Going for Gold

It all starts with the inspiration.  Back in early March we went with Cami Enke of Hazel, Brown and Blue Photography to have family photos done at The Guthrie.  The location was perfect, and when we got the photos back we were blown away.  There is a room at the top of the building that has all yellow windows. That's where we started out photoshoot.  It produced this shot of my boys looking over the Mississippi River at Minneapolis:

Brett and I took one look at it and said, "That needs to be HUGE and displayed prominently."  It became the catalyst for our bedroom design.  This image will be printed on canvas and hung above our bed.  I decided to pull some of the colors from this shot to build the room.

We will be using Benjamin Moore Paints. The wall color will be Cabin Fever from their Classic Collection.  With white trim and white canvas curtains.

The bedding is from West Elm.  I chose their Bubble Quilt in horseradish paired with Euro shams in their tulip print.

 

We are "inheriting" my parents' bedroom set purchased in 1965 that is finished in a light walnut with black edges.  I can't wait to get it all in and see how it comes together.  We will also accent with some of our other collected artworks in similar color families.  

What do you think?

It's all in the numbers

We have 11 days until we move in, 10 days until I paint my first wall, 9 days until we gain possession and 8 days until we close.  I've packed 32 boxes and have 29 more left empty.  I have scheduled the garbage pickup for our "bulk items," posted what wouldn't sell on craigslist to the MN Free Marketplace.  The utilities are transferred, the paint is purchased and invitation sent out to friends and family to help with the move.

Now what?  Waiting is the hardest part.  Just sitting.  The plans are done, the tasks are complete (mostly) and now I have to wait.  I am forced daily to walk past all the things I want to put into boxes because Brett says we still have to "live" for the next 11 days.  Bah.  We could get by, right?  Box it up!  Pack it away!  But, no, instead I am forced to reflect.  OK, not forced, but it is what I find myself doing a lot.

The interesting thing that I'm learning, is that I can live comfortably with a decreased wardrobe.  (Decreased everything, really, there is so much extraneous crap in out lives!)  This is a revelation to me.  I currently have a teeny closet and no dresser.  I have my unmentionables in a milk crate on the floor and the rest of my "wardrobe" taking up less than half of my closet space.  And, unlike I would have thought, I am not freaking out.  I kept my favorite things, and the rest is in a box.  Is this a lesson?  I purged vast amounts of clothing a few weeks ago, but should I purge more?  Should I do a clean sweep?  I get a little giddy each time I open the closet door and see it so empty.  What does that say?

To put this in perspective, you have to understand that I am a clothes horse.  I have "collected" clothing since I can remember.  I am defined, in many ways, by my fashion choices.  They are one way people remember me.  For many years, I wondered, "Who am I without my wardrobe?"

All of this is changing.  For years now, my wardrobe has mainly come from thrift stores and garage sales.  How can you purchase new clothes when you don't have a job, are facing foreclosure and filing for bankruptcy?  OK, maybe some people can, but I can't.  My passion for fashion really lies in the hunt anyway and shopping "new" takes some of the fun out of it for me.  I had squirreled away piles of clothing so that I wouldn't have to buy more if my weight fluctuated before and after each of the boys.  I  re-imagined many a tee shirt or jean into a new dress or handbag.  And now, I open my closet door and see 5 shirts, 3 dresses, 2 skirts, 2 pairs of jeans, 2 pairs of shorts and 4 pairs of shoes, and I think, "I can live with this."  How can that be?  I am the queen of change!  I can't repeat an outfit within a 14 day window.  That's who I am!  Right?

Isn't it?  Maybe not.  Maybe this move is doing more than getting my family into a safe, happy home and neighborhood.  More than bringing Mom into our daily lives.  Maybe this move is showing me who I REALLY am.  Is that possible?  I guess we'll find out in 11 days.

The cost of consciousness

I have a really hard time throwing things away.  Don't misinterpret this as "I am a pack rat".  I am probably the opposite of that.  My "editing eye" is keen and my decluttering blade is swift, but I struggle with piles of crap going to the landfill.  I struggle with the idea that I'm adding to the mountain.

We live in a world driven by stuff.  We all have tons of it, don't think we have enough and then acquire more.  Believe me, as a recovering shopaholic, I know this cycle.  But as long as I can remember, I have struggled with throwing things into trash bins.  I go out of my way to find someone who can either use or strip and recycle everything I must part with.

It becomes almost comical as I scour the internet looking for ways to delicately rid myself of unwanted, unused junk.  Case in point?  The infant carrier.  When I got pregnant with Beringer I decided that we needed one of those cool sit/stand strollers from Baby Trend.  I poured over craigslist until I found one, and jumped on it immediately.  The only problem was that our car seat that we used with Urban, and would reuse with Beringer, was a Combi car seat that does not have the same fastening mechanism as a standard infant carrier.  So, it wouldn't lock into place in the Baby Trend stroller.   That's an easy solve.  Time for more stuff!  I just headed out to a garage sale and bought a new carrier for $10.  It didn't matter to me that the car seat had "expired," I was not going to use it for anything but the stroller.

