Resolutions for 2013

It is customary to make resolutions for a coming new year, but I know me. We've met. My will power is right up there with my ability to work geometric equations. In other words... nada, zilch, I got nothing.

I could make vows to eat healthier, but then there's chocolate and potato chips and beer. Nope - I have earned the right to have popcorn for supper and poptarts for breakfast. Is pop rocks for lunch going too far? Probably.

I could try really hard to vacuum more or put clothes away after I fold them instead of treating the dining room table like an extension of my closet. Nope - as long as the dust bunnies are smaller than my 120 pound dog, the house is clean enough.

I could swear to have dinner on the table each night by 6 p.m. Nope - the darned table is full of folded laundry.

So, I have decided. My 2013 resolution is going to be "Party like a rock star."

I've earned it.

Hey, we all have.

Fulfilling a promise

In my previous job, I had a different blog called "Dirty Laundry," and I had quite a few readers. When I left my position earlier than anticipated, a bunch of loyal fans were sad, because they wouldn't get to read about my daughter's wedding.

They had been following the progress of my preparations to marry a kid off in my back yard, which seemed like a good idea when she suggested. By the time the wedding came around, I had become part of the Radio Works staff. I promised three people I would write a blog anyway and email it to them personally, which I did.

Now I figure its time to share it with the rest of you. Enjoy, and remember, I wrote it back in October:

I’ll admit, I’m a little behind schedule, but I’ve kind of felt that way since mid-July. Hey, it happens.

I promised a few people I would write this, but getting it done was harder than I thought. I figured after my daughter’s wedding, there would be so much to write about that I’d have trouble keeping things under the length of a novella. Instead I find so much of the weekend was a blur of chaos and motion that I have trouble gathering my thoughts.

There are certain memories that I will remember until my mind goes away (no sarcastic comments, I know sometime it’s closer to that than others). 

In the interest of not writing too long, I’ll relay just a couple of those memories. 

My daughter, as usual, was running behind schedule on her wedding day. She has been since birth. I was literally hollering up the stairs to get her going. That is right. On Maggie’s important day, Mom was yelling, “The photographer is here and you’re late! Your hair is fine. Get your butt down here!”  Moving, isn’t it?

When she came into the kitchen, I saw a cloud of white out of the corner of my eye and barked, “Let’s go, Margaret – they’re waiting for you outside.” Then I turned and looked, and my heart and the world stopped.

Oh, how beautiful. She was just beautiful.

Maggie has always been beautiful both inside and out, but that day she was radiant. She took my breath away. All I could do was stare and give her a goofy smile. Then I dragged her into the living room. Her two little brothers in their usher outfits were having a last-minute practice of the song they would sing during the ceremony. Both growled slightly when I interrupted, then they looked up, saw their big sister and both let out a long, drawn-out “Aaaawww.”And they meant it – it wasn’t sarcasm. Wow, there is hope for humanity.

Even though we were running late, I made them line up for a private photo and had to smile when they lined up out of order. Family habit has my kids lining up by birth age for pictures. My brothers and I do it, too. But on that day, my two rascally, rowdy, rough-and-tumble guys gently pulled their sister between them and towered over her, looking down at her in awe and delight. Five years older than Nick and seven older than Matt, Maggie has always been like a pseudo-mommy to her brothers, but on that day, she was a princess for them to protect and admire.

Just in case you’re wondering, that wore off by the end of the weekend.

My next engraved-in-my head memory is one of our other little princess, granddaughter Layla. She was dressed in her pretty gown – hand-made by my dear friend Karen – and looked so cute. Before the wedding party started down the aisle, Layla and I were escorted down by Curtis Lawrence, who is Maggie’s sort-of cousin. Layla looked up, saw everyone looking at her and immediately decided they were all there to be her admiration crew. She giggled and clapped her hands all the way up the aisle.

You have to appreciate anyone that knows how much the crowd will adore her.

During the ceremony, she busily chewed on a program, the ribbons on her dress and my fingers. She grabbed at her Grandpa’s suspenders, flirted with her Poppy (great-grandpa) and added an occasional coo or squeal, just to remind people this was a fun occasion. The best thing about having the Layla Bean on my lap during the whole ceremony is that I was so busy keeping her busy that I forgot to cry.

An hour or so later, I wasn’t that lucky. My sister-in-law had confiscated the baby, and my husband Eric got up to give a speech. And made me cry. 

Mostly from shock. When did he grow up so much? He welcomed everyone to our home “on behalf of Justine and myself.” Weird… He knows the word ‘behalf?’ 

Then he talked about home. He said home isn’t about a place, but about the creation of a family. “Today,” he said, “Margaret and Luke are creating a home.” That was right around the point I got weepy. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t that eloquent a few months ago.

I laughed along with everyone else when he said it was OK to make compromises with your spouse.

