A Necessary Follow-Up

Apparently, I am not the only one on the words-mean-things bandwagon.

The Wisconsin Union Public Protest Dictionary

It's been awhile . . .

The only thing lately I've been inspired to write about blog-wise is tearing this state apart right now. Emotions are hot, tensions are high and very few seem able to separate reason from emotion regarding our governor and what is going on in Madison, Wisconsin (including me, at times probably, if I'm honest with myself).

Credit: Tom Lynn of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

I have a choice: don't blog, which is the choice I have been making, or write about the budget bill already. (I suppose a third option would be write about something else entirely, but I don't want to.)

Credit: Mike De Sisti of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

I am not going to belabor what has already been said. And said. And said again. I have two thoughts I wish to convey, and then I'll be silent on the issue (well, until I'm not again, anyway).

1. Beyond what has been said about this bill, and beyond so many of the rumors and misrepresentation of certain things, what has bothered me the most is this idea that words no longer mean things. Let me preface the rest of this thought by saying I am not trying to paint with a broad brush; I do not pretend to know whether these sentiments are widely embraced by those protesting in Madison, and for the sake of what I am about to say, it really doesn't matter.

Credit: Gary Porter of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

Dictator. Hitler. Mubarak. Democracy. These words, these people, they have meanings. They have actual definitions. I consider the idea that someone would categorize a popularly elected governor a dictator an assault on the English language. The actual definitions of dictator, according to the Oxford English Dictionary are as follows:

1. A chief magistrate with absolute power who was appointed in an emergency.

Governor Scott Walker has neither absolute power nor was he appointed in an emergency. For crying out loud, he was popularly elected in a high turnout election with fifty-two percent of the vote.

2. An absolute ruler, usually temporary or irregular, of a state; especially one who suppresses or succeeds a democratic government. 

Governed by the laws of this state and being, in fact, only one part of a multi-faceted legislative body, it is clearly inaccurate to label Walker as an absolute ruler and, as for the rest of the definition, I should think it unnecessary to point out that Walker is neither temporary or irregular, nor has he suppressed nor has he succeeded a democratic government.

3. A person exercising absolute authority of any kind or in any sphere; a domineering person.

The OED provides an illustration to show what this definition is getting at: The dictators of behavior, dress and politeness. Even in this sense, and we all know this wasn't what the sign holders were getting at; they meant it in a political sense, it's a reach.

4. A person who gives dictation to a writer or recording machine.

I only included this because I am nothing if not thorough.

I don't know why I let this stuff bother me. Really, I don't. But, really, I would feel better seeing signs saying, "Walker is a Jerk!" or "Walker is a (insert pejorative of choice) because while I might disagree, at least it's clear what you're saying, and it also shows me, and others, that you have a good grasp of the language we're using to communicate, which is a good thing. I have to confess, I have spent an inordinate amount of time stewing about some of these signs, and not because I disagree with them, but because of the abuses these poor, misused words are taking.

Credit: Tom Lynn of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

2. Like I said, I'm not going to get into particulars, but I would feel remiss if I didn't state, clearly and unequivocally, that I support our governor. He has stood fast in the face of enormous pressure, and I feel it is the least I can do to publicly support him here on my little corner of the internet.

There. I feel better.

Super Bowl

Remember this? It's really something when a thing we believe is possible, but unlikely, actually happens. The feelings of disbelief and excitement are almost unmatchable, no matter what the occasion.

Hank and Packer Pro Bowl safety Nick Collins.

Tomorrow the Packers will play the Pittsburgh Steelers. It will be their third Super Bowl appearance in my lifetime, but the first in which I have been a true, informed fan. Sure, in the 1996 season I knew who Brett Favre was, and that I sort of wanted the Packers to win, but my night would not have been too different had the Patriots ended up pulling out a win.

Hank and Packers wide receiver James Jones.

But this year? Oh, this year is very different. I've watched every second of Packer football these past few seasons. I feel like I know these guys. See Nick Collins up there? He sealed the deal against the Bears with a late interception on the final drive of the game we went to in January; that victory ensured our playoff berth. James Jones? He had that unforgettably ridiculous catch in the end zone against Atlanta in the playoffs. 

Hank and Packers Pro Bowl tackle Chad Clifton.

To suggest that I am excited about tomorrow is an understatement. I am excited. And nervous. Apprehensive. I want to win. A lot.

Hank and Packer running back John Kuhn.

Even though I'll be terribly disappointed if we lose, this season has been really fun. We weren't supposed to even make the playoffs, and now here we are, down in snowy Arlington, Texas, preparing for the biggest football game of the year.