Flash forward to today as I'm trying to clean out for the big move, and I have this big old expired car seat sitting in the basement.  I have rounded up every other baby item I owned and "donated" it to my girlfriend who is due in November, but this car seat is an issue.  Off to the internet I go...  But I'm not satisfied with the results of my search.  Essentially, the Twin Cities guideline is cut off all the straps, render the thing unusable and stick it in a trash bag.  For real?  This is just not settling well with me.

Now, after some more searching I have found a place in Austin, TX, called Baby Earth, that will recycle car seats, all you have to do is ship it there.  Um, yeah, so now I'm looking at spending $60-90 to ship my $10 car seat to place for recycling.  What am I supposed to do?  I don't know if I could live with myself thinking this bulk of metal and plastic is sitting in a landfill not rotting because I didn't want to spend the money to dispose of it properly.

Why do we put ourselves in these situations?  How can we make things that are clearly necessary, and legally mandatory, but then say that 1) it can't be sold 2) it can't be donated 3) it can't be recycled?  The thought of the shear number of car seats in use today boggles my mind.  Where are all those seats going? The children grow up.  The laws change.  The silly things have EXPIRATION DATES!!  So, then what?  Will my grandchildren be skiing Mount Car Seat?

I am at a loss.  I think I'm going to have to cough up the money and ship my car seat to TX for a final get away in the sun.  I hope it enjoys its final trip.  And I hope that it can be repurposed into something as useful as it was.  Bon Voyage, Mr. Graco.  It's been real.

Crazy Magnet

I have a gift.  I have cultivated it for years.  It's a natural gift, one I have tried hard to reject, to cover, to mask, but when you have a gift... people know.  They can sense it, you know?  Sometimes, no matter how hard you try to cover it up, it comes out even stronger than had you just accepted it in the first place.  So, yes, you who know me have already figured it out, but I AM A CRAZY MAGNET.

Some of you have witnessed this phenomenon first hand.  It happens most often near bus stops, but, really, they come out of the woodwork wherever I go.  They tell me their stories.  They engage me.  There is irony here.  I have developed this very closed, dower demeanor in public.  I don't talk to anyone except service providers when I'm wandering about.  I'm not a chatter in public places.  I'm hardly a chatter anywhere, really.  But the demeanor that says, "Whoa! Disengage!" to your average person looking for socialization and camaraderie, says, "Totally talk to this person.  They are fascinated by your antics," to your garden-variety crazy.

My best crazies I met when I rode the bus to and from downtown every day.  I began to categorize them.  There are always mumblers and drunks, you know, the harmless ones.  They would usually sit next to me and begin ranting.  It became somehow known that I was a kind of crazy-whisperer on the 12, and the bus drivers would often give me silent cues to "help direct" said person off at the next stop.  I could usually oblige.

Then you have the dramatists.  (They are secretly me favorite.)  They are fascinating and harmless.  There was "the chief" - he wore feathers all over his body that he picked up on the road and walked with a garbage poker.  There was "safety guy" - he wore about 20 blaze orange safety vests piled together.  He told me he wanted to be visible when he wandered from St. Paul to Minneapolis and back everyday.  That's just plain smart.  Then there was "the human chalkboard" - he asked everyone he met to sign him.  He was almost always covered in signatures... his clothes, bags, skin, everything.

But my favorite of all time was the "E. Coli Outbreak Lady."  She was a gem.  She stood on a corner with her hand poised like a puppet and wrapped in a doll dress.  Her ratty hair hung down to her knees, and she swayed as she shouted like a sidewalk evangelist, "E. COLI OUTBREAK!  SAY 'NO' TO PEACHES AND STRAWBERRIES!  E. COLI OUTBREAK!  SAY 'NO' TO KISSING!  EEEEE COLI OUTBREAK!  SAY 'NO' TO DATE RAPE!!!"  Very sound advice.

So, although I have yet to figure out a way to use my gift for the betterment of mankind, I have, at the very least, gathered some excellent stories to tell at parties.  Do you have any Crazy Magnet stories?  I'd love to hear them!

Hosta Haters

As I was driving to work this morning, listening to The Current, as I do every morning, the substitute host Jackie Fuller made a major confession.  One that I thought would get one run out of Minnesota by mobs brandishing pitchforks and torches.  She hates hostas.  Yep, that's right, those squat little plants that coat the suburban landscape of Minnesota shooting their alien little flower appendages up waving in the breeze every summer.  Well, world, if Jackie can admit it, so can I.  I hate hostas.  To the point I have stricken potential homes from the list purely do to the abundance of hostas.

What!? you might say.  But these plants are hearty!  They'll grow anywhere!  You never have to tend them!

Yep.  Don't care.  I think they are weird and not terribly attractive.  I kind of take issue with any flora that starts as a little plump mass and shoot flags into the air like Yosemite Sam's pistols, "Shoot!"  But that's just my opinion.

So, I hope my Minnesota card isn't revoked because I have come clean with my dark little secret.  If there are hostas in my yard, I dig them up and send them to hosta heaven...or anyone who wants them.  There.  I said.  Now I feel better.

Problem Solving

I just read the opinion piece, "College is a Waste of Time" by Dale Stephens.  It's a fascinating take on higher education and has a lot of really valid points.  In a lot of ways it flies in the face of how I was raised and the way I mapped my life, but it also speaks to many of the values that I hope to impart to my own boys.

