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.