For Obvi

This was a post that I started in August 2013 and rediscovered in July 2018.  There were no words. Just this photo.  For obvious reasons, I am not able to click "delete draft."  Also, I wonder if I could find Maggie's pants in my size?

How to Recall

Things that I love about July, an incomplete list:

The sun.
The hot.
The early mornings and late nights.
The exponentially declining Junebug population.
Our anniversary, its associated free childcare (thank you!), and the luxury of time for long conversations that are predictably both nostalgic of our pre-parenthood selves and future focused on the decent and educated humans we are working so hard to contribute to society.

The rest of this post was drafted nearly three years ago.  It has been about that long since we visited our blog, and we may have never returned if it weren't for that moment over beers when we couldn't quite remember how old Greta was when she mowed the left side of her hair.  She was three.  I was working 24-hour shifts, and we were trying to save money on daycare on my post-call days.  We did save money.  And my toddlers learned independence?

So, in the name of more vividly remembering important milestones during future anniversary cocktails, we will try to restart the blogging.

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This, from September 2015 (with photos that are more recent), which mostly still rings true for me in July 2018.

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Things that are bigger than me, a short list:

The sun.

Trees.  Lots of them, anyway.

Love of desserts.

Love of bedheads.

The colorful curse word that was NOT heard by every living thing in Kinnickinnic State Park when a wasp got stuck in my shoe today.

The relentlessness of time.

The sense that I'm doing it all wrong, most of the time.

The sense that I know how to do it right, but it would be very hard, and far too scary.

My love for these people.

The wish that they would just stop, just for a second.  Stop arguing.  Stop making enormous messes.  Stop eating nothing but peanut butter sandwiches.  Stop pleading for the iPad, the TV, the computer.  Stop shedding their baby fat and learning the correct way to pronounce "caterpillar."  Stop planning for orthodontic treatment to change a smile that is uniquely and belovedly perfect.  Stop discovering a passion for one big thing, and pursuing it with a focus I would have imagined beyond their maturity.

The gratitude that none of it has stopped.  That I am granted day after day to watch these lives unfold.

It Will Be Okay

Autumn is very often a romantic time of year for Kevin and I.  The world is so obviously amazing, so vividly lovely and overnight so astonishingly different from the place it was before.  It shouldn't be surprising that autumn is so often the time of year that inspires big changes for us.

Last autumn was no different.  Except that it was entirely different.  We decided to take a real risk, and explored lots of ways to be adventurous, including an opportunity to move our five to Boise, Idaho, where we had no family, no friends, had never visited, and knew virtually nothing about.  We came very close, but we didn't do that.  It would have been crazy.  Idaho?  Who do we know in Idaho?  Can anyone recommend a good school or a safe neighborhood or an upscale grocery in Boise?  No one we know.  Insane.  Maybe we should have done that.

We took another risk instead.  Which seemed still exciting! and new! and a fresh start! but a bit less... you know... risky.  We made plans to move to my hometown.  To live not just close to home, but actually in to my old home, with my parents.  We told ourselves and everyone around us that it was time to be near my family.  To immerse ourselves in the large, warm and welcoming people who from the beginning have been my people.  I left a job that I loved, which was one of the hardest things I have ever done.  But it was supposed to be hard.  That meant that we were doing it right, in the spirit of taking chances.  I didn't have to hold my breath for very long before the perfect new job turned up, in just the right place at precisely the right moment.  We told ourselves that this was a sign.  That everything was working out.  That we had surrendered to the flow, and would be swept effortlessly into the next blissful chapter of our lives.

There was effort, of course.  We could not abandon our eighteen-year life in the Twin Cities without the small headaches of moving boxes and licensure in another state, or without the profound heartache of goodbyes to family and community.

Kevin's family is =here= and my family is =there=, and in the name of fairness, it was time to reverse that.  The plan was to live with my parents, to sell our town home, then to find a new home in Everybody Loves Raymond proximity to my children's grandparents.  How adventurous, right?

