Vocation

The other day I told Joe I sometimes envied his descriptions of early morning coffee in his office with co-workers discussing theology, politics and the law. I lamented that I filled my head with useless bits of information like which kids don't like cheese on their ham sandwiches and how much milk to pour at mealtime because one child or another never drinks more than half a glass. I grumbled that those were the bits of information filling my head instead of big, important things like legal arguments heard at the state supreme court level that could change the landscape of Wisconsin law.

There was a time in my life, not so very long ago, that I got up in the morning, got dressed in clothes that weren't covered in spit-up stains nor did they have elastic waistbands (don't judge; sweatpants are very appealing some mornings). I went into an office, talked to other adults and worked on things pertaining to what is still today one of my favorite topics to think and talk about: politics. I did that happily for a time. It was invigorating and exciting and it kept me on my toes mentally.

And Joe didn't even think twice about how to respond to my whining. "But Cate," he said, "that's the information you need to have to be good at your job."

And he's right. And in that moment I remembered every moment I worked all those years ago that I didn't want to after I had Madeleine. I remembered every morning that I dropped Madeleine off somewhere and missing her. Every evening that I arrived home with a tired, crabby baby and yet still had dinner to cook and laundry to wash and a house to clean flashed through my head as if it were yesterday. No, I have never seriously questioned my vocation; I'm doing what I want to be doing.

So, during this season of my life I will fill my head with the details that will make me better at my job. I will still whine, occasionally, about people I meet who seem to think I have nothing else to talk about. If someone assumes I am incapable of talking about things other than my daily life than that's their fault for not probing, not mine; I'm quite conversant in any number of subjects.

But still, as this morning's coffee was coupled with a yelling nine-year-old and a crying baby, I still wish that-- just sometimes--I could sit in Joe's office for one, quiet cup of coffee.

Packers Versus Da Bears

The game wasn't the offensive shootout I expected, but still, there's something deliciously fun about beating the Bears at Lambeau.

Hank waiting for kick-off.



Caroline and me waiting for kick-off.



Happy Packer fans after the game.



More than the victory, even, I am beyond thrilled that football season has started again. Joe and I spent the entire drive home this morning discussing the ins and outs of the game. Finally-- new plays to dissect and new players to critique! Why is football season so short anyway?

Now We Know

A woman, who's about our age, from our church just called Joe to ask a legal question and kept calling him Mr. O____. I guess that tells us which generation people at church think we belong to, even if our ages would seem to say otherwise. I was laughing when Joe told me and then I told Joe that I'm almost positive when she and I have talked before she's called me Cate. Joe's response: Well, isn't that almost worse? I'm still laughing.

Weekend Getaway

This afternoon we are home-school convention bound. The kids are going to stay with Joe's parents for two whole nights and Joe and I have two nights on our own. Woo-hoo!

I do, however, think it's funny that our big adults only weekend every year is a home-schooling conference... a weekend in which we listen, talk and think about kids.

Don't Compliment Hank

Beware of saying anything nice to my son.

Each evening Hank is anxious to show Joe how well his reading skills have improved throughout the day. Hank's face breaks out in a mile-wide grin when Dad says, "Hey, Hank, want to read me a book?" Hank dashes to a basket designated for library books or a near bookshelf and grabs something he's worked on that day, settles into Joe's lap, and reads away.

Last night this scene played out almost exactly as written above and later, when Hank read the final words, closed his book, and leaned back against Joe awaiting his praise, Joe enthusiastically hugged Hank and said, "Wow, Hank, that was such great reading!"

Hank grinned and, without missing a beat, came back with, "Dad, you smell like worms."

Sniff, Snort

Last night Hank finagled his way into our bed.  Well, finagled might be overstating a bit.  It's possible his sucker of a mom invited him in since the girls were with Grandfather and Diana.  And by possible I mean likely, but really, how he got there is irrelevant.

OK, so Hank is sleeping with us.  But at 12:30 a.m. he wasn't actually sleeping.  He was wide, wide awake sniffing and snorting.

 

Sniff, sniff.  Then a readjusting of position.  Covers move.  More snot sucking (hey, I know it's a gross visual-- or audio reminder-- whatever-- but it was gross, OK?). More moving.  More rolling.  More sniffing.

