Same old song and dance routine

Georgia: Footie pjs, Christmas morning

It's 2014! Ken here -- to report that we're stepping to the rhythm of a new routine, and I can sum it up with two words: Footie. Pajamas. That's right. We wear our footie pj's nightly now, as we watch our nocturnal  temperatures drop to minus 20, minus 30. (Not gonna lie -- I wear my t-shirt and socks underneath those pj's. It's cold.) Last week, I asked Mom why we always put the left foot in first. Of the footie pjs, that is. She really couldn't tell me. Since then, I've been choosing my first foot in, and this deviance from routine has a certain sweetness to it. Deliciously rebellious, yet safe from serious circumstance. Just call me William Earnest Henley.

As the temperatures are handing us a vortex of the polar variety, so too has the Corrigan Conrad household shifted into a vortex of interesting opportunity. Effective January 6, Dad accepted and began a full time job. While this completely feeds my faith in the good fellowship of humanity (i.e. former boss of Dad's called him up and said, "Hey, this would be perfect for you," to which -- after a bit of exploration -- my dad whole-hardheartedly agreed), this decision of my dad (and mom) to exit his job as full-time child-behavior-shaper and household manager brings its own whirlwind of adjustment in routine.

Ken & Sam via Nanny Kate's cell phone

We have a nanny now. Her name is Kate. I decided yesterday that I like her. (YES, it took me a few weeks. Sam and Georgia, on the other hand: Immediate adoration). She gets me to and from preschool, paints paper plates with us, teaches us new songs to sing, and makes sure that all the pieces to our board games are put back in their right place every day. Who knew there'd be another lady out there as bright and confident as my mom? She's not my mom. She's not my dad. But, I've decided she's' a keeper.

And so it goes. Just as I'm dancing to my own routine of footie pj's, so too are Mom and Dad stepping into this two-parents-working-and-child-care-is-an-official-part-of-our-family-and-now-we-shop-at-Target-on-Sunday-like-everyone-else thing. It's an adjustment, but I do think it's going well, so far. This week, Mom watched a handful of her work friends exit their full time gigs, and -- thankful as she is for the chance to continue in her current position -- she whispered a secret to me as we finished our bed time routine. 

Footie pj's, studying note from Santa

"As JP2 and our guy Francis would say," she said, as she fastened the top snap of my pj's, "There's dignity in work, Kenneth.To have work, and to tie your work routines to a purpose -- no matter if that work is corporate, volunteer, at-home, or elsewhere -- is an expression of ourselves, and our 'innate, God-given dignity.'" 

I'm not sure what all that means yet, but three cheers for new opportunities and new routines. May you, my reader, find a chance to study your own routines, perhaps step with a different foot, and taste a sense of adventure as you embark on this new year.

Until next time, 
Ken

PS -- Christmas was awesome! And this winter is relentless. See you next time.

Never a dull moment to remember

Ken here ... Happy Advent!

Word on the street is that Mom sent an abridged version of her Christmas letter this year. In the spirit of documenting this business of life,I figured it a good idea to snag the rest of her letter and plop it in the middle of the blog-o-sphere for your pre-holiday enjoyment.

Consume as you'd like, but be warned: Much of what follows is Mom's attempt to reflect on a few favorite moments of 2013, as well as the evolution of my (and Sam and Georgia's) character. She does this with full knowledge that it can sometimes result in a tone of 'hey, look at my family and how great we all are.' Trust that there is a healthy dose of humility and imperfection woven throughout the events of this year; Mom just didn't write about that stuff this time. Enjoy, my loyal readers, and happy holidays.

Ken

Ken: Age 4

...Fall 2013 marked the beginning of school for one Kenneth Conrad, Jr. Having looked forward to this milestone for a solid 12 months, Ken holds his own in the river of early childhood education. He is most comfortable when there are rules to be followed. He chooses his friends because they "are nice, and they are funny," and he'll be the first to tell you that he's tired and needs to go to bed. His best friend is a pre-K gal named Sophia (she makes the prayer list every night), and his favorite school stories typically involve an art project, a song with spanish words sprinkled into it, or time with friends on the playground. Any remaining wonder of mine regarding his ability to stand on his own two feet was completely assuaged when, while performing at his recent preschool holiday music concert, he not-so-eloquently shouted to the boy in front of him: 'Please MOVE! I can't see my DAD!'

Georgia: Age 1

Georgia turned one in June. Have you ever seen what happens to those tiny dogs that befriend the big dogs? Right. Georgia runs with the big dogs: jumping, climbing, zooming cars. Her shriek is likened to that of the tornado siren, and her eyes match the clear blue sparkle of her Grandpa Ken's eyes. While she insists on growing up as fast as her brothers, I contend that she still carries the scent of a baby -- my baby -- and the glimpses that we do get of her actual age match that of the typical toddler. She has recently figured out that my name is not Dad, and her vocabulary abounds with about six words: Mom, Dad, hi, Jesus, bacon and good. I'd say she's got her priorities straight.

