Taking a break mom's favorite coffee mug

Ken: Age 4

Ken here: Needing to report and reconcile a recent event at a local shopping mall.

The Set-up

Stormy day Saturdays are tricky times at the Corrigan-Conrad abode. Typically, our weekend days are filled with outdoor adventures: Ways to get us out of the house, to give Dad a kid-break, and to make sure we're exposed to people and places outside of our weekly routines. When the Saturday rains arrived last week, Mom made the executive decision to drive to the mall. Not just any mall -- the Mall of America. It's the mecca of brick and mortar shopping, a haven of boutiques, and a cacophony of strollers, handbags, tweens and toddlers. Amazing.

The Event

We parked in our usual secret spot: East side, street level, the state of Maine, aisle C. It's a quick skip from the van to the pedestrian path, and from the ped path to the little-used side door of Forever 21. Last weekend, it was my job to carry mom's favorite Dunn Bros covered-coffee-mug (today filled with an awesome juice blend, instead of coffee), while she and Sam pushed stroller-bound Georgia. We greeted a nice lady and her grand kid, sauntered past the checkout counters, and the coffee mug slipped out of my hands.

The mug (right)

Boom. Crash. Kerplsploosh. Pick your onomatopoeia; I dropped it.

I was like the kid on A Christmas Story who drops the lug nuts all over the highway. Aw fudge. I think I actually said, "I dropped it." Sigh.  The good news: The Forever-21 lady was cool about it; Mom remained calm, and no one was hurt. We stood next to the bright orange juice goop-mixed-with-black-and-white-glass shards, until the nice lady said she'd take it from there. "It looks like that was a nice mug," she said. Yes. Yes, it was.

The Reflection
What's a kid to do? I take comfort in the fact that it was a replaceable (???) coffee mug, and not something soul-binding, like the determination of a personal goal, the heart of a first love, or the hope of an innocent child. But for some, a favorite coffee mug ranks right up there, for its ability to be a vessel for a gentle wake-up call, a one-on-one conversation, or a reward for a busy day.

And I write you to say: Mom's over her coffee mug, and I'm more careful. I know that important things (like hearts and hope and coffee mugs) must be treated with a different kind of respect -- a concentration, really -- and that all of us must handle these with undivided attention, intentional time, and mutual respect. To recognize this responsibility is the first move toward realizing the influence we have over the hearts and hopes in our lives, and truly owning the effort that it takes to ensure we won't find them slipping from our hands, broken on the floor, or unused in the cupboard.

Us (with Dad behind the camera)
Summer 2013

Starting now, let's shoot for the stars, handle with care, and give a shout to a helper if something's slipping. Here's to making our life's hearts, hopes, dreams (and coffee mugs) an integral, real, and ever-lasting part of our days.

Until next time,
Ken

A stomach bug off

Ken: Age 4

A rite of passage age -- that's what four is. It's admission to school. It's permission to attend the kid's homily thing at Mass. It's the beginning of a real dose of Tylenol. It's the entrance ticket to the Richfield Burger King Play Land. And, for me, age four marked a knock-out, kick-me-while-I'm-down, not-sure-what-day-it-is-and-really-don't-care stomach bug. Darn pre-school germs.

Sam: Age 2

Yesterday, Sam and I hopped our Strider bikes for our nightly jaunt to the park with Georgia and Mom. I made it half way down the street before caving to the demands of my healing bod. I asked Mom for the wagon. We did an about-face, climbed up the drive, and busted out the trusty Radio Flyer. I'm not gonna lie: It was heavenly.

I lay cuddled with my blue car blanket, face-up -- staring skyward -- letting the 68 degree evening air brush across my face and over the back of the wagon. Feeling so ... taken care of.

Georgia: Age 1

The wagon's really nothing special. It's creaky. Bumpy. Chipped. The handle is bent in two places. Mom hooks a baby swaddle strap through the handle, wears it like a poor-man's harness, and hauls us around. Most of the time, she's pulling me and Sam while pushing Georgia-and-stroller. Quite the mode.