If the plan had worked out, I probably wouldn't be mentally picking it apart in this way, would I?  It didn't work out.  I still don't have enough distance to know exactly why.  I know that the flow we thought we had tapped into never led us to a perfect new job for Kevin.  I know that the uncertainty about our family's future seemed overwhelmingly frightening many days.  I know that the warm and welcoming family we came to be near was always present, but that we never made enough time for them.  I know that after the inspiration to change that happens in autumn, the long, dark, and cold winter stretches on endlessly, offering no encouragement to get up! get out! meet your new community!

But.  I know that we never lost touch, which was one lucky thing.

I know that my family experienced living in a multi-generational household in a way that only a few of our peers do these days.  That was another lucky thing.

I know that we agonized over our future, and that I did that thing that you're never ever supposed to do.  I spent days dwelling on regrets.  It was ridiculous.  There is a reason you're not supposed to burden yourself with disappointment over the path that you did not take.  No good came from those hours of brooding.

For much of the winter, it felt as though we were plodding along with no path.  We couldn't look forward to the spring when our River Falls home would sell and we could buy a new home, because what if our River Falls home didn't sell?  And what if it did, but Kevin didn't have a job, and we couldn't afford a new house payment?  We couldn't enroll the kids in summer activities, because where would we be by the time summer came?  New Berlin?  Some other suburb?  Saint Paul?  River Falls?  Boise?  Some people thrive under circumstances of uncertainty.  Some people are so overcome by the need to define their plan that they find themselves unable to function even within the safety net that is living in an affluent suburb with one's parents, rent free.

Among the paths we could have followed, we chose the one that seemed most familiar.  We chose to cut ties for the second time in under half a year, and go back to where we started.  Well, not exactly to where we started - we live now 4.3 miles north of where we did in December.

Just like the last time we decided to uproot, the decision itself was devastatingly awful, but once it was made, the flow returned.  Jobs turned up.  School spots opened.  A new home welcomed us.  Our old home found new owners (officially, on July 2!).  Our community welcomed us back with open arms.  I am trying mightily not to regret.

I am failing at that, mostly.  There are a hundred thousand tasks to keep my brain and hands occupied, and audio books when all else fails.  But one innocent text message from my mom or from my sister, and I can't remember where I am or where we're all supposed to be.  I guess the answer is right here, in this place, but who can prove it?

After our second move of 2015, I accepted a temporary position in a field where I previously had little experience.  I became a stay at home mom, and by accepted, I mean I was offered no viable alternative.  I am incredibly fortunate to be given the opportunity to return to my old employer (different job, same department, lots of the same awesome people), but health organizations are meticulous about making sure their clinicians are qualified to provide care.  All the necessary checking, double checking, filling out of forms, emailing of pdfs and meeting of committees takes time.  Months, often.  My hospital decided they would be ready for me in late June, which made me wild with loss-of-wages anxiety for a day or so.  I've recovered from my panic attack brilliantly, and have even countered, finally agreeing to start work after we return from our summer vacation in late July.

Meanwhile, I am scheming to turn my temporary gig into a long term job with health benefits and a retirement package.  I like getting up when my kids get up.  I love being always available to shuttle people from one activity to another, and to volunteer at any school activity, any duration, any day.  I do miss the paycheck.  And the benefits.  I promise to appreciate these weeks without complaint.  Er, 85% complaint-free.

In Kevin's career, not much has changed.  He kept his position when we moved in December, but was allowed to work remotely.  This was an experiment for the most part, and at least from my perspective, it was a failed one.  He is back in the office in person now, doing all those things that I understand so little about, surrounded by those who undoubtedly missed his daily physical presence more than they ever thought they would.

Wish us luck on this path.  We don't get to know whether it is the best one.  But we get to keep each other, which seems more than fair to me.

Chequamegon: I Can Spell It

Pictures and stories from a vacation to Chequamegon National Forest.

When Kevin and I were dating, he never wanted to hold my hand, and he never wanted to go for walks.  I wanted both.

Rock skipping at Amnicon Falls

When our kids were old enough to walk a half mile on a groomed trail, even when they agreed to hold hands, they too resisted walks.  I still wanted both.