Spring 2013 introduced Sam to his first biking experience. It's a bike with no pedals (that's intentional), and

Sam: Age 3

on the evening of his first balancing adventure, his toes barely graced the pavement thanks to the clumsy thickness of his up-and-up diaper. Having since graduated to the studly-ness of Thomas the Train underpants, his biking excursions have proven to be more comfortable and completely aligned with Sam's innocent determination and love of the outdoors. He carries his three-year-old self with a cheerfulness unmatched throughout the household: singing, drawing, dancing, humming and talking -- all in a rhythm that is only his own. He delights in the little things: a song on the radio, a new book, a candy bar. He offers his own blanket when Georgia can't find hers, invents stories of himself in Kindergarten (just to make sure Ken doesn't get all the glory), and last week, upon turning on the Christmas music for the first time, giddily announced,"That man on the radio said that Santa is coming tonight! Tonight!"

This year, Adam and I celebrated our five year wedding anniversary (and our birthdays and our Christmas) with a trip to the Great American Beer Fest in Denver Colorado. Like two kids in our respective candy stores, we hung out together -- mingling with more than 1300 

Mom & Dad: 2013

professional brewers (Adam's candy store) and meeting the people, restaurants and scenery of a whole new city (my candy store). Did you know that, in Denver, the sun shines about 300 days of the year? I love my husband, and I'd return to vacation in a heartbeat.

The finer points of imagination continue to be discovered around the Corrigan Conrad abode, and with that comes the ability to believe in all sorts of possibilities. One rainy fall day, Sam and Ken each found his cuddle blanket and a clothespin -- declaring himself princess for the day. Not to be outdone, Georgia snagged her favorite blanket and a magnet, and reached to Dad for help. Not only did Dad find sufficient blanket fasteners for his three budding blue-bloods, he also fashioned three paper crowns (pictured). Upon speedy assessment of the trio's wardrobe completion, Sam formally declared Georgia to be king.

Royalty: 2013

And so it goes. My husband, king and two princesses continue to teach me much about what it means to be curious, intentional and unabashed. I can only hope that my approach to life contains more of these traits -- thanks to the loyal presence of my Adam, Georgia, Ken and Sam.

Cheers to an eventful 2013. Peace to you, and Merry Christmas!
Molly

Wouldn't hurt a fly me to the moon

Georgia

 It's the time of year for scarves. And hats. And mittens. And boots. Wooly coats. Long underwear if you got 'em. Why do we live in this crazy state, again? It's also time for fun stuff -- like Advent candles at the supper table, Christmas tree lights and annual holiday picture and letter exchanges. Keep 'em coming, friends! As the resident four-year-old, it's my job to monitor the mailbox this month for tidings of great joy. (And, watch for ours in the coming week or so. We promise to hit the snail mail prior to Christmas this year.)

It's usual times around the Corrigan Conrad abode. I'm hittin' the preschool scene about three times per week, Sam's making up stories of himself in Kindergarten, and Georgia is declaring her dirty diapers as they happen. Mom and Dad are hoping for no-kids-in-diapers about six months ahead of schedule. We'll see how that pans out.

In other news, our local parish is puttin' on the ritz again this year -- with a living Nativity scene next weekend. Today, Mom grabbed a flier, sorted out the calendar, and signed the three of us up to be angels. Pretty sure Georgia will pull this off without a hitch. Sam and I ... well, it's gonna be cold. Good thing we're able to sport the all-winter gear mentioned in the opening paragraph. As long as the sun gods declare it warm enough to be outside, you can count on a few Conrad angels shootin' the breeze with a small baby, a Mary, a Joseph, a few shepherds and some real, live animals. Game on.

Today, we returned from our sometimes-weekly excursion to Jesus' house, Living Nativity flier in hand, 

Sam, Ken: Our flier

when Sam announced, "Mom, why is that flier not flying?" An excellent question, good sir! If named a flier, one's primary job is to fly, is it not? You should SEE the way this flier flies! Mom applied her elementary knowledge of paper fliers; Dad completed the design with his fantastic knowledge of random things. And, zoom! This flier is the newest occupier of our play time, our conversations, and our reasons for running the length of the house. Sub-zero temperatures outside -- no matter! We have a flier. And a good one, at that.

Hope this note find you smiling, with enough imagination to see the extra in your ordinary, and set your pre-Christmas spirit a flight.

Until next time,
Ken

A golden set of pipe dreams

Georgia: Age 1

Thanksgiving weekend, and this year I'm obliged to tip my hat in thanks for my siblings.

A word,specifically, about Sam:

Sam's got himself a set of pipes. I mean it. He sings all the time. For a while, I thought this was the norm for any kid-brother. Sam's littler than me, so I figured he just had to learn things by singing. You know -- the alphabet, prayers at meals and night, numbers up to twelve. But, upon recently hanging with plenty of younger cousins, I'm realizing that this propensity to sing belongs uniquely to Sam. He sings at the breakfast table. He sings in the bathroom. He sings in the car, the grocery store, the library. He even sings in his sleep. Serious.