Go, Pack, go!

Unspeakable

People, as a general rule, don't lead with their failings. We don't highlight them. Most people, I would say, hide those failings behind stories of success, stories of well-behaved children and academic and vocational accomplishment; we give others only a peek beneath the veneer upon close acquaintance.

Today I lost my temper. Hank delivered the final blow to a constitution that was already compromised due to two solid days of ill-behavior on the kids part. I gave Hank a chance. Go to your room. Now. It was an offer of escape. Temporary, yes, but doing so would have saved him forever, in this case, from me unleashing my anger in a torrent of ugly words.

He did not immediately go. He stood there, belligerently, and, ultimately, he stomped up to his room in dramatic fashion, meant to convey my wrongness and his rightness.

This should be an unspeakable event. I was wrong. I acted badly. He is eight, and I am not.

I forgave myself easily; this post is not wallowing. It is, for lack of a better explanation, reality. A moment all experience yet no one blogs about.

The Sound of Wind

The wind is whipping, screaming across our asphalt roof, its pitch frightening and captivatingly terrifying in its volume. The temperature outside stays steady, the mercury assuring anyone who looks that it's not as cold as the wind might attest.

But, oh! The wind! It is a powerful force, and one that cannot be tamed. It can be, with some wood framing, insulation and siding, endured, but never controlled. It hits hard, smacking those in its path, chapping cheeks, moving piles of snow and tossing aside objects left in its path.

Safe in my house last night, cushioned in between panes of glass and surrounded by smells of soup simmering the stove, the wind called to me last night. Its enchanting whistle begged me to come outside and listen, with no impediments, to what the wind had to say. Yes, the TV told me what the wind was supposed to bring, but listening to the wind itself made me certain that the promised snow was on its way.

The wind is a force that cannot be tamed and, sadly enough, it is also a force that cannot be captured; its force, sound and fury cannot be conveyed. Still, though, I tried.

Memoirs

The other night Joe picked up the memoir I am currently reading and asked, "Why did you choose to read this book? Why are so you interested in someone's life who you don't even know?"

It's a fair question. For this book, I confess, it was nothing more than seeing it tucked amongst other memoirs at the library and thinking Oh, that's a nice cover.


Reading a bad memoir is like being forced to spend time with someone you don't like very much, who talks too much and too loudly about nothing at all. Except, when you want to, you can close the book and tell that person to stop talking in a way that we only dream of doing in person. Unlike the cloying, obnoxious friend of a friend we're stuck talking to at a party, you don't have to finish the conversation; you can interrupt them mid-sentence and return them to the library post haste.

But reading a good memoir is like making a new friend. In a good memoir you are drawn into a person through their writing much in the same way we're drawn into a person we might meet: through an enjoyable conversation, similar interests or a compelling personality. With a good friend we can relax and enjoyably talk or listen for hours about nothing.

We all have something to say, don't we? We all have something to contribute. I think those who've found a way to do it in print help make life just a little bit more lovely. Thank you, memoir writers. Keep writing about your lives in your warm, genuine voices, and I promise I'll keep reading.

Behind the Scenes

Real life here today, folks. Dish washing, cleaning up, et cetera.

Take heart! There is joy in the mundane.

Take this, my laundry pile.

This is all our dirty laundry from this last week. Now, I know some of you are all, "Seriously?! That seems like an awful lot amount of laundry! "  While others of you are saying to yourselves, "Cate is a total amateur. A week's worth of laundry and that's all she has?"

Doesn't matter what you're thinking. Because whether it's a lot or a little, it has to get done. People around here seem to like having clean clothes to wear.

And I am taking joy in doing it.

Nope. That's not right. I still hate doing laundry. But, I find my joy in seeing the pile diminish. I take joy in tomorrow when (hopefully!) my laundry room floor will be empty again and I can close (and lock!) the laundry chute door and pretend there are no dirty clothes in the house until next Wednesday, when I'll do it all again.

Well, except I'm not sharing my laundry pile with you every week, because that would just be weird.

Stairs

Yep. It's a flight of stairs. Whoopdee-doo. That is all it is. I'm not going to try and assign some big meaning or anything to this post or picture.

I tried to write a blog post earlier. I've been writing and deleting and writing and deleting until I finally just said, "Screw it." But then I told myself that I could come up with something--anything-- if only I would look. And then I saw my staircase, and it happens to be one of the few areas in my home right now that doesn't have riding helmets, schoolwork, books, shoes and other annoying, unputaway things lying about.

