Put a cork in it

So this week, a football game will be held on a Tuesday. It’s the first time since 1946 that’s happened. Philadelphia is buried in snow, and the authorities decided it was better for fans to stay put and postpone the game until they could arrive at the stadium safely.

This brew ha ha reminded me of a Sunday 25 or so years ago (specifically, December 1, 1985.) There was a blizzard. The highways were closed to all vehicles, except those with 4 wheel drive.

The phone rang at my parents house in rural Wisconsin. A farmer friend from church who was also a Packer season ticket holder was going to make the journey to the game. His wife thought he was nuts. Would dad want to go?

Of course he did! So, clad in a crazy number of layers of clothing, and more blaze orange than I knew he owned, the farmer, his son, and my dad jumped into a 4 wheel drive truck and headed the 25 or so miles to Lambeau.

The game was memorable. It’s known in Packer lore as the Snow Bowl. It was against (of all teams) the Tampa Bay Bucs. There was so much snow that at one point, a player making a breakaway run didn’t know when to stop running. He couldn’t see the end zone under the snow. I’m pretty sure it was James Lofton looking from side to side and kicking at the snow, trying to find the lines.

It was quite a sight. It makes for a fantastic story for my dad. As a kid, I thought it was cool that my dad was there.

And now… well, WHAT was he thinking?

I am taking this trip down memory lane for a purpose. People of Pennsylvania, tell your Governor to put a cork in it. The NFL and whoever else was involved in the decision made the right call.

Going to a football game during a blizzard? Are you nuts?

“Ladies and gentleman, the authorities recommend not traveling today unless absolutely necessary.”

Is a football game necessary? No Mr. Governor. It’s a game - a really wonderful game that makes my heart flutter with happiness every time I watch it, but necessary? No.

It’s about darn time the NFL started thinking about the fans coming to the stadium. It pairs well with caring about players who have concussions. Yea, in another time, Aaron Rogers would have played last week, and the Vikings and Eagles would have played on Sunday. But in this new era, Rogers sat on the sidelines (did you see that guy Flynn play!) and the Vikes and Eagles will play Tuesday.

Safety before machismo. Is that so wrong?

Taking only what you need

Had an interesting conversation with my parents this week (and by interesting, I mean thought-provoking)

Seems an acquaintance of theirs needed to have their (we’ll say furnace) replaced. When the service technician arrived to replace the unit, he suggested that the work they were having done qualified for a government rebate.

The acquaintance was offended by the suggestion that he needed the rebate. His response? “I don’t need it. And if everyone who didn’t actually need it, didn’t take government money, we’d all be a lot better off.”

Wow.

Now, I think the government needs to do what it needs to do to encourage behaviors that will help the country, but this guy made an interesting point. You should only take what you need.

It reminded me of the food shelf that is run by the organization I work for. Occasionally, someone will generously donate an extra large quantity of a specific type of food (apples in the fall, for example.) When that happens, the people who use the food shelf are allowed to take as much as they like.

You would think that when given the opportunity to take a lot, someone who is used to scarcity would take a lot. But, that’s not actually what happens. Most people take what they need for their family – no more.

Taking only what you need… something to ponder isn’t it?

Marriage isn’t a goal. A long marriage is a goal.

Somewhere in between Smirnoff’s and Woodchuck’s on Friday night, a single friend of mine asked “Which would make you more proud of me, that I’m happy and single, or married?”

As he is single, and I’m married, such strange questions occasionally come up between us. I found the question, especially the use of the word ‘proud’ a tad odd. 

Am I proud of my friends who are married? Yeah… the ones who have been married for 10 years.

Am I proud of my friends who are single? Sure. Especially the ones who looked a wedding square in the eye and said “No, this isn’t a good idea right now.” 

Weddings are easy. Marriages are hard. A wedding isn’t a goal. The people who think it is are focusing on the white dresses, the tuxedo and the illusion of having one day in your entire lifetime that is ‘yours.’ 

Yeah… that’s not what marriage is about.  After 10 years, I may not know much about being married, but the white dress is in the closet, many of the gifts have been well-used (though some are still in the box) and my husband’s black shoes have been worn to every wedding since. 

Weddings aren’t special. Marriages are. 

