -- Mom's a basketball nut. We may have to practice our dribble together once the snow puddles are gone. Ken here -- to report that spring has arrived, and we're all swingin' to the heartbeat of warmer weather. Hooray, and happy Easter!

We stayed local for the Triduum this year -- mainly due to some kind of flu bug that decided to plague our house just prior to Holy Thursday. So much for road trips to Grandma Corrigan's house. The good news is that we're all on the mend, and the bunny still managed to sprinkle a little hardboiled love across our backyard.

Life moves on, and I have to tell you that I've been thinking a lot about fairness lately. Fair play, fair games, fair trade, fair calls, state fairs -- you name it. A variety of events have transpired over the last few weeks around this concept of fairness. And so, if you'll read on in order to humor a relatively old soul, I offer a small reflection.

Sometimes life's not fair.

Georgia: Lovin' the dress

Two weeks ago, at Grandma Conrad's house, Sam and I were playing nicely on the iPad -- no fighting. Then, Georgia walked over, and without a word, laid down on top of the iPad. I may have freaked a little. Sam cried, and without even a word of seeking to understand, Mom took the digital glory away from all of us. Boo.

I spoke to Mom about this later -- shedding as much four year old perspective on the situation as possible. My argument was met with patience, empathy, and a bit of an explanation. Grateful I am, for that. Upon further reflection, however, I've decided the instances such as this iPad sitting may continue weave itself into the existence of my human experience. What's a guy to do?

Have you ever experienced this element of fairness, dear reader? Something happens, not within your control. And, while you know you're not at fault, you see the ramifications of someone else's actions lying in pieces at your feet. You are then left to decide how to piece it together, remain true to self, and move on.

Sam in Springtime

Further observation tells me that we see this more often than we'd like. A miss on a promotion due to ineffective leadership. A finished marriage due to one's inability to respect. A postponed road trip due to a flu bug. An early death due to a freak accident. Your hockey team's loss in the playoffs. Detention for both of you, even though she started it. It happens.

I've decided that -- in any of these events -- the most important decision we can make is the decision to move forward. To acknowledge the unfairness, hold our heads high, and respond with a smile. Because, at the end of it all, it is our response to injustice that is remembered.

We are called to remember that we are an Easter people living in a Good Friday world (h/t Fr. Charlie). Despite life's sometimes-unfairness, we must know and continue to believe that good has already triumphed. And we must respond to injustice by picking up the pieces. By confidently and patiently continuing. By remaining true to self and doing what we know is good, and right and true.

Until next time,
Ken

For what it's worth every minute

Penguins!

Truth: I sometimes encourage a movie after dinner so that I can cuddle on the couch with my kids without actually having to give any more physical or mental energy away.

Sometimes we sing This Old Man...He Played [Number], and I skip all odd numbers, so that we can finish our bedtime routine just a hair faster than usual.

Sometimes, we play Trouble with only two pegs per person, instead of four pegs. And you don't have to roll a six to start.

Sometimes, after a less-than-stellar day at the office, a dinner full of (delicious!) carbs, and a quick once over of the kitchen, bathrooms and laundry room, I'd like the kids to put me to bed at 8:00 -- instead of the other way around.

Sometimes.

Ken's Play Dough
snowman

And then, I listen to the chatter, engage in the conversation, watch. And I'm reminded why we do this crazy thing called life. 
Examples of household dialogue tonight:

[Dad] "Georgia, eat your food."

[Georgia] "No thank you."

[Ken] "It's okay Georgia. You can use the poddy when your older. Then, when you're done pooping, you can scream for Mom or Dad or Kate."

[Sam] "Yeah, or Katie Perry."

Fish!

[Sam] "Dad, can we listen to the Beatles and have a dance party?"

Ken -- Smack dab in the middle of building his Lego tower, declares his sudden urge to see a man about a dog. He then proceeds to belt Frozen's Do you Want to Build a Snowman? at the top of his lungs whilst taking care of business.

[Ken] "I'd like to watch a show. How about you, Sam?"

[Sam] "Yep, me too. What show should we watch, Georgia?"

[Georgia] "Dora!"

[Ken] "I'm okay with that."

