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