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

Hear the wind blow your nose

Ken

 Dah. I'd been doing so well at this blogging-more-regular thing. Then December hit, and I think it's official: Mom, Dad, Sam, Georgia and I have been sick for a month straight. You name it: Stomach bugs to ear infections and lung-popping coughs to cold viruses, I think we've had it all. Sweet lord. I say we pay someone to deep-clean our house while jet setting to some place warm for a week. Hawaii, anyone?

The good news is that the new year is less than 12 hours from now, Mom and I feel like rock stars, and things are bound to look up! So, in an effort to spread holiday cheer without spreading our germs, here's an excerpt from Mom's Christmas letter. Happy holidays, everyone!


December 17, 2012

... Adam, Ken, Sam, Georgia and I have been skipping along to these December days with anticipation unmatched in previous years. There’s something to be said for unwrapping the holidays alongside two toddlers and a baby.

Ken, Georgia, Sam

Three-year-old Ken last week fessed up to his flushing a matchbox car down the toilet. I’ll be darned. All this time, I’d been told that Sam had done it. So, while Adam and I continue to hope that an 89-cent toy from Target doesn't turn into a massive home repair project, Ken continues to display his new found understanding of cause and effect. All things flushed are deemed never to return. And blaming the kid brother for a lost matchbox car is best not to be done again. He’s quick to laugh, loves to sing along to the “grit-tar,” and his sense of responsibility permeates almost every action: from regretting his car flushing to ensuring the safety and well-being of his kid brother and sister. We adore him.

Georgia

The final days of June this year welcomed baby Georgia – affectionately known by her brothers as “Baby G.” Sitting tall at almost six months old, our best baby girl continues to dazzle all of us with her nasally giggle,
her long eyelashes and her uncanny ability to drool over anything that stands still. She seems happy with her independence: learning to hold her own bottle, sit in her own chair, and eat her own rice cereal. And yet every day, amid her scent of milk and innocence, Georgia reminds me that there is humble peace found in letting others do for you. It’s so easy to be in love with her.

Sam

Sam. This week, he cheerfully assisted with the hanging of the Christmas tree ornaments as well as the five stockings across our fireplace mantel. Each stocking sports the first initial of our first names, and Sam proudly sings each letter – A, M, K, S, G – in a perfect pentatonic scale. He loves to sing, looks at you strangely if you’re singing along, but out of tune, and could curl up with a good book and handful of animal crackers all day long. His two-year-old self is beginning to stretch; he’s losing the baby pudge around his wrists. His stormy blue eyes have turned a hazel brown, and every day we watch him as he whistles along: gabbing around Baby G and towing after Brother Ken. Our hearts: stolen.

Adam and I are doing well, too. I’m happily challenged at work by day and keeping up with the family by night. As time and discipline permit, I find my nose in a book, a pen to my blog and a minivan pointed in the direction of my sister’s house. Adam continues to manage the household by day, and complete his undergrad degree by night. He succeeds in balancing the behavior-shaping needs of our offspring with a variety of talent-driven hobbies. Never have we eaten so well, listened to such tuned ivories, viewed such quality photography, and sipped such solid home-brew. He treats me like gold, and every day I’m proud to be the wife and life-long witness to someone of such wicked-smart humor and humble courage.

Dad & Mom

Despite the glamour of the above paragraphs, I’m discovering that we’re still pretty ordinary. We eat too much, exercise too little, watch some TV every night, and snap at each other once in a while. Our kids throw temper tantrums, say no to us, and sometimes refuse to eat their dinner. Our house is drafty in the winter, creaky in the summer, and plugged with at least one matchbox car. But here’s the thing: We’re lovin’ life. It’s become an interesting balance of extraordinary loves within an ordinary life. And this Christmas season, our hope is that you, too, can embrace your extraordinary loves within your own ordinary life.

Merry Christmas!

Sleighbells ring around the rosie

Well, we spent Thanksgiving cousin-style.Country style. Cousin style. Whatever. Any way you slice it, we hung out with the cousins on Aunt Erin and Uncle Matt's farm. Bliss, I tell you. Pure bliss.There were cows. Dogs. (Stray) cats. Swings. Grandma and Grandpa Corrigan, and a whole ton of cousins. Seventeen cousins, to be exact, and Sam and I enjoyed every minute of it. For a small sampling of the cousin chaos, click the video at the top of this post. Be sure to turn up the volume.
Minus the small bout of car sickness that ensued on the way to the farm, our road trip was fairly smooth. (Yes, a quick picture: The vomit sound, the stop in the middle of nowhere Nebraska, the realization that there are no extra plastic bags, wipes, or air fresheners ... need I continue?) Thank goodness for a calm, cool and collected Aunt Bridget, minivan DVD players, magna doodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Georgia and Dad elected to stay behind in order to enjoy a significantly quieter Thanksgiving with Grandma and Grandpa Conrad. We missed them, but I guarantee Grandma Conrad enjoyed her solo baby time, and both Grandma and Grandpa are looking forward to this weekend - as all five of us plan to grace them with our presence over an early Abbotsford Christmas celebration. Buckle up!