And I like it. See that oil right up on the landing that my grandmother painted? Isn't it beautiful? And the prints I received as a Christmas gift running along the wall next to the stairs?

I walk up and down these stairs endlessly each day. Up and down. Up and down.

And yet it took searching for a blog post to remind me to sit back and appreciate the stairs and the landing, an area that I walk past every day without noticing yet, when I take the time, I remember that it contains lots of items that I know please my eye and elicit good memories. If only I would remember to slow down and look!

Doctor

Elisabeth. Old enough to know sucking her fingers is babyish, but still young enough to want the comfort of a well-worn blanket and a familiar habit as she nervously anticipates a shot at the doctor's office. I love the juxtaposition of her size and the maturity in her eyes right alongside the babyish habits.

Ballet

We parents were invited in to watch Elisabeth and her classmates' ballet class earlier this week. These videos are entertaining, to me, because Elisabeth is my daughter. They may be interesting to some of you with some sort of connection to us or to our family. For everyone else, I apologize. Indulge me.

Like every other girl in the room, save one, E has on the required pink tights with a white leotard. She is one of the few (only?) with her hair thrown up in a loose bun.

The short, brief glimpse into the studio.

A longer peek, for the truly interested.

Football Obsession

Look. If you lived anywhere near here and could feel the hype practically oozing out of football fans around these parts, you would understand why all I can think about is Sunday's game. 

Packers. Bears. The winner goes to the Super Bowl. With these two teams composing possibly the biggest sports rivalry ever, is it any wonder that I've been occupying myself with trash talking with Bear fans (please, please, please, Packers, win on Sunday so I can save face) and reading the following sports related blogs which, if you're as crazed about this game as I am, you will want to check out?

Insiders Blog at Green Bay Press Gazette

ESPN North Blog

They are both updated multiple times daily, so check back frequently, or add them to your feeds.

I also like the Journal Sentinel's Packer blog. Lastly, Packer Geeks is worth checking out too.

Packer Game: The Real Deal

I think you can go ahead and call me a real Green Bay Packers fan now. Why? What's special about now when I've been blathering about the Packers on this blog for far too long (I am well aware most of my readers don't give two hoots about the Packers, or any football team, for that matter)?

Well, I'll tell you. Though I've been to Lambeau Field before to watch the Packers play football, I've never been when it's been cold and miserable. It's easy to go to Lambeau in September, or even October, when it's all warmish and easy. It's quite another when you have to start thinking about how you'll keep yourself warm on those cold, metal benches a few weeks before the game and borrow necessary items as needed. So, last week was my first real cold weather game, and I totally rocked it. And, by rocked it I mean I looked like a tool but was completely warm and had lots of fun.

P.S. Don't feel too sorry for Blake. Yes, he was the lone Bear fan in the car on the two hour drive up and the two hour drive back, but we all knew the Bear loss was inevitable, so think he'd mentally prepared himself beforehand. After all, the Bears still suck.

Thank You, Blog

Way back when I started this blog I didn't really know what the point of it was. I didn't know if I would keep up with it. And, most importantly, as a blogger, I really didn't know who I was or what I wanted to say.

It's been a few years and I now know what the point of blogging is (at least for me, anyway).

I know that, give or take a spell here and there, I will keep up with it.

And (and here's the real crux of today's post) while I don't really know that I have a point that I am trying to get across every day, I do know exactly who I am, not only as a blogger, but as a person. Further, it's because of this blog that I know my voice as well as I do in all facets of my life.

I know that probably sounds hokey, especially to those of you who don't blog, or who blog about something impersonal. I have always felt pretty comfortable with who I am, even when most of my peers didn't, but before starting this blog my life was fairly compartmentalized in the same way most peoples' lives are: work life, home life, family, these friends, those friends, et cetera. Blogging changes that, though, especially if you're writing about anything remotely real to your life. All of a sudden a conversation that is most apt to happen with These Friends is now being read by Those Friends and Those Friends are seeing a part of you they had yet to discover.

When I first started blogging I didn't share my blog with everyone; I didn't try and keep it a secret necessarily, I just only shared it, intentionally, with some of my life's compartments. That all changed when I joined Facebook. My e-worlds collided with my real life worlds in a very real, very fast way and all of a sudden everyone was telling me they were reading my blog; any shred of compartmentalization in my life had evaporated.

At first I felt kind of uncomfortable with this development; I thought knowing my audience was filled with different people wanting to read different things would limit what I might choose to write about, and would somehow make my posts more generic and less about me. I've found the opposite has happened. I know I can't please everyone, and so I only write what I care about and say what I want to say.