Growing up, there was no question that I would go to college.  Not because it was crammed down my throat, or because I was given no choice in the matter.  It just was.  My mother was the first of her family to go to college, and my father earned his degree as well.  My mom was a high school counselor, and one of her many roles was to prepare kids for college, help them find the right place and get their applications in order.  It never came up as a topic for discussion.  I just knew, that for me, school would be 16 years (or more) and not 12.

Even as a kid I would pretend to be a college student.  I would look for apartments in the paper and page through old catalogs that Mom would have around.   OK, I totally admit that I was a strange child.  But it was fanciful and exciting for me.  The irony in it all, is that I did everything in my power to get through college as quickly as possible.  I got focused on my career path by my senior year in high school.  I knew I was going into the arts in some fashion, and by the end of my senior year, I knew I would be a graphic designer.

I chose a college, after dozens of campus tours, based on the breadth of classes and not the specialties.  I decided I wanted to know more than color theory and perspective.  Kind of like my oldest, I wanted "to know everything."  I wanted to draw theories of my own and gain perspective on my expanding world.  Some classes did that for me.  Others did not.  There was a direct correlation between the amount of time I spent on a class and the amount of problem solving and critical thinking involved in said class.

The graphic design curriculum was relatively new when I started school (the internet didn't even have pictures until half-way through my freshman year), and the small class size worked to my advantage.  We were able to shape the class into what we wanted it to be.  We began freelancing as a group by the time I was a sophomore, and one of my classmates even dropped out to start a very successful internet design company.  And by the time I was a junior, after taking summer classes and studying in Europe, I had completed my requirements and was able to go to part-time status to work almost full-time at my internship.

Sometimes Brett, who is also a graphic designer, and I sit and talk about the classes we took in college.  One stands out specifically, Art History.  In Brett's art history classes, there were projects and discussions.  In mine there was rote memorization.  Don't get me wrong, I can memorize with the best of them, but what stuck with me from that class was not artistic movements and influential artists, but a dark room with a slide projector rhythmically flashing images onto the wall and an overwhelming feeling, of "how will this apply to my life?"

Now that I've added "mom" to my job title, I think a lot about my boys.  (Obviously.)  Brett and I talk continuously about college funds and such, and I wonder, is that where they will really end up?  Is that what will be best for them?  Is it bad if it's not?  As my career has progressed, I have found myself more than once in meetings thinking, "how is it that you not only can't see the problem here, but also can not see the solution?"  It seems so obvious to me.

And, after reading this piece on college, it seems even more clear.  Stephens is right, we are often times not teaching our children how to think, but how to regurgitate.  It is important to learn about the past, to understand the facts and know the parts and pieces of things.  Those bits are integral to problem solving as well, but if we do not teach our children how to take that knowledge and create new things from it, where will we be?  Will we be in a world of Hollywood Blockbuster-type living where every "great new thing" is just the reprocessing of a truly great new thing form 20+ years ago?  I don't want to live in that world.  I already saw that movie... the first time.

I want my children to imagine, create and push the boundaries of possibility.  I want my kids to be able to say, "Yes, I know how it was done, but what if we did this?"  And I want my kids to know that if college is not the place that will make that kind of thinking a reality for them, that's OK with me.  And any college fund that may materialize in the next 18 years can be used for education – whether that education is in a classroom or on a train or the side of a mountain or even in their own basement is totally up to them.  I want them to learn how to think.  Period.

The Weatherman

Urban started talking when he was about 6 months old.  It sounds ridiculous, but it's true.  He said kitty (we have 3), ball and bus and lots of nonsense garble in between.  The kid has had a lot to say from day one.  And, I promise you, he has not shut up since.

One thing he talks about a lot is the weather.  He always has an eye on the sky, and we get a running report of whatever he sees.  We try to give him as much information as we can about weather and how it works –   what makes snow, where hail comes from, why rainbows happen – anything and everything he might wonder about.  He has gotten to the point where he sits and watches the weather reports on television, which can be a little nerve-wracking lately with all of the severe weather we have been having, but kinda cool nonetheless.

This past winter, Urban informed me that he likes it when it's cloudy because it means it will be warmer.  That's true.  The clouds help keep what little heat we might have from escaping back into the atmosphere.  "But," he says, "they have to be cumulous clouds, not cirrus clouds.  Because those are too high and wispy."  Right.

But these days, when the weather has has turned warmer, there is a direct line in Urban's mind to The Splash Pad.  He is definitely my warm weather kid.  (He also informed us this winter he wants to move to the desert.  "At least it doesn't snow there," was his reasoning.)  He now insists on watching the news every night before supper to check to see how many splash pad days there will be in the coming 7.  He listens intently to Sven Sundgaard explain the daily highs and lows, whether there will be cloud cover or sun, and if there is a chance of stormy weather.  Then he looks at me very seriously while walking over to the TV screen, points at the weekly projection and says, "See, Mama, 2 days of splash pad, then 2 days of rain, then 3 days of splash pad."