Georgia

Georgia's doing well these days. She's five months old, and she loves to smile (most of the time). Sit her up in her bumbo, in the midst of all the action, and she's happy as a pig in mud. Sam - well, we're pretty much besties. He cracks me up with his story tellings of "yesternight," and his shameless sweet tooth, which morphs into regular requests for "bessert." (That's "dessert" for all of you unfamiliar with toddler-speak.) We run, jump, yell, talk, eat and imagine together these days, and I am thankful for him. Sometimes I wonder what a person does without a Sam. I mean really, he listens to me, hangs out with me, encourages me, and pretends to like all the same movies that I like. He likes to keep up with my pretend. He laughs when I laugh, and he cries when I cry.

Sam

Three cheers for a pal. I tend to think that the world is made up of many different types of Sams. Who's yours? Whether it's a group of golf buddies, a few neighborhood girlfriends, a buddy since second grade, a spouse, a partner, a sibling, a newly acquired friend: I believe everyone needs someone who believes in them. Someone with whom to run, jump, yell, eat, talk and imagine. Everyone needs a Sam, and this Thanksgiving, I'm especially grateful for mine. Happy Thanksgiving!
Until next time,
Ken

Frisbee throwing caution to the wind

A few months ago, Dad taught me how to throw a Frisbee. I have a wicked sidearm. While my aim leaves a bit to be desired, the lift and distance of the toss is usually commendable. Last week, I approached Dad with the Frisbee: perplexed, frustrated, and downright mad.

Me: "I can't do it!"

Dad: "Sure you can, buddy! You're a champ at Frisbee throwing. Show me how it's done."

Me (studying the disc, flipping it over, clamping it with his left hand, then his right): "I don't know how!"

Dad: "Don't think about it so much, Ken. Remember, like this. Just pick it up and throw."

And so, I do. I hook my thumb under the disc, cock my right arm out and back, and hum-chuck this neon green Frisbee in a way that far exceeds anyone's expectations of a three-year-old and a beat-up old Frisbee. Impressive. And fun.

Since this fairly innocuous conversation, I find myself wondering how often we allow our thinking to stand in the way of ourselves. All of us have attributes that are impressive. And fun. Yet,we hold back, worry about the outcome, wonder if we'll fail. We're stuck inside of our heads - thinking about the steps it will take, wondering if we'll succeed, flirting with that ratio of risk and reward - a reward that might not even be there when it's all said and done. And so, we don't. Or we do, and we do so in a way that really isn't natural for us, and then the whole thing feels ... off. Know what I mean?

The tough conversation with a co-worker. The date with the new kid. The exercise routine.The small business idea. The updated resume. The half-written book. The dream job. We think: I could do it. I think. But what if ...?

Don't think about it so much. You're impressive. You're fun. Just pick it up and throw.
Love, Ken

Colors of fall in love

Well, it's happened again. September and October - perhaps the prettiest months in Minnesota - have passed us in a flurry of golden trees and significantly cooler temperatures. I awake to darker mornings and frost on the windows; Mom says that winter is on its way. Whatever that means.
Ken here - to report that we've had a few pretty solid weeks around here. Shortly after my birthday, Mom jet set to Los Angeles for work. Weird to not see her at night, but I think part of her enjoyed hob-nobbing with the CityTarget gurus and watching her past two years of work come to life in a Target store. Not to worry. Grandma and Grandpa Conrad arrived on the scene to hang out with us while Dad went to class. The entire week was fairly entertaining.