Other people notice it, too. A long-long day ago, we went to the Target store -- just me, Sam, Georgia and Dad. And my favorite red-and-khaki-lady-with-the-walkie-talkie approached our cart, looked at Sam and said, "Well, hello! You're not singing today. What seems to be the trouble?" Of course, Sam just smiled sweetly -- having no idea how to tell our favorite Target team member that a stuffy nose makes for some clogged up pipes.

Sam: Age 3

I'm pretty proud of my brother, actually. I mean, flip on the radio, and Sam finds the beat. Start humming "Twinkle, twinkle," and Sam will politely bring you on-pitch -- just by singing along. He marches to the beat of his own drum, that's for sure -- a drum whose shell happens to be beautifully carved, stretched and toned to the rhythm of its owner.

Ken (L) Sam (R)

Yesternight, Sam was finishing his suppertime glass of [insert beverage choice here]. As luck would have it, he attempted to finish the drink too quickly, and half-choked/sputtered the liquid across the table. "Sam, Sam," I said, "did it go down the wrong pipe?" Sam looked at me, sweet, serious, and puzzled. "Ken. I don't have pipes in my mouth."

Yes you do, kid. Yes you do.

Hope your Thanksgiving found you feeling as thankful for your siblings -- be they the family or friend variety -- as I am. Until next time,
Ken

Taking your time is of the essence

Sam: Age 3

Mom just finished a favorite: A Wrinkle in Time. "It's a bus book," she says. One that can be picked up and put down in 20-minute increments: a mini-escape whilst en route between the office and the home. I find it amusing that Mom speaks of this award-winning novel with such flippancy -- as if exploring such universal truths as good versus evil, time, space and unconditional love -- could be internalized in the same manner as a quick dip in the pool, or a quick spin around the block. Despite the methods of Mom's novel-reading as of late, I'm here to tell you that Sam and I are beginning our own foray into understanding this concept of time.

Yesternight. After when we. A long-long day ago. Next time. Tomorrow after work. In the morning time. When the sun goes to bed. In three more sleeps. These are just some of the ways that Sam and I verbalize the chronology of our toddler adventures. Most of the time, it works. Mom and Dad seem to know what we mean, anyway.

Ken & Sam: Fall

Now, I recognize that my four years (and Sam's three) may prohibit me (us) from really getting this right, but I do have to wonder: At what point do we begin to orient ourselves in such a way that time sets our priorities for us? Instead of measuring my plans and behaviors by Tuesdays, lunch hours and calendar appointments, I would rather continue my and Sam's approach to determining what needs to be done and when. For example:

• Any super-important event that is said to happen in the future, is measured by number of sleeps. (i.e. We go to Grandma's house in three more sleeps.)
• Any past event that has made a positive impression on one's character development is described as happening a long-long day ago. (i.e. Remember, a long-long day ago, when we went to Erin and Matt's farm?)
• Any event that is deemed important enough to do, but can't immediately be accomplished due to the more-important task at hand, can be assigned after when we...then. (i.e. After when we eat this cookie, then we'll take a nap.)
• And lastly, any event that is important to repeat, but can't be committed to with any specifics, can be prioritized as next time. (i.e. We will share better next time.)

Ken: Artist Extraordinaire

Time. A long-long day ago, Mom said to Dad, "We can't beat it, and the more we try to measure and maximize it, the faster it seems to fly." The good news is that we all have priorities to set, and we can welcome the challenge of keeping our priorities in check. This way, our past, present and future can fold together into a bouquet of existence that each of us can be proud to carry, no matter what the time.

Until next time, 

Ken

How I want to be in that number the stars

Us: Five years married

Ken's mom here -- needing to pen a few thoughts on this weekend of all saints and all souls. It's a weekend that has become a mosaic of milestones to me, and so, I take a moment (to temporarily hoard eldest-son Ken's space in the blog-o-sphere) to recognize the delicate balance that life strives to bring.

Eleven years ago this weekend, I lost -- many of us lost -- Kate. Grief has a funny way of sneaking up on its tip-toes.  Time passes, you begin to reconcile. Then, a song, a memory, a scent, passes by, and you're consumed -- if just for a moment -- by the Unreasonable. Swung by the tail -- if just for a moment -- and reminded of the depth of your loneliness for this person, for what more you should have done, for what might have been, could have been.

Sam: Age 3

Lord help each of us as we embrace life according to You. Every year on this weekend, I find myself grieving her loss, celebrating her life, and recognizing the incessant ways she continues to gently shape the moments of my presence here. Because,

• Eleven years ago this weekend, we met Kate's newborn son.
• Seven years ago this weekend, I fell in love (officially). 
• Six years ago this weekend, I said yes. 
• Five years ago this weekend, I married my Adam. 
• Three years ago this weekend, my Sam was born.

Kate

And every year, this weekend, I kiss my husband, I hug my son, and I am struck with the overwhelming sense that balance exists -- no matter how delicate. For, with every loss, there is a lesson. With every lesson there is a learning. With every learning, there is choice. And, with every choice, there is a chance for better than before.

We've all feared, loved, lost. On this weekend of all saints and all souls, remember that we're not in this alone. Life is ours for the living, and it's all worth fighting for.


Happy weekend,
mbc

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