"Right." I agree, thinking to myself about all the other things I have to do that don't involve running through community sprinklers, but this is his life right now.  He starts school in a month, so he should take advantage of his splash pad time while he can.

"So, Urban," I say, "are you going to be a weather man when you grow up?"

He thinks for a moment and says, "Yes.  And a foot doctor and a girl."

That's my boy.

Garage Sales, Cragslist and Consignment... OH MY!

What's the best way to get rid of stuff?  Tell people you have it.  At least, that's what I've found.  This weekend we really started our purge.  Brett and I spent most of Friday night sorting and boxing some of our stuff.  This was after the boys were in bed, of course because who can get anything done with one constantly trying to toss himself down the stairs and the other DEMANDING we play Zombie Dice "NOW!"?  By Saturday morning, we had one pile to take to consignment shops, another to donate and yet another to take to our friends' garage sale that morning.

In the process, I spent quite a bit of time gathering all the pieces of one of our china sets and tidily packing it into two diaper boxes.  (Classy, I know.)  Brett and I had picked up the set at a garage sale ourselves, and the plan was to load it up and sell it at one again.  We paid $60 for it, so we figured someone else might too.  For added bargaining power, I decided to hop on ebay and see how much it was going for there.  Well, I discovered it was going for A LOT more than 60 bucks!  More like 10 bucks a plate!  Our sorting stopped for a while as we discussed what to do.  We really want to get rid of extraneous stuff before the move, but we also would love to have some more money to spend on our decorating projects.  What to do?  What to do?  After a debate, we decided to go ahead and move the plates and put them on ebay ourselves.  It's a gamble.  We'll see what happens.

The rest of the stuff got packed up with the boys in our little Scion XA and hauled over to South Minneapolis where we made a whopping $5.  What a days' work!  The rain and cold kept the buyers at bay, and Brett and I realized, we're really more garage sale shoppers than havers.  We re-packed the Scion and donated the lot.

Next stop: Craigslist.  After a small discussion about, "what will we sleep/eat on," I listed our table and bedroom furniture on this amazing site.  I have had a love affair with craigslist for years, and it never fails to amaze me the things the practically fly out of your house and the things that leave you hauling them to the curb while scratching your head.  The table was gone in a day, the boys' blue dresser took about a week.  The couch is still in the garage...  And, anybody need a modern bedroom set?

Amazing.

So, now at least we have a nice, open space to pile boxes in the dining area.  Does this mean I can start more packing?  JOY!  I love progress.  I want to see less and less stuff and more and more floor/cardboard.  Onward and upward, family!  Onward and upward!

But it's FREE!

I posted earlier about the dance of stuff that my family is doing right now.  I feel like I spend every moment that I'm not at work and/or the kids are sleeping traversing our piles and piles of stuff.  At least once a week I fill the car with unused items and drive them to a donation bin somewhere.  In fact, I am right now waiting for a friend to come and empty my car of baby gear.

With every trip I feel a little lighter.  I know that I am abiding by my rule, "if we're not going to use it at the new house, we're not moving it."  And the real motivation comes from the fact that we're moving ourselves.  I don't want to exert the energy to literally move stuff for nothing.  And I know, that even without all this stuff, we will still fill that house!

Then, this morning, we get an email from our sellers' agent.  They have stuff they aren't going to move, do we want it?  I should say no, right?  I mean, we have PLENTY of stuff between our house and my mom's. BUT IT'S FREE STUFF!!  I mean, it can't hurt to at least find out what it is, right?  We can always say no later...

Why is it so darn hard to say "no" to stuff?

I want to know EVERYTHING!

Urban and I are a lot alike in many ways.  My husband might argue that we are alike in some of the most annoying ways, but I like to think they make us charming.  One of the things my oldest and I definitely have in common is our insatiable appetite for learning new things.

Urban can’t get enough information fast enough.  Ever.  He must understand and define every word, concept and object he runs into.  He is not only inquisitive, but also quick to educate you if you look interested.  And sometimes, even if you don’t…  (I got a lovely lesson on midges the other day as I picked him up from his nature center class.  He was adamant they won’t hurt you.  Good to know.)

That night, as I was helping him into his pajamas, I was chattering to him about something – I honestly can’t remember now what it was; my chatter gets a bit mindless after 8PM – and I said the word spank.  Usually, these days, when I say a word he doesn’t understand it has 3 or more syllables and a Latin root, so it just didn’t cross my mind that this little word would turn into a big lesson for both of us.

He looked at me with his enormous blue eyes and held up his hand for me to stop.  “Mama, what’s a spank?”

It caught me off guard.  I just looked at him, thinking back to the 70s, when I was his age, and there wasn’t a child in the world who would ask that question.  Everyone knew what a “spank” was.  My parents didn’t spank me, but I certainly knew what it was, well enough to know to avoid at all costs.   In my simple mommy-mind, I decided maybe I could salvage his innocence, so I answered, “You don’t know what spanking is, but maybe it’s better that way.  You don’t really want to know.”

Wrong.

His eyes filled with tears and he yelled, “I DO want to know!  I WANT TO KNOW EVERYTHING!”

Yep.  He sure does.  My mistake.

