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

Five foot two left feet

Georgia discovered her feet. Really. Of all the things an almost-three-month-old baby is supposed to do - smile, coo, sleep through the night - Georgia does it all. And the girl is crazy about her feet.She finishes eating, hangs out with us for a bit, and then spends a solid twenty minutes studying her toes. I wish I knew what was so interesting.
Regardless, Georgia's foot fascination has caused me to re-evaluate my footwear. I mean, if my kid sister deems these complex mechanical structures to be so important, than a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do. So, Mom and I went to the Target store for some new socks. They're pretty awesome, really. With M's on the bottom. Sam's socks have S's on the bottom. My M socks rule.
My M socks and I conquered the month of August in style. I learned how to bike to the park (cars stay in the middle; I stay on the side), mastered the potty time (standing up to pee is so much easier),  ruled the back yard (sleds are useful in the summer time, too), and celebrated Georgia's baptism (who knew babies could actually go into that water?). I've decided, in fact, that summer wouldn't be nearly as much fun without my M socks, and that it behooves my good luck to match my M socks with my undies. Be they grey, green, blue or red, I'm skippin' along to summer in style. Watch out, world.
In other news, mom went back to work a couple of weeks ago. We miss her for sure, but Dad's holding his own with this two-toddler-and-a-baby routine. Sometimes Sam and I work together just to see him sweat a little, but most of the time, Dad's in charge. He vanishes to night school a couple nights per week. I think it's become an academic mini-vacation for the man.
We skipped the state fair this year. While I'd like to think that the Great Minnesota Get Together wasn't nearly as great due to our absence, I believe our waist lines and our bank account thank us. To those of you who feasted on pronto pups, sweet corn and alligator-on-a-stick without us, know that we're living vicariously through your stories of good food, mobs of people and incessant heartburn. See you next year!
Fall has officially arrived. Our trip to the park last week revealed one of my favorite trees - green all around with just one streak of orange down the side - like one of those cool I'm-going-grey-but-don't-really-mind-it hairdos. These multi-colored trees mean cooler weather, crunchy leaves and a couple of birthdays right around the corner. Buckle up!
Ken

A day in the life of the party

minor bits of hilarity ensue around these parts, and i'm compelled to document them, lest i repeat ken's follies in the coming months. sam here -- happy summer! after a whopping record of two for 24, mom and dad and ken took a 10-day hiatus from the potty training bit. in that time, we welcomed another wave of visitors eager to meet georgia (and see us, of course). summer's been kickin' really. despite the blanket of heat, we've spent a plethora of time outside - exploring all possibilities with sidewalk chalk, sand toys, our atw radio flyer (all-terrain wagon, to the common folk), and the public park behind the cop shop.
now. back to the aforementioned hilarity.

we were scrambling to get in the van and go somewhere. for the life of me, i can't remember where the five of us were headed, but i'm sure were were late, or approaching the distinct possibility of being late. three occupied car seats now declares a new seating arrangement. ken's in the back seat, and georgia and i are situated in the middle captain seats. as mom's buckling ken, he drops one of his two matchbox cars and immediately beings to freak. (he's like that - about his matchbox cars.) "I can't find the car in my butt! I can't find the car in my butt!" what? how does one manage a matchbox car in the posterior region? mom finally lifts ken completely out of his car seat only to find his favorite green matchbox car wedged between his waistband and his ham hocks.

in other news, potty training has resumed. thanks to a recently acquired potty chair (see my practice round pictured above), ken maintains a renewed interest in landing his bodily waste in the appropriate potty place. i'm proud to report that over the last 48 hours, he's averaging about 85% -- a vast improvement over the first training attempt. keep the good thoughts coming, my readers. it's helping. of course, this potty business is begging the exploration of certain appendages. last week, ken proclaimed his need to go, so dad ensured safe alighting to the throne. after five minutes of sitting, i hear dad's exasperated shout, "Are you gonna go potty? Or are you gonna sit there and play with your dink?" to which ken - equally exasperated - shouts, "I just want to play with it!"


don't we all, ken. don't we all.

i'll sign off for now. hope this message finds you smiling. know that baby georgia is doing well. she continues to eat and sleep like a champ; it's safe to say that both ken and i adore her.