Hank, mumbles a tired Superdad, use a Kleexex for Pete's sake!

Sniff, sniff, snort, snort.  Roll over, kick off the covers.

Hank, in a loud whisper, Dad!  Can you get me a Kleenex?

A sigh from Superdad.  Cate, whispers Superdad (why are we all whispering since we're all awake?!), do you have any Kleenex?

From me a grunt.  Joe takes it to mean no and trudges off, tiredly, to the bathroom.  He gets back.  There's more sniffing, sucking and some occasional blowing. Hank, just blow!  whispers Superdad.

Everyone-- and by everyone I mean those actually participating in the midnight Kleenex madness, like Hank and Joe-- lies back down.

Sniff, sniff!  Snort, sniff!  The pillow is readjusted.  Sniff, snort!

Hank, I swear, you're like an eighty-year-old man, grumbles Joe.  I start to giggle.  

Sniff, sniff, snort, sniff!

Now I'm really laughing.  Loudly.

Seriously, Hank, says Joe, look at you.  You can't lie still, you can't stop making all these personal noises and you're lying there with navy blue socks on, for Pete's sake!

Now I'm laughing so hard I'm crying.  Hank is starting to wonder why.

Sniff, snort, sniff!

Now Joe is laughing.  What's so funny? demands Hank.  He's annoyed now.  SNIFF!  SNORT!

I think I fell back to sleep while doubled over in hysterics.  My goodness, each day this kid kills me just a little bit more.  

Anniversary

Eight years ago today, on a cold, February evening with candles lit in the sanctuary and snow softly falling outside, I walked down the aisle of the Kemper Center and exchanged marriage vows with Superdad.

So much has happened since that perfect evening that, in some ways, it is difficult to believe it isn't our eighteenth anniversary, instead of only our eighth. The past eight years have been eventful (three children, law school, changing careers, moving and the death of a parent is a lot of jam into such a short amount of time) but they've been all the more meaningful and enjoyable with Joe by my side.

Happy Anniversary, Sweetie!

UPDATE: Poor Superdad gets a measly, mushy blog post as his anniversary present and I just received these from him:


Clearly Joe is getting a raw deal because the flowers are gorgeous!

Christmas Eve Recap

A lot of disjointed posts today. The house is getting cleaner and more organized, and so is my computer; 2008 will start out right!

This post, in and of itself, and notwithstanding these first two introductory paragraphs, will not be entirely disjointed since its sole purpose is to recap our Christmas Eve celebration, it's just that everything I've posted here today has been out of order, and this follows that pattern. But, who cares. It's still 2007; I can be organized and logical in 2008.

Christmas Eve kicked off our Christmas festivities. Dad, Diana and Alex (QV) joined us here for an early afternoon feast of roasted beef tenderloin, Mrs. Butland's potatoes, Pioneer Woman dinner rolls, glazed carrots with pecans and grapes, fresh green beans tossed with fresh garlic and tarragon and a tossed green salad.

Here's the table before the meal...


and during.


A five o'clock church service beckoned us after our meal and, with the children's assistance (Hank as a sheep and Madeleine as a reader) we celebrated the birth of our lord.

Here are the two older children in the church basement, readying themselves for their awaiting performance, Madeleine pensive and nervous, Hank excited and brimming with naughtiness with the prospect of sitting through the entire service relatively unsupervised.

Of course, all goes off without a hitch. Well, relatively. During the service a quick thinking parishioner near Hank snatched his bell when it hit the floor after he'd spent half the service serenading the congregation. When asked later how, if he wasn't playing with his bell that it managed to hit the floor Hank, ever the master of quick explanations, was stumped.

After, all head to our house for eggnog, punch and cookies.


And, for the three children, a Christmas Eve gift of...

fleece pajamas; blue with a white polar bear for Hank and light and dark purple stripes for the girls.

Shortly after the kids are anxious to get to bed so that Santa is sure to stop and the evening, full of excitement in its own right, but also brimming with anticipation, comes to a close as guest say good-bye and children say good-night.