But this wagon, let me tell you, this wagon is our way to better places. Destinations. With Mom at the helm, we experience the library, the park, the DMV, the farmer's market. And, every time, we're carried along our journey in grace and style. The wagon moves beyond our abilities, lifts us to places not gotten to on our own, lets us feel so ... taken care of.

The Radio Flyer
(plus hops, of course)

And I wonder, as I continue to navigate this journey called life -- where can I find my Radio Flyers? We all must have them. Be they people, hobbies, family, traditions: These Radio Flyers let us power through life's experiences. Our Radio Flyers allow us to cave to the demands of our healing selves, be lifted beyond our abilities, and feel ... taken care of.

I found a few stars on the way home. Stomach bug and all: Looking at the sky. Just me and the moon and my Radio Flyer.

Peace and good thoughts to you,
Ken

The final four four time

Ken: Age 4

A mom's perspective: Ken is four today. Four years ago today: Five days ahead of my due date, in the hospital, officially a mom. Feeling amazingly blessed. Tired. Wondering what I'd just gotten myself into. It's four years later: Feeling amazingly blessed. Tired. Wondering what I've gotten myself into. He's in school now. Counting on other adults, and his peers, to help him grow. It's nerve-wracking and necessary. All at the same time. He's sweet. And serious. His teacher tells me that he's really good at sharing. He wants to know the rules. Then he'll push them until they're almost broken. Almost. He tells Sam what to do. Then he makes sure Sam's okay with that action plan. He makes Georgia laugh. His giggle makes me laugh right along with him. Ask him for a hug, and he'll turn sideways and lean in, awkward and natural at the same time. He asks good questions. Listens. Blows out the devotional candles at church. Asks to drive the car. Sings his prayers. Chases bunny rabbits. Loves his bike helmet. Needs his down time. Tucks his stuffed animals in at night. Chooses carrot cake for his birthday. Reminds me of what's important. Four years ago today: And life is good.

Down the road and back to school

First day of school: Me and Mom

Wouldn't you know it ... I did it. Not even four yet, and I'm a pro at this back to school business. Watch out, world: Three mornings per week, with my apple name tag and bright blue tote, preschool is Where. It's. At.

I was surprised to learn that I'd be at school by myself. Dad explained this concept a few days before the start of my scholastic journey. I had expressed my excitement at all going to school together, to which Dad responded, "Ken," he said, "You can actually go to school by yourself. Dad, Georgia and Sam will drop you off, you'll go to school, and then we'll pick you up again when school's done."

Well, I had to mull this over. Sam and I are a packaged deal these days, and to go somewhere without him was slightly disconcerting. Near the end of the day, after a few sibling squabbles and a slight dip in Dad's kid-patience, I declared my position: "Dad," I said, "When I go to school by myself, I will miss you a little. But not too much."

Sibling support: Sam & Georgia

Now two weeks in, I reflect on that first day ... the first week, even ... and I'm struck with the a few notions:

1. Once in preschool, holding mom's hand is optional. Mom tried, for sure, to keep her grasp as we walked into school that first day, but I wiggled out of it and ran ahead of her --so thrilled was I to finally enter the world of academic bliss. 
2. Making friends is relatively straightforward. Say hello. Be ready to laugh. Share often. Abiding these principles has landed me a few amigos: Oliver, Decklin and Tilly. Together, we're figuring out this business of letters, numbers, turn-taking and sharing. So far so good.
3. New vocabulary abounds. I've learned new phrases, such as, "Oh my goodness gosh," and "After-when we do this, then we'll do that." I've also learned the importance of announcing when I have to go to the bathroom, so that my temporary absence is not misunderstood. I've carried all of these learnings home with me, and Sam appreciates the apprenticeship.

You're guaranteed updated reports as the weeks unfold. Until then, peace out, dear readers. School's in session, and it's time for me to shine.

Ken

Jigsaw puzzle pieces of summertime

Ken: Age 3

Ken here: With an official report of summertime. The state fair has officially come and gone; the scent of back to school is in the air, and, until today, it's been just hot enough to make one admit that they'd rather suck on a Popsicle than do anything productive outside.

Oh, how I've missed penning to you, my readers. It's been quite the spring and summer. Allow me to share with you some pieces: From northern Minnesota family reunions to mosquito-filled Fourth of July, and from Aunt Val's four-wheelers to three-person bike rides around the park, I just have so much to tell you.