keepin' it real,
sam

The devil went down to Georgia on my mind

Confession: It's been about two weeks since the birth of one Georgia Conrad, and I'm still wondering which side of crazy I am for deciding it would be cool to have a handful of children all at once. I think my initial reason lay in the  semi-sexy ideal that the offspring could all grow up together. Hm. I've since decided that whether you're 15 months apart or 15 years apart, you're still siblings, and you'll still chill out together.Tip for future parents: No need to feel you're doing your children a favor by spacing them less than two years apart. Essentially, you're only setting yourself up to realize that it's abnormal to have three children simultaneously in diapers, with about 60% of your household speaking either broken English or no English at all.You'll also set a new standard for yourself the day you match your toddler in volume as you calmly scream about the necessity of taking a nap. Then, instead of taking a much-needed nap yourself (because your two-week-old infant didn't actually fall asleep for the night until about 3:45 a.m.), you sit on the couch and enjoy 10 or 20 handfuls of Costco-brand animal crackers, acknowledge and accept the fact that you haven't showered for three days, and just listen to the sound of a silent house.
She's here! Georgia Corrigan Conrad arrived on a not-so-random Wednesday evening, and --despite the semi-surly tone of the above paragraph -- I'm in love. While the last two weeks have been nothing short  of a monumental shift in our daily routines, here's a quick summary of the last 14+ days, according to Ken:

1. Mom is home all day long. I love it. The rules that typically apply to Saturday and Sunday only now exist in a blur of not-sure-what-day-it-is-because-they-all-sort-of-feel-the-same-but-we-can-have-whipped-cream-on-our-waffles-anyway-because-Mom is here.
2. A steady stream of visitors have graced our household. It's been so fun to see friends and family! While Georgia is acquiring the necessary attire needed to remain pretty in pink, Sam and I have kept ourselves busy with bikes, matchbox cars and books -- in that order.
3. Grandma Corrigan spent some quality time with me and Sam while Mom and Dad were in the hospital with Georgia, and then a few more days just to help Mom and Dad get on their feet with this three-kid business.Grandma does it all, I tell you. We went for walks every day; I showed her how to get to the park. She helped us with house cleaning and laundry; she made us stuffed   green peppers and angel food cake; she even cleaned all the dried food and muck off of the side of the dishwasher. (Yes, Sam's chair is situated right beside our free-standing dishwasher,which transforms Sam into a regular food-painting Picasso.) Most notably, Grandma's a pro at playing kid songs on the guitar; I can't think of a more fun way to sing "Row Row Your Boat" and "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." Totally. Awesome.
4. Sam and I took a few days to hang with Grandma and Grandpa Conrad and family at the   Conrad family lake place in Wisconsin. Mosquitoes, bonfires and roasted marshmallows. Need I say more? My aunts Val and Sue really know how to throw a summer party, and I think Mom and Dad enjoyed the extra few days to just focus on Georgia.
5. Since my return from the Wisconsin lake, I'm doing my best to accommodate the newest addition to our family. I sure wish Georgia were big enough to play but, Mom says I have to wait for the snow before Georgia can really hang with us. She's little. It sort of makes me wish I were a baby, too, but Mom continues to tell me that I'm a good big brother, and that I will always be her best Ken. I'll buy that.

In other news, potty training has begun. I can now say with complete confidence that I know exactly when I've wet my pants. Next step: to actually go in the potty. It's been a little rough so far; wish me luck.

Mom and I hope this message finds you well. 