So, I told him.  I told him sometimes some mommies and daddies use spanking as a punishment instead of timeouts.  That it’s hitting when someone has done something naughty. 

To which he responded, “It’s not OK to hit.”

“You’re right.  It’s not, and that’s why your mommy and daddy made the decision not to spank.”  Thinking to myself that some days it is a very difficult proposition.

“What do they spank with?  Their hands?”

“Sometimes, and sometimes belts or spoons or something.  But you don’t have to worry about it, because your mommy and daddy don’t spank.”

“Right.  I’m glad of that, Mama.  I don’t think I would like that very much.”

“No, probably not.  But you don’t like time outs very much either.”

“No.  I don’t like time outs, but at least they don’t hurt.”

“True.  Should we brush teeth now?”

“Yes.  Thank you for not spanking me.”

“Um, you’re welcome.  Thank you for being so awesome.”

“You’re welcome.”  He grinned.

It's a Dandy!

After posting this picture of Urban picking the little yellow wonders with his helmut on, Cousin Lexi gifted me this fabulous link to An Herbalist Eats and a recipe for Dandelion Cordial.  I, of course, could not resist.

After being delayed by rain for 2 days, I was finally able to head out to the front yard and harvest my bounty.  I'm certain the neighbors thought I was nuts as I wandered around the yard with my basket decapitating the things they spend so much time spraying and pulling.  But, we're a bit more prairie-minded.  We never spray.  Heck, we barely mow!  ::grin::

So, with my harvest at hand, I retired to my kitchen for the fun part.  Brett pitched in like a trooper helping me empty the Captain Morgan's bottle that would soon become the receptacle for the sunny yellow apertif.

The Recipe:
2-3 cups of dandelion heads
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 lemon rind
vodka

I started by funneling the sugar into the bottle.  Then I got down to the tedium.  You want to get as much of the green bits off the dandelion head as possible.  I took a small paring knife and cut the head from the stem and then gently unwrapped the green, leafy bit from the petals.  The difficulty lies in that there are, like, a buh-jillian petals and when you "unwrap" them they fall everywhere.  So, I did the best I could to scoop them into the bowl.

After doing this to my 2-3 cups worth, I pinched the petals between my fingers and not-so-elegantly shoved them down the neck of the bottle with the butt-end of a sharpie.  (Don't worry, it was clean, I'm very professional.)  Then I peeled and sliced the lemon, added the vodka and VOILA!  a little shaky-shaky every now and then and in 6 weeks we will have cordial.  Just in time for a 4th of July BBQ!

I can't wait.  A little of this mixed with sparkling water, a slice of fresh lemon and I believe I will be in heaven.

So, if life gives you Dendelions, make Dandelion Cordial!!  or dandelion tea or dandelion salad or dandelion tincture or dandelion syrup...  shall I go on?

The Family Farewell

I don't remember it being the case in my own family.  Maybe I was just to young to remember, but saying goodbye to my husband's extended family is at least an hour-long affair.  It starts with the knowing nod across the room.  The shared glance that says, "if we don't leave soon, we will have to retrieve Urban from the chandelier."  Then we slowly we gather the boys and their stuff, make our way person by person through the family and say goodbye.  An hour later, if we're lucky, we're in the car and heading back towards home.

Yesterday, I learned the value of the long goodbye.  We attended the anniversary of Brett's Uncle's ordination at a church near the Wisconsin border.  It had been storming on and off all day.  Urban was soaked to the bone from dancing in and karate chopping the rain drops while jumping in puddles in the parking lot.  Beringer was getting restless from having no nap.  And the crowd had finally dwindled from a throng to a smattering.  Even the accordian player was packing up.  We knew it was time to start the farewells.  They took a little less time because some of the family had already departed, but it was still a solid half hour of, "See you next time, we're taking off!"

We finally got in the car and headed back to the city.  Brett and I were amusing ourselves stealing glances at the boys playing peek-a-boo and singing in the backseat when the semi in front of us on 394 stopped abruptly.  We stopped too – a little closer to it's tail lights than I was comfortable with, but we stopped.  A couple moments later we we started again, soon driving over a swath of tree debris that cut across the highway.  "Weird," I said, "it looks like a tornado went through." Brett rolled his eyes and accused me of being dramatic.

We exited south onto 100, and as we pulled onto the exit that would take us home, we saw a fire truck.  Then another.  Then some police cars.  Then we saw an entire street blocked off.  "What is going on?"

We got home, and I tucked the boys (all three) into bed and switched on the television.  I was greeted with immediate storm coverage.  "The tornado formed just over the intersection of highway 100 and 394 moments ago touching down in Saint Louis Park, then cutting it's way through North Minneapolis..."

Wait.  We live in Saint Louis Park.  And we were just at the intersection of 394 and 100.  Whoa.  It all started to sink in.  We had been sitting on the highway when the tornado went through.  And if it hadn't been for the infamous Kaiser Goodbye, we probably would have been sitting right in its path.  I've never been so thankful for the drawn out farewell in my life.

Beware the Mad Cow.