Geo-caching at Copper Falls

Over the years, I have worn them all down.

They recognize that to struggle is useless.  We go for walks.  Sometimes we hold hands.

Power to triumph over St. Peter's Dome.  Our longest, toughest, and most spectacular hike.

But mostly we carry stray gloves and geo-cache loot, hand out snacks and remind each other that at the end of the hike, there is beer for some and pizza for all.

Autumn is your favorite too, admit it.

There is a lesson to be learned here, family.  And I think it's pretty obvious.

Walking sticks will be used as weapons.  Always.

The lesson is: I know what's best for you, so just do what I say.

Watch out for hobbits

Or: Resistance is Futile.  However you want to put it.

Back at the cabin

There is one, though, who likes to walk.  The one with the shortest legs doesn't whine when we pull into another trail head parking lot.  She even asks to be taken for a hike.

Sunset sister

I like her.  When she gets tired of holding hands, I sometimes carry her.

We saw powerful waterfalls and had lovely weather.

Big Manitou Falls

We hiked, obviously, but also spent a lot of time driving, listened to Lemony Snicket on audiobook, played on iScreens until we were carsick, and watched cable TV at the beginnings and ends of the days.

Cartoon Network, not pictured

There was something in it for everyone, and enough rocks, pine cones and sticks near enough bridges and riverbanks to keep most of our family content for hours.

Oh, that's why I've been having nightmares of my children plunging from heights into cold and rocky rivers.  I see.

Thank you, Northern Wisconsin.  You were lovely, as always.

Magda photobombs Noah's heel click

Ta-Da!

I am not a born teacher.  I try, for the sake of my children, to let them help with things like washing dishes, making pancakes, and using scissors.  But really, I'm not even good at letting them measure their own flour or crack their own eggs during said pancake-making.  And I generally rewash all of their washed dishes.

Kevin, thank goodness, is the opposite of me.  When he says he can teach our daughter to play the drums, he means it.  He can.  He can break it down into pieces and present complex information in a way a beginner can understand.  Without getting frustrated.  Without just taking over to do it himself when she doesn't catch on quickly enough.  It's no surprise they care more about rocks and maps than about blood and guts.

I have patience issues.

If Kevin could also teach our children to sew and to swim, they would be making their own back to school clothes between swim club practices.  Sadly, children, I'm all you've got.

Last week, a small victory for Greta and I.

The cuts are uneven, but only a little.

The seams are imperfect, but that is my style of sewing too.

She's well on her way to conquering her fear of the sharp, speeding needle.

Ta-Da!  A bag the perfect size for collecting parade candy.

Name That Tune

Tantrum, tantrum, tantrum

Tantrum, tantrum, tantrum

Tantrum, tantrum, tantrum

Tantrum, tantrum, floor nap 

Taking Flight

How many times this summer have I shared a our kids are getting so B I G with a friend?

They are.  I put them to bed {sometimes not until nine-thirty} and when they wake up hours and hours and hours later, their arms and legs ache from all the nighttime stretching.  The summer sun and wind and rain are no joke, and we're soaking up as much of it as we can.

As if to prove that a person can, in fact, grow and even thrive on a diet of four bowls of cereal and six Popsicles a day.

As they grow, they become more like us at their age {skinny, but strong} {sassy, but smart} and less like us at any age {more courageous, more self-confident, and far, far funnier}.

Noah, Greta and Magda are not the only ones sprouting this summer either.  This is the season we nurtured a small deck garden of giant kale and lettuce that my kids willingly eat {!} and whole kiddie pool full of our local pond's {glorified puddle} tadpoles into grown up frogs, with help from Grandma and Google.

This is also the summer that my kids are both big enough and small enough to run with me.  Noah and Greta can bike four or five miles without {too much} complaint, and Maggie is still content in the stroller.  I'm learning that an eight o'clock run will nearly always result in a sleeping toddler within two miles, and for a girl who has very strong, very loud, and sometimes very physical opinions about whether or not it is her bedtime, this great news.

Tonight's adventure will be deck camping if I can swing it.  Happy Independence!