Until next time,

Ken

The waiting game of cards

Waiting. We're waiting. The baby crib is up. The car seat is in. The 0-3 month gender-neutral clothes are washed. Hospital bag is packed. We're waiting. Mom says the hardest part of waiting is the not knowing. At least, when you're waiting for Christmas, you know it arrives on December 25 - without fail. This whole waiting for Baby thing is a completely different game. She says to make no mistake: There are still plenty of things to do at work. A solid 11 days remain until the actual due date. To be pregnant for another 11 days (give or take) won't kill her, but the waiting might.
My recent observations of Mom tell me that she's antsy. Sometimes she sits in Dad's recliner, garbed in dad's shorts and t shirt, watching the second hand on the clock. I think she's counting. I hear words like 'three centimeters already' and 'contraction.' Other times, she's regular old Mom - zooming cars and reading books with us. But all the time, she's moving pretty slowly. We climb the basement steps together; one at a time. Dad does all the lifting now - garbage to the curb, laundry to the bedrooms, Sam into his crib. All in all, we're getting through this together, but I gotta tell you: this waiting thing is for the birds. It's time for Baby.
In my humble, almost-three-year-old opinion, I think the danger of waiting lays in direct relationship to one's ability to imagine possibilities. For example, what if Mom goes to work, makes it all the way up to the 19th floor, only to begin the motions of labor once again? Sweet lord. Contractions would start, baby would drop, all the lovely things that happen when baby drops would happen, and suddenly Mom would be in the nearest wheelchair, on the nearest ambulance, whisked to the nearest hospital. While the story may not make  the intranet news site at Target, it would certainly be the talk of red and khaki town for a solid two weeks.
I think the bottom line is this: Mom's not so good at waiting. Waiting takes patience. Takes discipline. Takes the wisdom to know that time moves at the same pace it always has - whether you're ready and waiting or caught by surprise. While she has some of all three of these traits: patience, discipline and wisdom, I'm here to tell you that waiting happily takes work, and Mom could use a hand.
Further reflection tells me that we've all been there. Perhaps you're there right now: waiting. Maybe you're waiting for a baby, waiting for that promotion, waiting for Mr. or Ms. Right, waiting to understand your next step in life, or simply waiting for the bus. Here's to the ability to put complaints on a shelf, worries to the curb, and a smile on your face. Here's to happy waiting. Here's to knowing that all things happen in their own time, and even when you've already done all of the right things to prepare, the way you live your waiting time defines your character, shapes your attitude, and always, always strengthens you for what's to come.

In the final stretch marks

sam here - catching up in the world of blogs. let's just say ... 2012 hasn't been the greatest year for regular blog posts. thanks for sticking with us, loyal readers! my opinion: ken and my blogging energy will return at full force once this bun in the oven is cooling on the welcome-to-life-now stove top. Exactly 20 days to go until this supposed baby in mom's belly becomes a reality.

in the mean time: a few updates from the window of conrad the younger --

mom and dad pinched pennies for a few years, and i'm thrilled to report that a california-style fence now lines the perimeter of our back yard. three cheers for the ability to wander without incessant parental reminders to turn around, come this way, or not in the neighbor's flowers, sam.

i awoke one afternoon in april to mom, dad and ken sitting in minivan. yes, just sitting. imagine my surprise, as i climbed into the seat next to ken, when mom informed me the minivan belonged to us. really? the seats are so .... high. the windows are so wide ... and when we listen to "This Old Man," dad pushes a special button to help us rear-seat dwellers hear the tune even better. awesome. i think dad may have shed a tear as he watched the trusty family buick alight a flat-bed and free-ride its way to its chosen donation location. while dad admits to "trundling headlong into middle-aged suburbia" (a direct quote), i will say that the minivan moves with the speed and alacrity that a man of my stamina and charisma has come to expect in life.

big brother ken was the first to notice that mom no longer wears her rings. apparently this baby-on-the-way has claimed mom's clear skin, waistline and the space between her digits. as a result of his uncanny ability to notice the important things, ken and mom made a deal: once baby comes out, and mom wears her rings again, ken will wear undies. we'll see how that goes. my guess: he'll need my shining example to inspire him into potty training execution mode. i'll keep you posted.

in a more recent update, dad completed his undergrad semester with grace and style. the man has become the rodin's thinker of economics. truth: minnesota public radio (mpr) is set on a daily alarm so that the three of us are guaranteed a breakfast serenade of public radio opinion and economic food for our heads. does that make us a collection of geeks? i think not until dad starts calling into the show. who knows, though. ken may beat him to it.

it's officially summertime, and i've acquired the official minnesota farmer's tan, a handful of healthy mosquito bites, and the tune to "bah bah black sheep." while i do feel badly for the 'little boy who lives down the drain,' i'm happy with the general cadence our days have taken. mom's middle continues to expand, and dad's checking off the list of things to do before the official due date. (personally i don't think the reality of another baby really hit him until he rearranged the space in the minivan to accommodate a third car seat. his face is still a little white.)

cheers, my readers. ken and i will assume the responsibility for informing you of the date and specs of our pending sibling. until then, enjoy the sunshine, and know that good thoughts are sent to you daily.

sam

Watching the super bowl of popcorn

My alter-ego has arrived. You can call her Mindy. In short, the spirally goodness known as my hair has moved from the Shirley temple-esque coil to more of a cooked fettuccini look. Hormones, anyone? I’m hoping that the birth of this baby may greet the return of the prodigal curl. Until then, I’ve picked up a few hair-smoothing tips, and am attempting the feat of actually styling my hair every morning.