And I decide: yes. It's all worth it.

mbc

Something's gotta give it your best shot

Ken: Age 4
Sporting 3D glasses

Ken here -- at age four -- not-so-proud to report a recent self-realization. I am a poor sport. Yes, it's true. I just like to win. And when I am not the first to cross the finish line, I feel very little joy. You name it:

Candy Land.

Memory.

Slap Jack.

Go Fish.

The Keep-The-Balloon-Up-In-The-Air-game.

I just want to be the best.

This drive to win carries with it certain measurements of success. Candy Land, for example, sports the icons of victory. The cupcake, the Popsicle, the lollipop -- all of these picks earn you a faster trajectory to the castle. The best card to pick, however, is the bon bon. More commonly known at our house as the Cinnabun, drawing the card that pictures the golden brown fluff with white icing virtually guarantees first to finish. I try to keep my competitive juices at bay, but at times, emotional outbursts abound. Last week, Georgia drew the Cinnabun, and I actually said aloud: "The Cinnabun! Ak! I have to go faster!"  To divulge such a strategy so early in the game all but garanteed my demise. 

I digress.

Georgia: Age 1
Balloons and static!

Mom tells me that I come by this competitive spirit honestly. Dad -- ever the steadier of the rocked boat -- smiles and agrees. Despite my natural tendencies, I am a nice guy. I simply like to be first, best and at the top of my game. Who can fault me for that? 

Recognizing that her eldest apple has not fallen far from the tree, Mom regularly reminds me that no person wants to play with a poor sport. And, not every game needs a winner. Such talk. Nonetheless, Mom has proven her wisdom in the past, and I've promised her that I'd give this good sportsmanship thing a try. Now, I practice phrases like, "I'll give it my best shot," and "Good job Sam -- you won!" I even shook Georgia's hand yesterday and said "Good game." Whew! I have to say, it has improved the game-time atmosphere among the siblings.

Sam: Age 3
At the park

Here's the thing, my loyal readers: In my effort to recognize that winning isn't everything, I am also learning the importance of trying. And failing. And trying again. In my past quests for perfection -- drive for first -- I'd exercise caution -- shy away from new challenges. My inner monologue would whisper, What if someone is better at this than you? What if you don't do it right? Such talk. It's time to shove that voice aside and give it my best shot. For, to be perfect the first time prevents us from learning the real lesson, from acquiring our true character.

And so, here's to giving it a go. Here's to trying and failing and trying again. Here's to attaining your personal best -- and remembering to be a good sport along the way. Because, every game needs a player, but not every game needs a winner. (Although, it's still pretty sweet to pick the Cinnabun.)

Until next time, 

Ken

Better with age before beauty

The cherubs

Ken's mom here -- with a mini monologue on the aging of children. I'm quite certain that one of Time's telling-est tricks is Its ability to bamboozle us into believing that we naturally allow our children to grow up. That, coupled with our inclination to assert a child's future state onto the present (i.e. "A few more weeks, and we'll have you sleeping through the night," or "...if you could just get to the age where you can sit on your own," or "It'll be easier once s/he can [walk] [talk]") can have us caregivers playing fool to the notion that we are ready for the day that our child actually grows up.

Ken yesterday asked me to explain the meaning of the word serious. A reasonable question for a four year old. Not a minute later, he said, "Mom, at school today we played on the playground. I'm being totally serious!" Nicely stated, and well-applied, my inner voice cheered. And, by the way, how have you suddenly gotten so ... tall?

Last week, my three year old asked me why I was putting on my inside shoes. "Well, Sam, my 

Georgia, 3 months shy of two

feet just hurt a little bit. And these shoes help my feet feel better." He then studied my feet, placed his hand on my sneaker and asked, "Mom, what is ... hurt?" I hope I said something age-appropriate and parentally brilliant.

And now, a small story about waffles.
And pie.

Since the dawn of -- well -- Ken's birth, we've enjoyed homemade waffles from our Target-brand Belgian waffle maker. And, on the weekends, it's an extra special treat to squirt Target-brand whipped topping over the syrup-y goodness. Now, the only other time the boys and Georgia have seen this type of topping is at Thanksgiving, when all pies are donned with a dollop or two of this airy goodness. And so, since the dawn of kid time, Ken Sam and Georgia ask for pie. And we know, of course, that they'd like whipped cream. Thusly, for the last four years, all meals of waffles, pancakes, or french toast have been met with kid requests for syrup and pie. Of course.