Not too many days later, we geared up for Dad's big day. Birthday, that is. Mom scheduled a new babysitter, and Dad found a Groupon for a new restaurant downtown. They seemed thrilled at the idea of leaving the three of us home for the evening, and I was excited for them. I really was. I mean, Sam and I played nicely all day. I didn't start puking till about 2p. Tried to stop, really, but what's a guy to do? I can't help that sickness befell me on the afternoon of Date Night. Poor Dad. It's important to note that Dad is the type of guy to declare a vacation day on his birthday. This year, instead of basking in his birthday glory over a Bryant Lake Bowl breakfast (as has been the occasion in past, pre-marriage-with-kids birthdays), Dad spent the afternoon scrubbing vomit from the floor, washing sheets, and keeping Sam and Georgia away from me. Happy birthday to Dad. The good news here is that I was the only one to get sick, and Mom and Dad celebrated a kid-free, happy-birthday-to-Dad the very next weekend. (New babysitter = awesome).

Halloween! Sam's birthday! The two occasions happen on the same day, and let me tell you - this year - we lived it up. Sam picked a yellow-frosted birthday cake: bright, cheerful, and fairly synonymous with his disposition. Shortly after snarfing our slice of Big Bird on a plate, we hailed our favorite brand of drawing utensils and muscled our way around the block, to the dead end, and back.Never has the march to neighborhood houses yielded such sweet reward! I think 3 Musketeers is my favorite.

I'm looking forward to the election next week. Really. Political ads and party sentiment aside, the pending events of Tuesday give me cause to reflect on the sweetness of choice. Call me an eternal optimist, but the chance to weigh in on the options presented to our city, state and country - and then live together in community with those choices - is really the meat and potatoes of inspired patriotism. So, whether there's a trickle to your economics or an orange sign in your front yard, join me in my gratitude for the responsibility and freedom to choose. I'll trust you to elect our president, color the definition of marriage, and direct our public funds to all the right places. For now, I'll limit my choices to my daily outfits and the amount of milk in my glass.

Until next time,
Ken

Keeping the peace of cake

It’s my birthday! Today! I’m three. Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you the answer. Due to various schedule obligations and my gigantic desire to celebrate the day of my birth with my favorite Minnesota cousins, we rang in the start of my fourth year last weekend, rather than today. Mary Kate, Nora, Greta B. and Bridget know how to beef up a birthday party, let me tell you. In addition to buckets of giggles and a handful of new ways to play with my ATW Radio Flyer, the gals gave to me my very first airplane. Its Popsicle stick propeller is only the beginning of its cool factor, for the belly of the beast is made of an empty box. A box with an attached lid. And a bell. YES – a bell! Do you know what this means? This means that every time I open the lid, the bell rings. And every time I close the lid, the bell rings. Never has the storing and re-storing my stuff been so melodic and wonderful and authentically mine. Thanks for the kickass airplane, girls! I love it.

In other news, we recently harvested Dad’s hops. What used to be a fairly respectable ten-foot privacy fence has now become the primary ingredient in Dad’s next tap beer. A wet-hopped malt beverage, which will contain approximately 0.5 ounces of freshly harvested hops per pint of liquid confidence, I’m happy to report that Sam and I learned the finer points of picking hops blossoms and placing each one delicately into a paper Target bag: container temporaire until the brewing process called each blossom home. The barley pop is currently fermenting in our semi-temperature controlled basement laundry room; the concoction will most likely be tapped shortly before the Third Annual Conrad Brew Review (CBR). Need details of the CBR? Talk to Dad, and he’ll happily share the details. All are welcome. Until then, the smell of freshly harvested hops continues to permeate the basement and seep its way into all pockets of the Corrigan Conrad living quarters. So, if you pop by for a visit between now and mid-October, know that the faint odor of plant is not the result of your recent walk around the dog park; rather, it’s the scent of Dad’s seasonal bubble of toil and trouble. Three cheers for home brewing!

I learned an important birthday lesson this year. Wait, wait … Let me back up a bit. I had requested a green birthday cake. After all, the color green seems to accompany many things of the favorite variety: Dad’s hops, Sam’s matchbox car, Georgia’s bottle, my M socks – you get the idea. So, a white circle cake with homemade green frosting graced the center of the dinner table on the evening of my birthday celebration – along with three green candles and the birthday song. (I knew this birthday thing would rule.) I snuffed the candles in three breaths and devoured my green cake with all the lip-smacking gusto that a man of my size could muster. Happy birthday to me! What I've since learned, is this: In order to share a circle cake with favorite Minnesota cousins, a brother, a mom and a dad, a circle cake morphs into many triangle cakes, and one by one, the triangles disappear. Then, when a certain birthday boy later searches the kitchen for his circle cake (and searched high and low I did!) he learns the real meaning of that awkward saying: You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Alas!
It promises to be a good year. And next year, I’ll be smarter choosing the shape of my birthday cake. Until next time –

Ken