Have you ever watched a Stir Crazy popcorn popper in action? Aside from the fact that it may be the most effective vehicle for making good popcorn, it’s also an appropriate comparison to life’s sometimes-surprising pace. Typical days move in a steady circle – like the calm twirling of the popcorn rod thingy that pushes around the oil and seeds. Other days, the unexpected is popping from all directions, and you’re just not sure where to look first. Some might call that lack of planning. I call it life.

It’s safe to say that the last eight weeks at the Corrigan/Conrad abode matches that of the Stir Crazy popcorn popper. No complaints really. I mean, there comes a point where you simply have to melt some butter, grab the salt and just enjoy the popcorn.

We’re at T minus 16 weeks, and I’m tickled to report that only one person exists in this world who knows whether this bun in the oven is a boy or a girl. Ah, the life of a secret-keeping ultrasound technician. I contend it’s a girl; Adam thinks it’s a boy. Considering I’m oh-for-two in the knowing-the-sex-of-the-baby department, I won’t be crushed if you side with Adam on this one.

At sixteen months, Sam’s vocab abounds. Yesterday he sneezed, and then promptly said, “Bless you. Thank you. You’re welcome.” This is just one example of the full conversation he completes with himself on a regular basis. Other dialogue-turned monologues include, “Here you go. Thank you. You’re welcome.” And, “Read a book? Ok. Here we go.” Sam is almost always enamored with his older brother, will cry if you roar too loudly with the story-book lions, and he absolutely loves to sing. His melodies often reflect a blend of nursery rhymes and our daily prayers. I have yet to meet another kid who transitions from “The Itsy-Bitsy-Spider” to “Hail Mary Gentle Woman” in a single key. I adore him.

Ken makes me laugh every day. I will admit, however, that we’re still working through that older-brother-bossy thing. Last week he pushed Sam over in order to acquire the Magna-Doodle. Before I could intervene with proper repercussion, he carefully tucked the toy under one arm and said, “Here, Sam. I’ll give you a hug.” Sam, always quick to forgive accepted the hug, smiled and moved onto the next toy. (A plastic dinosaur with a broken head. Really? C’mon, Sam. Bamboozled.)

How is it that a kid who still dwells on the younger side of two has needed (and completed) a total of five and a half haircuts? Yes, half. Let’s talk about it. Our most recent trip to the barber was nothing short of an epic fail. I should have known we were in for it when it took coaxing (a dum-dum sucker) to even get him to sit in the damned chair. While the barber shop shall remain nameless, I will say that impatient grunts and scowls from our ‘stylist’ may have also contributed to the slippery-slope of the impending melt-down. After a 10-minute battle with a penguin-painted apron, electric clippers, a few hearty screams and some toddler tears, we walked out of the shop with a bloody knick on the upper-left earlobe, a partially shaved head and a soggy dum-dum stick. Ken was pretty upset, too.

Yesterday, we completed Adam’s top-of-the-line-home-haircut, and I said to Ken, “See, Dad’s really gentle with haircuts. We should finish your haircut so that you can be just as handsome as Dad.” Without missing a beat, Ken replied, “No thanks, Ken and Sam don’t need haircuts.” Needless to say, it may take a while before my sweet-but-serious two-year-old steps anywhere near the kid shears again. I’m open to suggestions for how to remedy this. Any ideas?

And, the story continues. Adam and I are holding our own in the realm of responsibilities that life has laid out for us. Despite the mach speed that my work has become, and the hilarious chaos that ensues with two toddlers and a baby on the way, I continue to fall in love with all three of my boys a little more every day.  Life is good. And the popcorn is delicious.