Names are important.  I have been an obsessive collector of names for as long as I can remember.  As a child, I named everything.  Every one of my animals and dolls had a name (and a personality to go with it).  So, when it came time for Brett and I to marry, I had a hard time parting with mine – name that is, the personality is pretty well nailed down.  My name had been my own for 26 years at that point.  Many of those 26 years I spent working through my identity issues, feeling uncomfortable in my name – like it didn't fit me – and then coming into myself in my early 20s and embracing my name as my own.  I couldn't fathom suddenly having a new one.

Early in our relationship, very early, Brett and I had gone out to the clubs with a bunch of my friends.  (For them to approve of my new beau, of course.)  After bar-close we all hopped in a cab and headed to Uptown to our favorite diner for eggs.  Mmm... the memory of that greasy smell mixed with cigarette smoke and alcohol still stings my nostrils.  We ended up shoulder to shoulder with a table of two men, who we quickly engaged in conversation.  They were a couple and had been for years.  They were taken with our burgeoning relationship and chatted openly about how to "make it work".  By the end of the conversation, we were exchanging names and emails to get together for brunch at a later date.  When the younger of the two, a professional go-go dancer by trade, saw our names, he looked meaningfully at us and said, "Sauer and Hudoba?  When you get married you simply MUST hyphenate!"  We laughed.  We were still counting our relationship in weeks and couldn't imagine getting married.  More so, we couldn't imagine being saddled with a mouthful of a name like, "Sauer-Hudoba"!

When we did get married, we mutually decided to keep our individual names.  It was not a big deal to either of us, though we have discovered it can be a big deal to some.  Eventually, we found ourselves welcoming children into the mix.  We worked extremely hard to come up with unique and interesting, but solid names for our both of our sons.  I spent literally months researching in books, online databases and blogs. (One of my favorites, The Baby Name Wizard, is a wealth of knowledge.)  But what would be their last name?  We puzzled for a while before recalling the go-go dancer's prophetic declaration, we "simply MUST hyphenate!"  So, the first Sauer-Hudoba was born in 2006.  Urban Maxwell.  We chose his middle name specifically because it could be used as a last name some day.  We know that Sauer-Hudoba would not look great on a book jacket or up in lights.  Ha!

When number 2 came, we knew his middle name would serve last name duty too, if he so chose.  I knew this little man would be the opposite of his brother from the start.  Urban is a blond-haired, blue-eyed fireball.  Even in the womb, baby #2 was mellower.  When he came out olive skinned with dark hair and eyes, I was not shocked in the least.  We chose Beringer Tate (outdoorsman, happy) because it is a counterpoint to Urban Maxwell (city-dweller, full of goodness).

Now, in 2011, we refer to our family collectively as the Sauer-Hudobas.  (Sauer, a German word, can mean angry.  And Hudoba, anglicised from the original Polish Chudoba, means cattle.)  So, our family of "mad cows" just keeps pulling more people in.  Be warned, we are poising to take over the world!  OK, just a little square of world in Bloomington, but still... It's only in the best possible way.

Ready. Set. Go.

This morning I went to http://www.isyourchildready.com/ to take a quiz and see where Urban stacks up in terms of kindergarten readiness.  No big shock, he's ready.  Too bad he has to wait another year.

I understand that 50% of MN 5-year-olds have not mastered the skills they need to know to enter Kindergarten, and that this site is to encourage those parents and give them the tools they need to help their kids change that.  Here is my frustration, however: what about the ones that are not just ready, but more than ready?

I wish that there was a place on this sight where parents like my husband and me could go to find enrichment activities; suggestions for who to talk to in the schools to ensure that, once our child is in school, he will be challenged - even a link on the resources page to the MN Council for the Gifted and Talented would be nice.  I have worked hard to find resources on my own, and still I have more questions.  I understand that we, as a nation, are working to make sure that "no child is left behind", but, in some ways, I feel like mine is.  He needs extra help and special attention too.  He is hungry for information and gobbles up new skills and ideas like candy.  What is going to happen when he starts school next year reading and doing math calculations - not just with the 50% of kids who aren't "ready", but also with the others who know what they should?

It's hard for me to even write this post because I know that there are people rolling their eyes and thinking, "What is she complaining about?  Just shut up and feel lucky that your kid is doing well."  All kids are special.  I do not disagree with that.  Kids are amazing, but each one has special needs and each one should have those needs met.  Just like everyone else, all I want is what's best for my kid.  I want him to thrive and be happy and live up to his potential.

All that said, I am excited that I found a strong, private pre-K program for him that he will start after we move.  He will be learning a Kindergarten curriculum, with a strong art, math and science foundation.  We went last night to an open house there.  It was a wonderful opportunity for Urban to meet his new teachers and classmates and to see the classroom and playground.  They did a scavenger hunt that was a very fun and interesting way for them to assess his skills.  He had to count, match colors and shapes, copy letters, match animals to footprints, dig for Egyptian treasure and bounce a ball.  He loved it!    When we took him outside, he immediately ran and joined a group of boys tearing around the play structure.  The director just looked at us and said, "so, he clearly doesn't need me to introduce him to new friends."  We smirked.

It's comforting to know that he can make himself at home in new situations – that he can run out and make friends and adapt, even when he is unsure of the situation.  That makes me proud.  Even Beringer, our little stranger-danger boy, was happy and flirting with the teachers.  He actually crawled around the playground a bit.  And in the end, neither wanted to leave.  Urban was ready to hang out in his new classroom and get down to it.  They even offer cooking classes!  He will be in heaven.

