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.