“Every now and then it is OK to say, ‘Yes, Dear,’” he told Luke. 

“And every now and then it is OK to have your husband wake up to the smell of bacon,” he told Maggie.

He was charming and sweet and a little emotional, and I kept wondering where the pod people had stashed my real husband.

At the end of the day, when we had sent Layla away for the night with my parents, stashed our sons at the neighbor’s house, ushered the bride and groom away in their chariot and tucked the photographer under a blanket on the couch, Eric and I sat on the back step for a few quiet moments and looked out into the night.

“We did it,” he said. 

He interpreted my look correctly, smirked and rephrased.

“You did it.”

I just laughed and leaned on his shoulder, and uttered a statement I meant with all of my heart…

“I am never ever doing this again,” I said. “If either one of the boys wants to get married someday, we’ll give them money and tell them to go to Vegas.”

 

It's crazy, it's chaotic... it's Christmas

As an empty nester couple, my husband and I are adapting easily (a little too easily?) to the quiet that reigns in our household. Sure, there’s usually music playing, and we chat constantly with the dog, but it is very different from the constant hustle and bustle of having a bunch of kids in the house. And then a holiday rolls around and the craziness comes with it.

We had our usual whirlwind Christmas chaos, with a quick trip to Forest Lake for a Parenteau family gathering on Saturday, then a Christmas Day event with two of the three kids. We all bumped together in the kitchen, laughed and talked and snitched goodies off each other’s plates, caught up on details of our lives and brought up the same old stories we tell each year. Lots of teasing involved, all around.

My son Nick and his girlfriend Jess showed up just in time for me to hand the gravy-making chores to him. He and I share a love of cooking, so spending time comparing notes and taste-testing is always fun.

Matthew, the baby, came over Monday and just left this morning (Wednesday). He is a joyful little punk to be around, a dreadful tease and says things that make us laugh so hard. Today he stopped by Radio Works before heading back to school in Sioux Falls, S.D., so we put him on the air for our daily “This Day in History” segment. I beat him, but barely.

Sadly, we didn’t get to see our daughter and her little family on Christmas Day. I understand the importance of having your kid wake up in her own bed on Christmas morning, and even encouraged it. How dumb am I? I probably could have guilted them into it.

By late afternoon on Christmas, Eric and I were tired. Having the gang around is tiring. There’s wrestling and teasing and always seems to be some kind of Nerf ammo flying through the air. It makes me wonder how I survived their teenage years. Maybe I was younger then.

There was no repeat of last year’s mustachioed gunslinger fights in the living room, but we did make Matt play Santa, which he hates.

“Why do you always make me do this?” he whined as he sorted out gifts from under the tree.

“Because you’re the youngest,” Jess answered before I could. This is funny, because she is a tiny person, reminds me of a pretty little Goth elf and is not even two years older than Matt. He’s about a foot taller then she is, so I love it when she sasses him.

We have had some interesting adventures on Christmas. There was the year we made Matt dance shirtless to the “Peanut Butter Jelly” song to earn a Monopoly property, the year the kids got a Play TV Baseball game which prompted a Wettschreck World Series, years of Lego building, a very memorable foosball day and afore-mentioned Nerf ammo. They still manage to get underfoot as I’m cooking, yet disappear when clean-up times rolls around until I bellow.

Another crazy, chaotic Christmas. I love it when they all come to visit. And love it when they all go home.

Twas the night before... what?

Every time I think I’m done Christmas shopping for my granddaughter Layla, I find something else she absolutely has to have. I hear it is a common problem among grandmothers, so I’m not panicking over it too badly.

My latest purchase was one of the recordable storybooks. I thought if she had a book that speaks in Grandpa and Grandma’s voices, she’d be pleased. So I picked one up, then went home and told my husband Eric we had a project to work on for the baby.

“OK,” he said, not even asking what the project is.

I explained about the book and said we could take turn reading the pages. Eric agreed right away, but then added a twist.

“Can I give my pages car chases and cool blow-ups and Godzilla?” he asked.

The question stopped me in my tracks for a moment, then I figured “Why not?” Layla will have the most unique version of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” ever recorded.

We’ll work on that project this week – I’ll let you know how it turns out.

A sad day

Yesterday was a day of tragedy. A day of sadness. And yes, a day of anger.

I started my day at the scene of a fatal car crash, and knowing that two families would be grieving shortly made my heart hurt. And then word started filtering out about the school shooting in Connecticut, about small children killed by a man with a gun, and I didn't really know what to feel.

Knowing so many people, mostly children, were shot and killed makes us angry. I think it is human nature to be appalled, and just as much part of us to be mad. Maybe the mad comes from a feeling of helplessness, because we know deep down there is nothing we can do to stop it. And that truly sucks.

I grieve for the little lost children, and their families are in my thoughts and prayers.