Education is an important and challenging next step in Urban's young life.  Brett and I are his advocates, his guides and his cheerleaders.  We chose our new home specifically for the schools and programs that are offered.  My greatest hope is that our advocate/guide/cheerleading team grows and grows with every year.  It's all we can ask for, really.

New Inspiration!!

Found this on Ohdeedoh

This I love!  I am staring down the barrel of a very large dresser DIY for the boys' room.  I was originally thinking big silhouette on a solid background color.  But now?  Now I am thinking DRAWER CODING!

I am buzzing with this new idea.  What do you think of cool, graphic images of undies, socks, shirts and pants to help make the putting-clothes-away chore more fun?

I think it may be really cool to divide the dresser in half with color.  (The piece is totally symmetrical with even numbers of drawers on both halves.) Urban can have his orange side and Beringer can have blue or green.  Then we bring it all together with charcoal grey clothing graphics.  Could be cool.

Hmmm...

Vying for Real Estate

You know, I have never been more thankful of my great relationship with my mother than now as we volley for spots for all of our belongings.  It seems so quaint and simple.  The first words, "Let's move in together!"  Then you stop and think.  I have stuff.  Brett has stuff.  We have stuff together.  The boys have their own stuff.  We have furniture and dishes and linens.  Mom has all that stuff too.  Plus, she has family heirlooms; 30+ years of adult, family and marriage accumulation; a husband who was a pack rat (to put it mildly) and 3000+ sq. ft. of furnishings.  Our new house is only 2300 sq. ft.  What are we going to do with all the stuff?  So, the negotiations begin, because for every one thing you agree on there is at least one thing that must be purged.  And "at least" is a very loose estimation.

Between our two families we have six couches.  SIX!  We do not need six couches.  This is agreed.  But where Brett and I steer pretty modern with our couch styles, Mom is decidedly traditional.  OK, let's table the couches and talk about our 3 dining room tables.  One can be painted with a more weather hearty finish and put on the three season porch.  We can use Mom's round dining table in the dining room by purchasing two more chairs, and our IKEA table will go on Craigslist.  There.  That's some progress.

Since we're in the dining/kitchen, let's talk about dishes.  We have 3 sets of china + another 3 sets of everyday dishes.  (Clearly this is a family illness.)  OK, Brett and I can sell one set of china and donate our other set of everyday stuff.  Most of it came from a garage sales anyway.  We keep Grandma Sauer's china from Germany and Mom's wedding dishes.  In fact, we can paint the wardrobe that currently houses Mom's TV the same color as the cabinets in the kitchen, add some shelves, and VOILA! a china cabinet!  Look at us go.

Room by room we work our way through the sea of stuff, and after each discussion, I run home and add more to the Goodwill pile.  Being faced with your accumulation is a sobering thing.  I refuse to move anything that we will not use.  I refuse to store things "just in case".  And especially since we will be moving ourselves in a rental truck.  If it's not necessary... it's going to someone else.  Craigslist is my new best friend.  In fact, if you or someone you know needs something.  I may have it.  CHEAP!  ha!

It feels good to purge the excess, and it is exciting to be surrounded by things from my childhood again – things that will now be decorated with my family's stuff and accented by my family's artwork.  It is also thrilling to know that my mom is an integral part of that family again and not just a voice on the other end of the line – that her stuff can mingle with my stuff and Brett's stuff and the boys' stuff and it will all just become our stuff.

Do you want to talk about the couches now?  Um, no.

Extreme Parenting

Urban is a marvel to me.  If he had a motto I think it would be, "Go big or go home."  His energy is boundless and his dialogue incessant.  He is hilarious and exhausting and a wonder all at once.  His extreme personality that has no "off" switch and has challenged us from day one.  By the time he was 3, we looked outside our family for help.  Brett and I struggled to stay calm in the face of all this energy.  We needed someone to tell us that "this is hard, but you can do it."  Family therapy has helped us more than you can imagine.

Urban loves attention.  He walks into a room and introduces himself to every person, animal and even a few toys.  By the time you've known him for 5 minutes you will surely know his name, our names, his brother's name, his favorite color and food, and that he loves video games and super heroes.  Sometimes he reminds me of a spider monkey (with an excellent vocabulary.)  One second he's scrabbling on the floor and the next he dangling from a door knob all while reciting his inner monologue.

After a long day of work, I sometimes have to steel myself for his desperate need for my attention every moment.  No matter what.  I have learned to try to engage him in my tasks.  He helps me make dinner.  He helps me change the baby.  He helps me clean.  Sometimes it's amazing.  Sometimes it really sucks.  Like when I have a one-year-old on my hip spitting and pulling my hair, the last thing I want is a 4-year-old wrapped around my leg jabbering about bad guys.  But therapy has helped me, in those moments, to take a deep breath and redirect.  It works sometimes.  Sometimes I'm short with him and get angry.  And sometimes I just roll my eyes.