Weddings are to marriages as job interviews are to jobs. For weddings and job interviews we put on special clothes that we would normally never wear, we talk about ourselves in ways we don’t normally. And then comes the first day of marriage and your first day on the job. That first year isn’t so easy.

So sweetie, am I proud of the happy and single you? Yeah. 

Will I be proud on your wedding day (if you ever have one?) Sorta

.

Will I be really proud of you, should you ever celebrate your 10^th anniversary? Definitely.

Trying to be thankful

My children have a book called the Thankfulness Song.  Today, at church I heard about being thankful.

Last night, my team lost and ended their season. What to be thankful for?

Let's see.

Thank you God for the Twins' two world championships (yeah, they were awhile ago, but the Vikes don't have any - not that I'm complaining)

Thank you God for a home town star player who recognizes that he is in a unique position - he gets to live his childhood dream, in his hometown, surrounded by his family. Thank you God for making him thankful for it (or at least look thankful for it.)  His contract gave me the confidence to buy that jersey I wear so proudly.

Thank you God for players who aren't perfect. Their professional imperfections may make headlines, but their personal imperfections usually don't.

Thanks God for game 2, when we were reminded that we're all human, and that the smallest of poor choices can dramatically affect a LOT of people. (It'll be a great RE example.) 

Thank you God for a manager who knows that using colorful language to a umpire is part of the game, but colorful language in front of a microphone is not.

God, thanks for making this series against a team who is so unlike our own. Help us not to "hate" them, but to reject them. Help us reject all that they stand for, and help us to become more rooted in our own values of hard work, loyalty and dedication to the game.

Thank you God for a season of cheering for a winning team. No, winning isn't everything, but we got to raise our glasses in victory an awful lot this year.


And God, thanks for letting me watch the 2004 World Series - all of it. No, my team wasn't there, but I'm still thankful. Every time it's referenced in the history books, I can tell my son that two baseball fans were born that night.

Mommy! My uncle is here!

So my daughter and I were waiting in line to check out and JCPenny last Saturday, and she said something that quite surprised me.
"Mommy! My uncle is here!"
I tried to explain that, no, he wasn't.
"Yes he is Mommy!" She insisted, while shaking her butt and throwing her hand on her tiny hip.
I looked around nervously, because she was being quite loud. Again, I tried to gently state that her uncle, was not indeed in the store.
"Yes he IS Mommy! I smell him!"
I nearly fell on the floor.
Nearby was a woman who was obviously a smoker.

The kids don't know about their uncle's habit. He had visited our house the night before and as always, he needed to step outside to "make a few cell phone calls" during his visit.

Why do I think it won't be a secret for long

Two pieces

I just set down the latest issue of Real Simple, my favorite magazine. Inside is the question "What is your favorite outfit?" Several readers talk about dresses and suits, even their gardening clothes.

As of late, mine is my two piece swimsuit.

You read that correctly. For the first time in nearly 30 years, I own a two piece swimming suit, and I like it.

Don't get your hopes up gentleman. It's not a bikini. It's a tankini. A bikini bottom underneath a cute little skirt. A top with a wild print that covers the girls and my tummy. The whole top is supported by strings that tie behind my neck.

I don't know many women for whom a swimming suit isn't a big deal. For years, I tried to find a one piece that appropriately covered me, preferably while holding, balancing and sucking in all of those wobbly bits.

I hadn't bought a new suit in a long time. The last one cost way more than it should have, in order to suck in my stomach, only to leave my German-Belgian legs hanging out in all their pasty white girl glory. Seriously? It was enough to make my husband take the kids to the pool alone.

My new suit doesn't hold everything in perfectly, but it directs your eyes away from the pasty white girlness, and the print is such that you don't really notice my tummy. I feel confident in it. Confident enough to run around the pool or splash pad, playing with my kids, and not freaking out when my husband's coworkers show up with their families.

It only took thirty years, but I finally found a suit I like.

Huh? What? What did you say? A PHOTO?

ROFL!

I may feel confident, but I have given birth to multiple children. Don't hold your breath.

My reunion is coming up...

My high school reunion is this fall. Due to a scheduling conflict, I doubt I’ll be attending.

I’m trying to fill out the profile information. The address, spouse, kids and where I work are pretty straightforward. It’s the memories section that I’m struggling with.

What does it mean that I can’t easily answer the question “Favorite High School Memory?”

