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