Just the Right Tree

There is one truth in regards to Christmas decorating that holds steadfast in our household year after year, despite any amount of grumbling on my part and that is: thou must cuttest down thou own Christmas tree. It's the eleventh commandment, I think, and this past Saturday we set out to do just that.

Part of that tradition is that we eat eggs and bacon at a restaurant before we head out into the bitter cold, which is the part of the day I really, really like. How much fun is it to slurp hot chocolate and sop up sticky syrup with yummy pancakes on a plate you know you won't have to wash?


But after all that sugary wonderfulness, it's out into the nineteen degree weather. Or was it sixteen degrees last Saturday? I don't know, but it was cold. And we spent a looong time out there. Superdad (and Hank, for, like two seconds) diligently searched for Just the Right Tree while the kids and I whizzed up and down the open lanes in our sled.


Well, OK, I didn't get to do much (OK, any) whizzing. I got to do a lot of huffing and pulling, but at least that kept me with only my toes feeling like they were going to freeze off as opposed to my entire body.

And then, at last, he found it. Just the Right Tree in row four about a third of the way back. We all quickly agreed with Superdad that it really and truly was Just the Right Tree and we anxiously watched while Superdad cut it down.


No, that's not true. I stood and watched and photographed while Superdad worked away. The two big kids on the other hand...


well, those two little bozos found the tallest snowbank ever (so they said) and played there and pretty much ignored both parents for the remainder of the trip.

And, later that day, after mounting Just the Right Tree on the roof of the van, getting him set into the tree stand, throwing on lights, garlands and ornaments galore we all stood back in awe, reflecting on our wonderful day and nodding in agreement that we had, indeed, found Just the Right Tree.

Jury Duty

Shortly following Elisabeth's birth I was summoned for jury duty. Milwaukee County offers its jurors one six month deferment if they're unable to serve at the requested time. Having a newborn, exclusively breastfed baby I immediately realized I would be unable to serve at the requested time in January of 2006 or six months from then. On the advice of my in-house counsel I took Elisabeth with me, diaper bag, car carrier and all with the hope of being excused.

I never made it into the courtroom. After arriving at the courthouse the clerk in charge of checking the jurors in looked disdainfully down at Elisabeth and sneered, "What is that?!" I explained my predicament but the impatient woman clearly wasn't interested. She'd heard too many excuses from prospective jurors wishing to escape their civic duty, I suppose. Thankfully, the chief judge (is that what the head county judges are called? You'd think I'd know that, being married to an attorney that practices in that courthouse and all) Kitty Brennan was much more understanding in her response to me after I mailed her a letter summarizing my predicament. She postponed my summons for a two year span which, I understood to mean, I'd be summoned again in January of 2008.

Well, I got the summons and it's not for January of 2008. It's December of 2007-- right before Christmas. Ugh! All I can say is for once in my life procrastination has paid off because Superdad will be in New York during the time I'm expected to serve and I was planning on going with him, I just hadn't bought my plane ticket yet. Whew! At least now the Milwaukee County justice system won't deprive me of the cost of an airline ticket.

At this point I see little hope of being excused from serving. I'll play all my cards; my husband is a litigator, I'm a primary caregiver for our three children, we home school, for Pete's sake. But when it's all said and done I have a bad, bad feeling.

Happy Birthday, Hank!

I am sitting in my living room surrounded by gobs of helium-filled balloons in a rainbow of colors. In just a few hours fourteen children besides my own will join us for lunch, games and cake to celebrate Hank's birthday. Today Hank turns five.

Hank was born on October 17, 2002. I had expected his birth to be earlier. Much earlier. I was only five days late with Madeleine, and subsequent pregnancies were supposed to get shorter. I was convinced throughout my entire pregnancy that Hank (or Hannah; the name we probably would have chosen if he'd been a girl) would arrive pretty close to his October seventh due date.

October seventh came and went... and went... and went... and there I was. Still pregnant. By October seventeenth I was convinced I would be pregnant forever. We were still in Janesville at the time. Superdad was still in law school and I was finally staying home full-time. I remember taking Madeleine to the library that Thursday morning. It was rainy, dreary day and yet I felt at peace. When I said I felt like I'd be pregnant forever, I meant it. I really almost believed it and just accepted it.