Yesterday was a big day for Urban.  He went non-stop, which he loves, from exciting time with me at work to his favorite class.  No nap.  No down time.  No good.  He had a day as near perfect as he can get.  He earned 4 stickers.  (Major!)  And then it disintegrated.  Doors slammed.  Screams ripped the air.  He was mad.  And I'm certain no one had moved.  Nothing had changed.  I stood bewildered and looked at Brett whose eyes flared with the "What the F?" look.

By 7:30 he had woken Beringer with his antics. And Brett and I sat on the couch - the chorus of Glee being drowned out by the chorus of drama bellowing from two separate rooms and two separate brothers.  Urban was mad.  Beringer was mad.  Brett was mad.  I was mad.  One of us had to take that deep breath and begin the process of bringing everyone down.

I retrieved Beringer to play with Daddy in the living room until Urban settled down.  I went into our room and lay down next to Urban.  I didn't say a word.  He sobbed and howled and thrashed.  I still didn't know what even made him so very angry.  I wrapped my arms around him and curled my legs under his.  He began to mellow.  We breathed together in the quiet.  I wiped the tears from his face.  "Mama?"  "Mm-hmm."  "Am I horrible?"  "No.  You're tired.  You need to sleep.  You had a good day that ended badly.  I love you no matter what."  "Mama?"  "Mm?"  "I think tomorrow maybe I should take a nap."  "Mm.  I think that might be wise."

I'm ready for my close up

Urban has decided this was, "like, the best. day. EVER."  I guess sometimes having a mommy in advertising has it's perks.

Today he got to come to work with me and participate in a commercial shoot.  He was one of 5 kids for an ad for sectionals for Slumberland Furniture that will run in early July.  Of course, that wasn't the best part for him.  He got to hang out with fun kids and make a new best friend.  He got to go to lunch with Mommy and his new friend and have chocolate ice cream for dessert.  Then he still got o go to his class at the nature center.  Best. Day. Ever.

The highlight for me, though was when he was doing a scene lounging on the couch with his buddy.  They were told to tell each other stories.  This was Urban's story:

"Once upon a time there was a sausage that ran off into the woods.  He ran and ran until a giant gumball fell out of the sky and smashed him.  Then another sausage ran off into the woods.  His mama said, 'don't go!' but he did anyway, and a giant gumball fell out of the sky and smashed him.  Then another sausage ran off into the woods..."

Priceless.

Oldy but a Goody

This story happened when Urban was 3. When I picked him up from daycare he was all agitated.  Something had happened in his preschool class.  Addison got in trouble, apparently, and this was his description of the crime.

"Mama! Miss Georgia brought a friend to school today!"
"Oh, really?" I say.  "Who?"
"A man. But Addison got in big trouble because she popped his head off."
"What?"  I flick the rear view mirror down so I can look at him as we pull up to a red light.
"Addison popped his head off."
"She hit him??"  I ask, confused.
"No, she popped his head off, and she got a time out."
"She popped his head off? Was he a toy?" I ask.
"No, Mama, a MAN."
"A REAL man?" I squeak, trying to hold back laughter.
"Yes! A person. A real man."
"And Addison popped his head off? That must have been really scary. Were you there when it happened?" I try my best to keep a straight face as I question him.  He is clearly very upset by the whole thing.
"No. I was helping Sophie finish the fish puzzle. But Addison got a time out."
"Um, right, because she popped a REAL man's head off."
"Yep."
"Did he have to go to the doctor?"  I am so baffled at this point, I decide to play along.
"No."
"Did he need a bandaid?"
"No." (giggles)
"But Addison popped his head off?"
"Yes! What do you think happened to his skin?"  (Urban is very fascinated by the human body at how it works.)
"Um, I don't know, but I would think he would need to see a doctor."
(More giggles.) "No. That's silly. He's just a doll, but I'm going to be a doctor someday, so tomorrow I'm going to go to school and help Miss Georgia pop her friend's head back on."
"That's very nice. I'm sure she'll appreciate that."  As we pull into the driveway I can't hold back my hysterical laughter anymore, and I dissolve into gleeful tears.


And that is the story of how a 4-year-old girl popped a man's head off.  (In case you missed it, the "man" was Ken.  Poor guy.  He's been through so much since the big breakup.)

I made cheese

Moving just isn't enough to occupy my time, apparently.  While reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, an incredible read about eating local, my lifelong desire to make cheese was once again pulled to the surface.  So, I immediately jumped onto cheesemaking.com and purchased the 30 minute Mozzarella kit.  Guess what?  It really only takes 30 minutes!

The cheese was delicious.  In 30 minutes I made about 1 pound of fresh Mozzarella.  While it cooled a bit, I rolled out pizza dough from a Pillsbury package and popped it in the oven for a 5 minute pre-bake. Then I sliced and sautéed onions, green peppers, zucchini and garlic.  I threw in some diced, canned tomatoes and fennel, then spread the whole mixture onto the crust.  Topped it off with some pepperonis and black olives (for Urban) and a bunch of fresh Mozzarella.  10 minutes later we sat down to a pizza dinner that everyone demolished.  It was so good!

I love making cheese.  In between boxing up our office and cleaning the 1/2 story this week, I'll definitely be trying my hand at ricotta.