My friend Dan and often compare notes about our lives. We have come to a conclusion: the best time of his youth was high school, mine was college. He tells stories about high school, I about college. He hangs out with friends from high school, I from college.

So, what does that mean?

I remember the day I graduated. I wasn’t excited. I was… embarrassed? I didn’t end up in the top of my class as I was expected to (looking back, I know the top 12% of my class wasn’t bad) I remember sitting in my cap and gown at the ceremony and feeling... so disconnected. I wasn’t part of the group of people sitting around me.

I have never figured out exactly what that disconnection meant.

One of my classmates once said that you forget the bad things and remember only the good. What does it say if I can’t remember the good? Was there really none, or have I just not thought hard enough?

I’ll ponder. Maybe I’ll share when I figure it out.

In the meantime, have fun at the reunion y’all. Have one for me.

A death in the family

Five years ago tomorrow, my pre-bedtime ritual was interrupted. I remember very clearly stopping short in my bedroom, and feeling my heart drop into my stomach.

Peter Jennings was dead.

I realize that to most people, his passing was just another footnote on the celebrity pages.

To me, Peter Jennings was a strong voice that I had listened to and believed for as long as I could remember. He took the reigns at ABC News when I was 6 or 7. He was the only anchor I knew from the time I was old enough to pay attention until I had a baby of my own. That’s a long time.

He wasn’t just a celebrity, or a journalist. To me, a news junkie who thought it was romantic to watch the news with her boyfriend, fiancée and then husband, Peter Jennings was someone I spent time with nearly every day for 20 years.

His voice is part of the soundtrack of the scariest times in my life. The first war (or conflict) I’d ever lived through, September 11 and eventually, his explanation of his lung cancer.

When I listened to his voice crack in that explanation, I saw the first and only sign of weakness I’d ever seen in him. I teared up in the way you do when you find out your uncle has a terminal disease.

It wasn’t long after that that I was standing in my bedroom, calling for my husband to come to the TV.

Hey, that's MY steak!

My daughter is a carnivore.

To those of you who aren’t sure and don’t feel like Googling, that means she’s a meat eater.

Tonight, my husband grilled some awesome t-bone steaks for us, and hot dogs for the kids. Considering all of my children are under the age of 6, that would seem to be a logical idea.

Yeah… I was lucky to get part of my steak.

My daughter doesn’t like her hot dogs in a bun, so I dutifully cut up her hot dog, squirted the ketchup on her plate and started eating my salad.

I think the salad was my mistake. It takes a long time to eat.

When she finished eating her hot dog, she fidgeted for a little while, and then when I finished my salad, and started cutting up my steak, she slowly slid her chair closer to mine.

“Mommy, can I have just one piece?” I obliged, putting a piece or two of steak onto her plate, and kept cutting.

She slid a little closer, again asking “Mommy, can I have just one piece?” I put three or four pieces on her plate, and she pushed two of them away. “Just one piece Mommy!”

Why she said that I don’t know, since what she did next made me laugh out loud.

She scooted her chair right next to mine, and began eating from my plate.

I suppose as a parent I should have discouraged this behavior, but I decided not to. We ate the rest of the steak together.

And then dug into the next one :)

Taking care of our chlidren

Two days ago in Minnesota, a father filled a washtub in his basement with water, took his six month old son and held him under the water until he stopped thrashing.

His son is dead. My six month old is sleeping soundly in my room.

I want to cuddle with him now, but instead, I’m sitting here, writing, haunted at the thought of that other little boy.

You see, I haven’t been a perfect parent. I know that as a young mom, sleep deprived and stressed with my first crying baby, I shook my son harder than I should have. I yelled at him. I squeezed him more than I should have. I was scared. I was upset. I thought that babies should always be good and should always be quiet. I thought I was supposed to be able to fix everything.

I was wrong.

In my case, nothing I did in frustration ever hurt him. No bruises nor broken bones. Over time though, I learned what I hope my youngest readers will take to heart. For the most part, a baby crying in a crib is safe. A baby is the arms of a stressed, angry, frustrated adult sometimes is not.

As a parent or caregiver, you need to know yourself. When you reach your breaking point you must put the baby in a safe place and walk away. It’s ok if the baby cries.

I don’t know what happened to this father to make him snap. I hope we never know so all of us: parents, grandparents, babysitters, aunts and uncles don't dismiss this issue has "his" problem and instead think about how we take care of our children.