Later that afternoon I remember Madeleine taking a nap, not as common an event as you might think of a girl who'd just turned two-years-old. I sat upstairs and paid bills and wrote some thank-you notes and cursed the Braxton-Hicks contractions I kept feeling.

Later that evening Diana came over to watch Madeleine. I was meeting Superdad in Johnson Creek, about thirty minutes north of Janesville, and there we'd drive to Milwaukee together for our last Bradly Birth class. I left around five p.m. and during the drive up to Johnson Creek my contractions started to get pretty intense and I started to realize it maybe was labor. But, like I said, I was going to be pregnant forever so I sort of just ignored them and did some shopping until I met up with Superdad.

It took Joe, like, half a second after seeing me to realize that I wasn't just sort of in labor. I told him I was fine and that we should just go to Milwaukee (a good sixty minutes east of where we were; a solid ninety minutes from Janesville). Superdad put his foot down. Home he said. I insisted I was fine and that there was no need to leave a car there. I could drive.

Once I started driving it started to rain. And then I realized that my contractions were only about four minutes apart. I think we made it back to Janesville in record time. We dashed home to pick up my hospital bag and tell Diana what was going on and this I remember vividly: Madeleine was watching Sleeping Beauty and I leaned over to kiss her good-bye and a felt a sudden pop and gush. Yep, my water broke all over my living room floor. Lovely.

I forget how dilated I was once we got to the hospital, nor do I remember the time (8 p.m.? 9 p.m.?). What I do remember is being monitored for a very short amount of time before a doctor came in whom I'd never met, and wasn't part of my obstetrician's group, and told me we were going down for a c-section, and that we were going now. Apparently there was something wrong with Hank's heart rate and he was dipping far lower than anyone was comfortable with. I don't remember what we said, but I do remember somehow asking how necessary it was and the doctor made it clear we didn't really have a choice.

And then, only fuzzy memories: drinking some awful, awful liquid, having a spinal put in and being told to hold still even though I was contracting constantly, it seemed. I remember bright lights and a ride in the elevator. I remember Joe being taken somewhere and telling them (the nurses? Doctors?) to go and bring him back. And then I remember getting into the operating room and Joe was waiting there. I remember my anthesologist asking me if I could feel him poking my stomach. I could. He looked at the obstetrician on-call (whose name I can't remember) and him shaking his head and saying, "There's no time." I remember feeling pulling and pressure and, finally, relief. I remember looking at Joe and seeing his face turn white and staring over the sheet that blocked my view. I remember being aware-- very aware-- that I couldn't hear any crying. I asked over and over, "What's going on?" I received no answer. I remember doctors rushing in and doing things on the other side of the room where I knew my baby was. I remember asking if the baby was a boy or a girl. No answer.

And then, finally, after three excruciating minutes, a cry. A loud, full-throttle new baby cry. I remember crying with happiness. So was Joe. And then, finally, someone told me the baby was a boy, and that he was going to be fine. A few minutes later another doctor I'd never seen or met before, a pediatrician, walked Hank over and stuck him a few inches from my face. I remember my first thought so, so clearly, and it was shock. For some reason I'd expected him to look just like Madeleine and I remember being surprised that he didn't. That silly thought still makes me laugh today.

There you have it. Hank's harrowing birth tale. Both older kids love the story. "Tell us about when Hank was limp and blue again, please Daddy?" they often ask.

But my favorite memory of his birth was a few hours after his 10:16 p.m. arrival into this world. After spending an hour or so by myself in recovery (Hank was taken for observation and Joe went along) I was wheeled down to the post-partum floor. As I was wheeled down the hallway Joe was pushing Hank out of the nursery towards our room. I met him there and even though I didn't get to see him for awhile after his birth, besides the doctors, I got to be the first person to hold him. There, in the still of the night on that quiet hospital floor I held and nursed my new son. And it was heavenly.

It's hard to believe that was five years ago. It seems overdone to say it but, it's true, the time has just flown by.

Happy birthday, dear Hanker-buddy. We love you!

Happy Birthday, Superdad!

Today is the day-- let's all wish Superdad a happy day!



Love you, Sweetie!

Independence Day

Ah yes, what a glorious holiday. Cook-outs, fireworks and celebration ensure and many of us take pause to reflect on our hard earned freedom and liberty.