This weekend, when I asked the cherubs who would like pie, Ken looked at me and calmly stated: "Mom. It's not pie. It's whipped cream."

Really? Who told you that?

Best birthday gift ever

I can only imagine that these "grown up" surprises happen at multiple stages in a parent's life -- these moments that leave us caregivers with a heart-swell. Proud of your age. Your beauty. Your smarts. Proud, yet not quite ready. My cup runneth over. For now, I share the toddler moments -- in hopes that you'll draw strength from the mild humor and stand in solidarity with me as I continue to grow with my children.

And, until we meet again, I'll take my waffles with pie, thank you very much.

Love,
Molly

Throwing caution to the windchill factor

Ken: Lord of the ring

Birthdays are a celebration of interest as of late. At pre-school, on your birthday, the group sings the classic song, and the person of honor brings a celebratory treat to share. The school handbook requests that we NOT bring food.

I know.

Because we looked.

Call me a cautious rule follower. 

On my birthday, we brought stickers. 

Despite the rule book's request, our two most recent celebration-makers brought cupcakes. (So. Delicious. I'm not breathing a word to the handbook writers.) Let me tell you, though, it's not the mini-cake and topping that have my attention. It's the cooler-than-ever ring wedged in the center of the frosting. A RING, I tell you! The first ring was a plastic snowflake with a touch of glitter (pictured). Charming, gender-neutral, and exactly the token needed to drive behaviors and activities between Sam, Georgia and me. Until Sam stepped on it. Broke into three pieces. Samwise. The guy just doesn't know his own strength.

Sam: Loyal companion

As luck would have it, a second ring arrived via preschool birthday and cupcake. Hoorah! Pink, heart-shaped, with a Disney princesses slapped on the center, this piece of precious has rekindled a fellowship of activity between us three siblings. Despite its more effeminate features, the ring proves a constant comrade (minus bed time and bath time), and I am happy to  whistle along to the rhythm of its calling. Three cheers for handbook rule-benders and preschool birthdays.

Indoor entertainment abounds these days, and I'm compelled to tell you about our pirate ship. Yes! At Christmas, we scored a real pirate ship. (Thanks, Monty and Sue!) It sits in the basement, next to the bar, and provides hours of toddler-sized entertainment. Mom dug through the Halloween bin and found last year's pirate hat. Typically, the one who dons this captain's hat and princess ring charts the course of imagination for the day. We sail to little-known places like: the corner of the laundry room, the top of the roof, or up and down the chimney. 

Georgia: Captain of the ship

In other  news, we fired up an annual membership to the Minnesota zoo. Who goes a'zoo-ing in the winter, you ask? We do. The indoor trails, penguins, fish (and the three-toed sloth!) provide just the right kind of escape from the hum-drum of these can't-go-outside-because-the-wind-chill-will-numb-your-teeth-and-rip-off-your-face kinds of temperatures. So, while some lucky buggers jet set to places like Mexico and Jamaica, we happily trundle to the Tropics Trail, shed our jackets and bask in the glory of 72 degrees and humid. It's the best 6.3 miles ever traveled. 

And so it goes around here at the Corrigan Conrad abode. Here's hoping this message finds you creating your own kind of fun as we march ever vigilantly toward spring.

Until next time,

Ken

Same old same old McDonald had a kitty

It's winter. With almost four feet of snow in our back yard,  a solid layer of ice caked on all roads and parking lots, and predicted highs of sub-zero temps this week, I'm with Mom. Old Man Winter can go home. Any time now.

Thanks for visiting, loyal reader! I'd intended on giving you a play-by-play of my visit to Grandma and Grandpa Conrad's this weekend, but alas. The aforementioned winter conditions prevented us from trekking to central Wisconsin. We didn't get to see them. (Emoticon sad.) Instead, we attempted our own fun within the confines of our 1950's rambler. Nothing like sticking to same ol' weekend cacophony of three kids and a pair of adults.

As an alternative to reporting the adventures of weekend road trips, it's high time I meander down little-sibling lane to give you an update on the youngest of the offspring: One Georgia C. Conrad. Forgive the upcoming, slightly random, rhythm of thought; it can be tough to keep up with her.