Like everyone else, I heard about a man going into that kindergarten room and opening fire, and all I could think was, "Why? Ok, so you're screwed up, but why the babies?"

Unfortunately there is no answer that makes anything really understandable. Obviously that man wasn't right in the head. That's all there really is to say about him.

I remember all of my children at kindergarten age - their solid little bodies, their eagerness to jump head first into new experiences, the way they would fall asleep on my lap and be boneless and heavy.

Then I imagine someone pointing a gun at them and I am baffled, shocked and shaken.

I can't begin to fathom what the parents of those little ones are feeling. All I can really wish them is a moment of peace, and some sleep. When tragedy and crisis strikes, sometimes sinking into a little blessed sleep is so hard to do.

I can't help those people. All I can do is offer this: A video that makes me feel a little peaceful when life is hard. It is a short song performed by the MCC Rebel Voices in Slayton. I believe it was written in memory of Martin Luther King.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOzxkokajgc&feature=youtu.be

A hostage situation

A mouse is holding my mixer hostage. It’s an issue.

First, let me tell you that I hate being a squishy female when it comes to mice. I don’t mind spiders and critters and creatures that crawl, but mice give me the heebie-jeebies. I think it’s probably because they look furtive.

Think about it. A mouse doesn’t walk into a room and announce his presence with authority. He sneaks around, wiggling in and out of tiny holes, stopping every now and then to rub his little front paws together while plotting things. Well, maybe it’s really stopping to nibble on something, but it looks like the little guy is planning violence or contemplating evil.

So, there’s a mouse in my house, and it nibbles and makes noise in the cupboard under my sink, which is where I keep my stand mixer. I didn’t think there was anything under there that would interest a mouse – after all, the cupboard is full of mismatched vases, bottles of dish soap, the brush I optimistically hoped I would use to scrape excess hair off my dog – nothing a mouse would really appreciate. After a bit of investigation, which was rather brave on my part, I discovered a half empty bag of old dog biscuits that my picky mutt Jeffrey apparently disapproved of. The dog will chew on old deer legs and various dead things, but didn’t like the biscuits.

The mouse, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to mind them at all.

The logical thing to do is put a trap in there, but the only thing worse than little furtive mice is little squished mice with broken spines and crushed skulls. I’m a first responder and have scraped people out of car crashes without a qualm, but little squished mice make my shudder.

So I went with a back-up plan. I made Eric do it.

I bought a couple of traps, and he set them in my cupboard. My husband has promised – not without some eye rolling and impatient sighs – to empty any little corpses the traps catch.

But until then, my mixer is still under there. And I just know some furtive little mouse with big, hairy teeth is waiting for me to reach in for the appliance, just so he can jump out at me. Like I said, it’s an issue.

Welcome to my second half

It’s time.

No, I’m not in labor, thank goodness. It’s time to start a new blog. I thought it would be relatively easy to do, but as it turns out, I wrestled with it for quite some time. Mostly because I didn’t know what to call it.

I kept thinking about what a new blog should entail. I had a successful blog for several years as part of a previous job, but recently I have had a few life-changing events, including taking a new position as the Director of News and Information for Radio Works. It’s such a great title, isn’t it?

After eight years as a crime reporter for a newspaper, working in radio is an interesting change. I literally thought in column inches for a long time, and am now adapting to thinking in minutes and seconds. Hence, the name of my new blog.

“Minutes” is rather self-explanatory, but the seconds part actually has a dual meaning – when I changed jobs, I also changed a significant part of my life. I feel like I have entered a second half. The later years? Another chapter? Call it what you will, life has changed.

My first blog focused on the craziness that comes with being a mom. I have three kids, and they kind of ruled my life for a long time. Then had the audacity to grow up and move. I know! Ungrateful, right?

My husband and I have adapted well to being empty nesters, if you ignore the fact that the dog now gets way more attention than he was used to receiving. For the most part, we’ve gone into the childless part of our lives with satisfaction and an amount of glee that may actually be slightly inappropriate.

Forgive us. We’ve been parents for a long, long time.

So, with the kids gone, what will I write about now? Oh, I never really have a lack of inspiration. There’s always something that catches my attention or tickles my funny bone. Just the process of this old dog trying to learn new tricks in my new job is generally worth a chuckle.

For my loyal Dirty Laundry fans, thanks for reminding me regularly that you missed my silliness, my stories and my family. For anyone new to my ramblings, I’ll give you a quick rundown.

My husband is Eric, my dog is Jeffrey, and life can be confusing if you get the two names mixed up. I know this from experience. My oldest child is Maggie, her husband is Luke, their daughter - the radiant smile in my heart - is Layla. My boys are Nick (and girlfriend Jess) and Matt, the baby. He objects to that term, which is why I use it as often as possible. Why have kids if you can’t mess with them?

Hopefully you will enjoy getting to know them as I tell you stories about the craziness that is my life.