Unless, of course, you're Hank.

This morning, en route to church, Hank began asking about what the 4th of July was about. Why do we have fireworks? How do the fireworks work? What's freedom? Is it really only four days away?

A short explanation followed. Very, very brief, but Superdad did a good job hitting all the major points. It's Independence Day, Hank, which just happens to fall on the 4th of July. We celebrate freedom from tyranny. We once were ruled without having any right to vote or decide how our country should be ruled. The Declaration of Independence was signed. Really, his explanation made more sense than this entry conveys.

Questions were shot at Superdad and me, coming at lightening speed, from the inquisition in the back seat.

Finally, a lull. A pause and some quiet. Time enough for Superdad and me to sit back. To relax.

And then, finally, from the back, the loud, confident voice of a four-year-old, certain of his newly acquired knowledge. "Happy Deeee-pendence Day, everyone!"

Yes, in advance, let me wish everyone, on behalf of my son, a very happy Dependence Day.

Solitude

Life is noisy. Not in a loud, hearing sense, but in the sense that our brains are never quiet. For the majority of us, there's never time to just be alone and think. There are always interruptions: dinner plans, school pick-ups, friends chattering, kids asking questions; the essence of our busy lives these days are noisy.

For my birthday this year I asked for, and was given, time alone. I have not spent it as I thought I might. I imagined I might want to shop, spend time in coffee shops and poke around town. Instead I've spent most of my time reading and in quiet contemplation. I've eschewed leaving my hotel room because it means contact and exchanges with the outside world. Instead I've chosen to hide myself away, emerging only for sustenance.

And it's been lovely. Instead of thinking about laundry and dirty diapers and appointments I've quietly and peacefully been absorbed with the ideas presented in Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. I don't have to dismiss her or agree with her quickly and thoughtlessly; no, I can consider the ideas set forth and think about them. In quiet. And in peace.

I find that instead of meditating on one of the kids' latest escapades I'm spending more time in thought over where Ellis Wyatt and his friends have gone off too. And I know that by the time my solitude here is over that I won't want it anymore. I'm a social person by nature. I like people, I need companionship and I enjoy being a wife and mother more than I have any other role I've ever encountered in my life. Still though, this break from that reality is refreshing and much needed.

Thank you, Superdad, Dad and Diana-- what an incredible gift you've all given me for my birthday this year!

Doctor Madeleine

The evening was cool, pleasant and peaceful. The big kids were outside with Superdad. Superdad was setting up his new lawn edger and trimmer and I was doing dishes with only one child making noise and messes (yes, all you non-parents; that is peaceful). I was absorbed, physically, in bubbles and plates but mentally I was dreaming of our academic goals for next year.

All of a sudden my reverie was shattered by the front door slamming shut and Madeleine tearing up the stairs at top speed. "What are you doing?" I called after her.

"Getting a Band-Aid!"

"For what? What did you do?"

She came racing back down the stairs, wild-eyed, with a box of Curious George Band-Aids, a quarter full. "Daddy cut himself!"

Oh. OK. Superdad had probably cut his finger or skinned his knee and needed a Band-Aid so he wouldn't get blood all over everything and had asked Madeleine to run in and get one. Madeleine ran out and a few seconds later came frantically running back in again.

"What is going on," I asked again.

"Daddy cut himself," was Madeleine's explanation.

"How?"

"With the lawn edger!"

"With the edger?!" Now I was concerned.

To shorten a rather lengthy story which involved different children telling different tales, Superdad was setting up his new edger and trimmer, excitedly playing with his new toy so that it would be all set for its first trip out when Hank became interested in what he was doing. Hank walked up to Superdad, and the edger, and before Superdad could see what Hank was doing, Hank simultaneously asked, "Daddy, what does this button do?" while actually pressing the button in question. Wouldn't you know it, the button he was so curious about was actually the "on" button and Superdad's calf was treated to its very own edging.

Superdad is fine. All his cuts were surface cuts and although he's sore, there are no big problems.

But there were numerous cuts in a rather large area and, when Madeleine saw his leg (she witnessed the incident), gushing blood. And her solution? Curious George Band-Aids. An almost empty box of two-inch long Curious George Band-Aids.