And I pray that God has taken that little boy into his loving arms, and his Mommy too.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kiss my babies goodnight.

Hair do + glasses = issues

Two weeks ago, I couldn't stand it anymore - my hair had gotten too long. It needed to be cut. Anna, my stylist said that for a cut and highlight, the soonest appointment she had was two weeks away.
I pouted, but since I refuse to schedule an appointment for hair that might not be too long yet, I waited.
When I got to the salon, I got the question I dread "What are we gonna do?" 
Ugh.
I can look through all the hair publications, websites and magazines I want, but very few look like me.
No, no, there are tons of white women with brown hair - tons. 
But very few of the women with the ravishing hair wear glasses.
Every publication is full of page after page of women with bangs that drape dramatically over one eye, or gently curve around the face to frame it. With glasses, the bangs look like the giant slide at the county fair. The curve? It kinda gets a kink in it.
I've tried going to websites for women with glasses. It's quite funny. They're covered in words. As if women who wear glasses are too smart to appreciate a picture or two. 
And so, I look, and hope, attempting to do what I'm not very good at - visualizing my own hair.
Seriously?
Thanks for the help Anna. It looks good.

When I became a Minnesotan

 I got my Minnesota Driver’s License in 1999 – just after I graduated from St. Cloud State University.

I married a Minnesotan in 2000, but I wasn’t one myself. My “con” in Wisconsin hadn’t shortened enough. The “o” in my Minnesota hadn’t gotten long enough. 

No. I knew without a doubt that I was a Minnesotan on August 1, 2007. When the 35W Bridge collapsed, I knew Minnesota was my home because I hurt. 

There’s an ache in your heart when someone (or something) injures your home. I felt that ache for the first time that I can remember on that day.

 I felt the terror that my brother-in-law (my kids beloved uncle) might have been on the bridge. I sent the emails to my girlfriends in the Twin Cities that I struggled to write. I mean, you can’t say “Are you ok?,” directly.  

I got the email from my girlfriend in New York City (the former Assistant Deputy Director in charge of World Trade Center Cases for the Medical Examiner’s Office of NYC) that read “Are you ok?” 

I wish I was. Something had happened to my home.  

Leaving the mini van in the garage

This past fall, my husband did what any couple expecting their third child would do - we bought a mini van. According to their awesome You Tube Video, I should have pride in my Sienna ride.

I don't.

Yeah, yeah. I know, it's now cool to be a parent. (That's a marketing trick by companies who want us to spend copious amounts of money on our kids.) I know that our Sienna has the same tight turning radius as our Camry. But...

 A van is not the same as a car.


And today, I got to leave the van at home and take the car. Whee!

I didn't have to put the Mommy mirror up. The doors didn't slide open at the push of a button. And, I had to remove my hands from the steering wheel in order to change the radio station. Ahh... sweet freedom.

Don't get me wrong, I like the insane creature comforts. I like the cargo space. But really, nothing hugs the road quite like a car.

I really miss the go-cart like ride of the Corolla... but that's another story.

Our teams are like a familiy heirloom

My Grandfather was a Packers fan. He had season tickets. Passed them to my aunt and uncle. My Mom and Dad are Packer fans. So am I. And my children? Will not be.

Tonight, on the ESPY awards, in presenting the award for "best team" Kenny Chesney explained that "Our teams are like a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation."

I cried.

Yep. Cried.

I cried in England the night my team won the NFC Championship. I cried when they won the Superbowl; and I cry as I realize that my children will never love my team the way that I do.

In the United States, sports are like a religion. We each stake our claim, our territory. We believe that our team is the best - even though we know, they're really not. We buy jerseys and hats, talk smack about teams that are obviously better than ours.

But we do it all with pride.

I'm learning in a very hard way that I will not pass my love of my team on to my children. I've tried, but in nature vs. nurture, my children are being nurtured in an environment where they will learn to love another team.

No, your team is not the same as your faith in God. But, it's something that you strive to pass to your children.

I will not.

I feel ashamed; like I pawned Grandma's wedding ring.

Why blog?

Because it's popular? Because as a writer type I feel pressured to? Because two of the writers I admire most are doing it?

Dunno. But I'll try. We'll see where this goes.