What I am saying, in a very long-winded, convoluted way, is that you see me here, for better or worse, and I don't know if I could have said that in August of 2006. Thanks for sticking around through awkward teenage years of my blog. I promise lots more of the mundane everyday to come, and a lot less (never!) posts about things I don't care about just to fill space.

Christmas 2010 Recap

What a whirlwind of traveling, overeating and celebration the past few weeks have been.

Christmas Eve. Here. Dad and Diana are here. They bring Alex, fresh off an airplane from Tulsa. Bob arrives around the same time, but falls victim almost immediately to a harsh stomach bug and spends the evening resting.

Those healthy feast on beef tenderloin, Mrs. Butland's potatoes, fresh steamed green beans tossed with butter and lemon pepper, roasted carrots tossed with olive oil and thyme and dinner rolls (of the most basic sort: flour, yeast, etc.; nothing fancy).

After our Christmas Eve service we return home where the kids open new pajamas from their parents and a new ornament for the tree from Dad and Diana.

Christmas morning. Here. Just us. The first kid is awake by 5:28 a.m. This after a night when I finally went to bed around 12 a.m. Still, though, what parent-- even a tired one-- could be upset with excited children on Christmas morning?

Cinnamon rolls. Stockings. Coffee. Christmas story from Luke. Presents.

Christmas afternoon. Silver Lake. Dad, Diana, Cloe and Alex are present. Blake has been stricken by a stomach bug and is home resting. 

We eat, and we eat well. Ham. Turkey. Twice baked potatoes. There was more, and it was all delicious and worth every calorie.

Sunday, December 26. Silver Lake. A day of nothing. Wonderful, wonderful nothingness. Unless you were Diana, in which case it was your turn with the stomach bug flying around at warp speed. 

Friday, December 31. Oconto Falls. Doug, Wicky, Steve, Sue, Cassandra, Cody and Cedar. We arrive early afternoon and within an hour or two the kids are ripping into their presents.

Later we feast on steaks. Baked potatoes. More decadent, delicious Christmas feasting. We stay up to ring in the new year (all but Caroline).

Nice celebrations, all. 

List

1980 Oakland Raiders. 1997 Denver Broncos. 2000 Baltimore Ravens. 2005 Pittsburgh Steelers. 2007 New York Giants.

What do all these teams have in common? They all won the Super Bowl after entering the playoffs as wild card teams.

It happens. Wild card teams win Super Bowls.

This Packer fan hopes the next addition to that list will be: 2010 Green Bay Packers.

Hey, it happens.

Pictures

I can finally share these pictures that I took of the kids about a month ago. They were a Christmas gift for my mother and father-in-law, who read my blog, and I didn't want their Christmas present surprise ruined by seeing them here first.

Madeleine, 10 years old.

Hank, 8 years old.

Ellie, 5 years old.

Caroline, 15 months old.

Birds

There are moments of unexpected perfection that, if you don't take time to slow down and look for, you may miss.

Consider.

It is the morning after Christmas. You could plunge back into the chaotic-ness of the everyday. Or you could sit with a cup of coffee and see this.

A cardinal, happily considering his breakfast.

Or his friend, some sort of woodpecker, taking his turn at the bird feeder.

If you left your post of relaxation and contemplation, you would miss these little guys who show up and search for what's fallen, uneaten and undiscovered.

Within moments, it seems, it's all over. Whether the birds are satiated or frightened by the appearance of a cat in their general vicinity is unclear. What is clear is that there isn't a feathered beast to be seen anywhere.

And to think it could be missed so easily and so quickly. 

Cookie Baking

Decorating cookies is more fun with friends, and I'll tell you why. First of all, you can get away with making one double batch of cookies and end up with multiple kinds of cookies since all participants contribute cookies. Second of all, it's just more fun because there is lots of laughing and chatting, both for kids and adults.

And, in my case, I get help from someone much more talented than I am. Here Erin is showing the girls how to carefully pipe the frosting on, as opposed to how I usually just slap it on.

See? Far prettier than anything I am able to do.

Forgotten Caroline didn't really get to decorate. Instead she walked around whining. To get her to be quiet the other kids kept sneaking her cookies. I think Caroline ate 6,720,000 sugar cookies this afternoon.

And speaking of sneaking sugar . . .

I am pretty sure Gus ate about eight pounds of icing. 

I think he would rather have had nine pounds.