Northwoods, II

Superdad's family has, in some incarnation, owned the same plot of land for four generations. His great-grandfather came over from Norway with his family (father, mother and brothers) in the early 1900s hoping to be lumberjacks as they were in their home country. In Norway at that time farming was for women or sissies, not men (the reason for this being that farm work was simply something that had to get done along with the lumber jacking so while the men cut down trees, the women farmed).

Upon arriving in Northern Wisconsin they built a lean-to into the side of the hill and since it was more important to protect the animals from the elements than the humans, a barn was built first (three houses on various plots would come later). In that barn Superdad's grandfather was born, the first male Olson born in America.

The family cleared all the trees on the land they'd claimed but without buying more land with money they didn't have they were forced to turn to farming.

Superdad's grandfather eventually farmed that land, as would Super Grandpa and his brother (Superdad's uncle). Superdad lived on that farm for the first few years of his life in two of the three houses that were eventually built. In fact, he used the same nursery in the main house that his father had used before him and his father before him (the house was finished shortly after his birth in the barn).

Now most of the farm has been sold. The original homestead was bought by a questionable lot who later burned the house down. The barn, however, still stands.


The second house that was built, which was across the street from the homestead (and is also where Superdad lived) was torn down when the land was bought by another farmer so that a larger field of corn could be planted.

The third house, along with forty acres, is still in the family and is owned by Superdad's aunt. It's in the picture below, far across the field.


Superdad's grandparents lived in the homestead (the one that burned down) while raising their family (one girl, two boys) but moved down to the smaller house, the one owned now by Superdad's aunt, when their kids started reproducing (one son had four children, the other son had two).

To be continued...

My New Roommate

Naturally now that Elisabeth has finally started spending entire nights in her own crib, in her own bedroom, Madeleine has decided to begin expressing dissatisfaction with her current sleeping arrangements and her manner has been quite vociferous in suggesting she ought sleep in our room. You know, in that queen size bed that was suddenly, upon Elisabeth's departure, feeling so luxuriously large and comfortable (and this is only a queen size bed!).

I keep saying no. No, no, no. I want my space. I want to sleep. For the love of all that is good in this world, I just want eight hours of uninterrupted sleep for at least two or three nights in a row. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently.

Last night Madeleine strategically circumvented me and asked Superdad, who would, in a just world, hereafter be known as SuckerDad. He didn't even pause to think before he said yes. Madeleine proudly ran up to me, secure in her victory, and exclaimed, "Guess what Mom! I get to sleep in YOUR bed tonight!" Her eyes were shining with excitement. Mine glazed over.

"Oh good!" I said through gritted teeth while thinking, "I am going to kill Superdad"

This post should lend understanding into these burning questions, which I'm sure have tormented all of my readers:

1) Why I have such a complete and total love affair with all things caffeine, especially coffee and

2) Why, more often than not, I appear a bit imbalanced.

Now you know. It's sleep deprevation.

Flowers

These gorgeous flowers were my Valentine's Day gift from Superdad. Aren't they pretty?

Their arrival here was complicated. It should be simple, no? Alas, an incorrect notation of our address gave me flowers a day late, after Valentine's Day, and gave Superdad a fifty percent discount.

I'm just happy to have fresh, beautiful flowers in my dining room against the backdrop of cold and snow, no matter the day. Superdad though, feels differently. It's the romantic in him, I suppose. Don't tell him I told you, but he's probably more romantic and sentimental than I am. That's a good thing as sometimes I think I'm not romantic enough.

I'll let him deal with the business end of ordering flowers. I just want to enjoy them.


Thank you, Joe!

Happy Birthday, Joe!

Today, the world's greatest husband (I mean mine, of course) is celebrating his birthday!

To celebrate he had to fast this morning for an insurance physical, get poked at prodded at said physical, stop and buy a treat for the work (an unwritten office rule) and go to work.

Tonight he gets to race home somewhat early from work and take Madeleine to her swimming lesson.

Never fear, though, my stepdad is bringing up pizza after that and he'll have a real celebration with cake and presents on Saturday.

Happy Birthday, sweetie! *smooch*