Georgia's first birthday

My baby sister is one year old. She walks. For real now. What used to be two, three steps before reverting to the comfort of the ab-crunching bear crawl, has turned into a full-fledged, high-steppin' only-trip-over-my-feet-sometimes, toddler walk. Sam and I are so proud of her. She's got a mouth full of teeth, stick-straight auburn hair, and a high-pitched scream that demands your attention and your prompt response. Go, Georgia, go.

We planted marigolds around the house - me and Dad. Beautiful. Fat blossoms with thick, sturdy stems, growing just tall enough to nod hello in the afternoon wind-shine. Lately, the sticky-sweet heat has gotten the best of most of our outdoor plants (save for the hops trellis in the backyard). Most are dry, a bit brittle, and look a bit like well-cooked bacon on a Saturday morning. And today, I couldn't help but ask, "Dad, why are your flowers so crispy?"

Sam: Age 2

Sam is the master of his throne lately. I officially bequeathed my blue potty chair to Sam, and own it, he has. After the token two weeks of learning what it means to actually pee his pants, I will say that Sam's become a pro. He drops trou, aims well, dumps the contents of the little pot into the big pot, flushes, and bellows a proper adieu to his respective waste. Milestone: met. As the more seasoned of the short-statured-potty-goers in the house, I stand in joyful solidarity with Sam at every exclamation of "Goodbye, poop! Seeya, pee!" Such sweet independence.

Cousin Colleen and Mom

A recent highlight: Cousin Colleen came to visit. From the Hill of Washington, D.C. to our humble hangout of Richfield MN, we introduced her to our local favorites. Did you know that The Nook now serves its famous Juicy Lucy basement level? And, the Blue Stem Bar and Table sports a flight of red wine that contains a very specific, life-changing sample? While we young ones did not accompany the cousin and the 'rents on this tour of greasy food and good alcohol, we still managed to strut our stuff by leading the way through the Saturday morning waffle routine, to the nearby park, and into the overall cacophony of three children ages three, two and one. Come visit any time, Colleen! We. Heart. You.

Time is marching on, and I'm growing right along with it. Yesterday, a quick study of my hand tells me that my pinky is catching up. I reported the finding to Mom; she seemed equally impressed.

School officially starts tomorrow! Pre-school here I come.

Until next time, dear readers,
Ken

Two parts bitter and sweet caroline

Us: Sweet

Truth: I can be a bitter old lady. I try to be optimistic, cheerful, positive. Really. But sometimes, it's an epic fail. I listen to the token sound bytes via radio, and I wonder exactly just how hard that reporter worked to find an objective source. A typical pull-at-the-heartstrings TV story finds me lobbing semi-sarcastic softballs at the subjects, and declaring them victim to first-world, rich-people problems. And, in true bitter-old-lady form, I've just hijacked my three-year-old's seat at the blog-writing table, and am declaring my bitterness to the world.
Still reading? Thanks.

Georgia: 8m

On a slightly similar note, Georgia doesn't like bananas. What baby doesn't like bananas? Every child likes bananas. She'll eat peas, squash, sweet potatoes, apples and carrots - all as if they're going out of style. But, mix her a healthy dose of Gerber's Stage One banana puree, and she'll struggle through every single bite. Huh. The good news is that her sweetness often prevails, and she finishes the meal anyway. To which I say: If I have permission to be the occasional bitter old lady, so too does Georgia have permission to not adore a typical child's fruit haven. Be it mood or meal, it seems that an occasional bitter is warranted - if not for anything more than to ensure we're letting prevail that which is sweet.

And so, whether your mood at the moment be bitter or sweet, here are a few sweet snippets recently heard within the Corrigan Conrad abode. Enjoy!

Last night I declared to my toddlers the typical bedtime routine: Bath, books, bed. To which Sam replied, "But Mom, we went to bed yesterday." 

Last week, I walked past the bathroom as Ken exited -- proud to have finished his business and not miss out on the Go Fish game initiated by his kid brother. A quick peek into the WC showed the soap dispenser still resting in its original place, and the hand towel hanging in a mysteriously perfect position on the kid rack. 