Georgia: At twenty months old, she identifies all components of your face (you know -- the important parts -- eyes, nose, lips, earrings ...), sings along to twinkle twinkle, and understands almost everything that Sam and I tell her. She's a good kid sister, although I do have to remember to be patient. Because, quite frankly, she just kinda gets in the way most of the time.

C'est la vie -- we like having her around. She hums and sings almost as much as Sam does, and lately, she's actually starting to string a few words together. Almost sentences. She'll bring two puzzle pieces to me and say, "Ah nee ... ehhhhhp." Help. Of course. Mom puts on one sock, and Georgia promptly shouts, "ah ooooder one." Yes. The other one. Her favorite songs include 'Skida-marinkee-dinkee-dink," "The Wheels on the Bus," and "Old McDonald had a Kitty ..."

Want to see a personal concert? Here's a 30-second video -- Georgia's first YouTube concert! Click this link: A fun little tune from Georgia to you.

There are perks to having a kid sister. For example, this Christmas, Santa brought Georgia this kickin' turtle nightlight. Sam and I applied our cool factor litmus test, and we decided the turtle is more than worth its salt in stud-li-ness. About the size of a football, the green thing lights up in the dark and splashes a set of stars and moons across all four walls our bedroom. So.Sweet.

She likes to cuddle and has recently learned how to ask for a mooch. (That's "smooch," for those of you less familiar with toddler talk.) And on that rare occasion that she needs a little rocking in order to calm herself for the night, Mom tells me that there is almost nothing like the whisper of her breath as she falls asleep -- light as a lullaby, soft as a prayer.

Yep. I've decided she's a keeper. Until next time, my readers, I hope these mid-winter days find you in high spirits, appreciating the little (sister) things in life.

Ken

A penny in my pocket full of rye

Us: January 2014

It was a random Sunday at a not-so-random restaurant, and I found a penny on the floor. A penny! Joy! Piggy bank bound! Not sure what to do with my new-found wealth, I slapped the coin on the table. "You should put it in your pocket, Ken," said Mom -- ever the font of wisdom and ideas.

YES -- my pocket! A perfect rescue from the salt-laden snow boot or the sticky-fingered little sister (who's newest word, incidentally, is pocket). Into the abyss of denim it went -- snug as a bug. As we finished our dinner, I checked on my penny a few-twenty times. Crazy as it seems, I continued to find my pocketed penny. Sip of lemonade. Pocket. Penny. Check. Bite of food. Pocket. Penny. Check. Swipe of the napkin. Pocket. Penny. Check. 

Now, there were instances when I had to stand and fish in order to confirm the presence of the penny, but like a steadfast companion, the cut of copper appeared in my pocket upon each quest. Who knew that something so innocuous -- so causal -- as a pocket could serve such a solid and trustworthy purpose? We arrived home, and I promptly slid my treasure into the communal kid piggy (compliments of Access Bank), still a-wonder at the luck of the find and the magical reliability of a pocket. Sure, I let go of my penny, but it's now part of a larger collection of serious coin: A collection that will one day serve my sibs and me better than one copper Lincoln. ** 

Ken with coin

And as Mom, Dad, Sam Georgia and I swing along to our not-so-new anymore routine of dad's new job and our new nanny, I often think about this habit of us pocket-checkers. It seems that we find what we know, and we put what we know into a safe space. Snug as a bug. And on any random day, we find ourselves searching for the penny in our pocket -- just to be sure that what we know is still there, still safe, and still true. To place this penny -- this knowledge -- into the communal piggy bank is to risk change. (Pun?) And so, to my fellow pocket checkers and loyal readers, I say three cheers for finding pennies, for reliable storage, and for communal piggy banks. Check your pockets, give thanks for your pennies, and slide that treasure into a space that is new, different, and accessible to the change of some day. 

Until next time,

Ken

** Since then, the pocket has continued to serve me well. I can fit a tennis ball into my sweatshirt jacket pocket, and a matchbox car or two into my sweatpants pocket. Most notably, the pockets of my winter coat serve as a trusty 'nother layer during this relentless Minnesota winter. (We've decided -- Mom and I -- that Hell is not hot. It's cold.) Hooray for extra pockets.