Somehow, the cookies got frosted, and I think the kids did a really good job. Don't you?

Ornament Tour

Every year, going through Christmas ornaments and decorations is akin to strolling down Memory Lane.

That darling clay pig? Made for my mom by her cousin in Vermont when she was first married and on her own. It, along with its clay brethren, have hung on every childhood Christmas tree I ever had (not shown is also a duck among various other things, some of which now reside on Quantum Void's Christmas tree)).

Oh, this crystal unicorn. Every time I look at it I'm back in my childhood living room, staring at it longingly as it twinkled away ever so beautifully. I think I wanted to take it off the tree and play with it and pretend it was real. I think maybe I may have done that a time or two.

Miraculously, the unicorn survived. I now hear the same tenor of angst and desperation that my mother's voice must have contained when my children get too close to it.

The silver angel. This is the defining Christmas tree ornament of my childhood. It was sent to me upon my birth from a great-aunt on my mom's side and whenever we decorated my childhood tree I always had to do it near the end of decorating. The rational was saving it for the end would guarantee it would be on the outside, in one of the best spots, but I also think it was to amp up the anticipation of getting to the "good" ornaments (we all were forced to put up the ones no one thought were any fun, like balls, first).

Even though it was always my ornament, it hung on Mom and Bob's tree even after I was married and had my own tree. I always sort of hinted that maybe it was time for Mom to hand it over already, but I think she liked having those reminders of her kids around her, so I never pushed it. 

Almost every ornament on our tree has some story associated with it. It's no wonder putting up our Christmas tree is one of my favorite days of the year. 

An explanation of what happened to Caroline.

A lot of you saw this pathetically sad and ridiculously cute picture of Caroline on Facebook last night. You know, the one where she has a big white gauze pad loosely taped across her face that is, incidentally, covered in dried blood and boogers. The one with her standing in an exam room with a purple hospital gown?

Yeah, this one.

Look, I went for a lot of years with kids that never needed much more than a kiss and a Band-Aid to cure their little mishaps, but these little girls? What's up with all the stitches? I blame Joe. No, no; I know these things happen and you're shaking your head and saying, "But Cate, that's not fair! Kids have accidents!"

Hear me out.

Besides my two c-sections, I have never needed stitches in my life. As a kid I climbed trees. I played in an old dairy barn with lots of glass and nails and other laceration inducing devices lying about. And believe me, I fell. I cut myself. But I never had a cut deep enough or wide enough to require stitches. Joe, however, has needed stitches one hundred fifty kajillion times. At least. So, clearly, Elisabeth and Caroline have their dad's propensity to break their skin open. The evidence seems pretty conclusive, no?

Please continue to dwell on Joe's thin skin for a moment, will you? That will help you ignore my culpability in last night's ER visit. Thanks.

So, last night I was grabbing one quick thing from our attic. One quick thing! Yes, I knew I was taking a gamble. Yes, I knew Caroline was upstairs with me as I pulled down the attic stairs. I glanced at her, absorbed in one of the bedrooms with a stack of toys, and thought, wrongly, I could make it up and down before she noticed the attic ladder was down. I did not know Ellie was coming upstairs. Those attic stairs are a magnet for Ellie; upon arriving upstairs she immediately started climbing them. Caroline saw her sister and followed. She never made it past the third or fourth stair; I heard the girls and started back down. Too late; Ellie started climbing down and pushed past stepped over Caroline. Caroline fell. I saw it all happen as if it were in slow motion, trapped on the attic stairs, just a few feet away from my little baby.

I still don't know what she hit. She fell a couple of feet, maximum, onto carpet. I still don't think she scraped her head on the stairs. There was nothing on the floor.

Yet still, fall she did, and the total damage? A lot of tears, a fair amount of blood, two internal stitches and seven-- yes, seven!-- regular stitches.

She stopped crying just a few minutes after the injury. She was smiling, babbling and laughing for the entire twenty minute drive to Children's Hospital. She was entertained with all attention she received while waiting for her mending. She screamed bloody murder, however, during the stitching despite the topical application of some sort of numbing agent and a mild sedative. After she was happy and silly once again.

Still, though, I feel wretched. I know it was an accident but still. . . something about seeing the blood, the tears, the needle. . . I won't soon forgive myself. On the good side though, I won't dash up into the attic when the stairs are down anymore either. I accept a few days of guilt; I deserve it and it will make it easier on me to let it go when I forgive myself, which I know I will.

How much you want to bet that Caroline forever grumbles about the inevitable scar that she will work at covering for the rest of her life? *sigh*