Ken: Age 3

Me: "Hey, Ken. (Evenly, patiently.) Ken, did you wash your hands with soap after going to the bathroom?"
Ken: Silent. (Observing Sam's card playing.)
Me (Kneeling down next to Ken, eye-level): "Ken, did you use soap when you washed your hands just now?"
Ken (Looks at me. Leans his forehead onto my forehead, inches from my nose): "Mom. Don't ask me that."

A February 2013 posting to Facebook (compliments of my hubby):
Referring to the triangular objects in the coat closet, my 3yo asked me if I would "buy [him] a couple of hookers to play with." Sorry kid, I don't have that kind of cash.

A post-breakfast conversation last week:
Sam: (Referring to a bouquet of fresh tulips on the kitchen table): "Dad, those flowers for Mom are pretty."
Dad: "You're right, Sam."

Sam: Age 2

Sam: "Yeah, but Dad, flowers don't say cheese."

A wake-up call just this morning:
Ken: "Mom, my undies are wet."
Me: "Hm. Did you pee in your undies by accident?"
Ken: "No." (Hands the wet undies to me, holding dry undies in the other hand.)
Me: "Ken, is this pee?"
Ken: "No. It's just water. Water from the toilet."

A welcome as I returned from work last Thursday:
Ken (his nose to my cheek): "Mom, I want to give you a hug."

Whether it's a child's perspective, encounters with strangers, or a simple reflection on your routines, my hope for you this month is that you can find the sweet within the many flavors of life's moments.

Molly

Swirling down the drain the noodles

Me!

We're missing a colander. Strainer. Drainer. You know - the bowl with the holes in it. Whatever you want to call it, the most necessary tool for creating any sort of noodle-focused masterpiece is - quite suddenly - missing from our kitchen.
Hello! Ken here - reminding you that, yes, the life of this Minnesota family is trundling along, and we've officially survived the month of January. Anyone else feel that the first month of the year is also the longest? Oy.
Aside from the dark and cold of the outside, life's pretty sweet. We managed to stay healthy for the entire month, Dad started a pair of new classes, Mom started a new job, and our friend Chris finally convinced us to buy a new colander. Happy new year!

Georgia

Georgia has teeth. Two on the bottom to be exact, and she reveals this fact through a wide, toothy grin about once every two or three minutes. Lately, it seems, there is much to smile about. She rolls in any direction, grabs anything within reach, and babbles to anyone who's ready to pay attention. I finally figured out how to make her laugh, and am proud to say that no one gets Georgia to giggle like I do.
We have snow this year! Lots of it. Recently, the temperatures have ranged from negative 9 to positive 4. (Yes, Fahrenheit ..), so our trips beyond the back door have been fairly limited. The good news is that we'll be basking in balmy by Sunday: a plus 30 degrees and sunny. Have I become so boring as to speak of the weather for so long? Apologies. What's really got me jazzed, though, is the dampness of the snow and my sweet, sweet snow pants. It's high time to build our own snowman. Watch out, neighbors.Sam, Dad and I are ready. It's on.

 

Sam/Santa

Sam! He's such a ham. And he talks. And talks. And talks. And talks. Last week, he found a birthday card from this past October. (It was in the bottom of the book bin, in case you were wondering.) Upon plucking his own birthday card from the pits of obscurity, he says, "Ken! It's your birthday! How fun is this?" Yesterday he pointed to the Quaker Oats container and asked Mom, "Who's the pretty lady?"
Santa was a hit this year - for all of us. We hung at Grandma and Grandpa Corrigan's house for the Christmas festivities, and the guy showed up at the doorstep. What service! Although we weren't quite sure what to say to the rote "What would you like for Christmas?" question, I am proud of Georgia, Sam and myself for gracefully alighting his lap tear-free. Quite the milestone, really. And quite the beard.
Here's hoping that winter is treating you as well as it's treating me. Now that Mom's getting the hang of this new job thing, she and I promise to grace the blogosphere a bit more regularly. Until next time, enjoy the fluffy white stuff, and never under-appreciate the goodness of a properly drained bowl of noodles.
Ken