fish on a bicycle

A Girl Needs Her Friends…Just Ask the Fish

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop14 Comments

“A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.”  – Irina Dunn

fish on a bicycle
photo credit: Caro’s Lines via photopin cc

My friend Karen made reference to that quote the other day, and I smiled when I read it. I immediately had a flashback to my sophomore year of college when my dorm mates and I adopted it as our unofficial slogan, since all four of us had hopeless crushes on guys who either barely knew we existed or were masters at mind games. We were even going to make tee shirts emblazoned with the phrase, complete with a drawing I had made of a fish riding a bicycle, toting the four of us along in a side car. We never actually made the tee shirts which, in the long run, probably helped my future dating life, lest I be branded a man-hater.

And I have to admit now I sure need my husband a whole lot more than a fish needs a bicycle. In my case, maybe I could change the analogy to “A woman needs a man like a fish needs that little snail who eats all the crud off the walls of the tank and makes the place a little less lonely.” But the spirit of sisterhood the original statement implies is still something I believe in…probably now more than ever. A woman needs her girlfriends. Period.

I have amazing girlfriends. Funny, intelligent, big-hearted, supportive, do-anything-for-you amazing girlfriends. And I am lucky to not just have a few of them…I have a lot of them. For some reason, I must have been at the right place at the right time on several different occasions to acquire all these groups of women who at any given point in my life fill my bucket when too many things have been dipping into it. And they can each do it in a way that is special and unique to the certain bond that we have, be it our nostalgic high school or college experience, having kids in class together, our family ties, our shared love of music, all being married to fraternity brothers, or having worked side by side as colleagues. But they can also do it in a way that can not be matched because they are women, and we all share bits and pieces of a larger conscious, like Ralph Waldo Emerson’s over-soul: a conscious that allows certain things to go unconditionally understood.

Yet that does not keep us from sitting around a table of margaritas and Mexican food, talking about anything and everything for hours on end. My average girls’ night out dinner runs about three hours, and probably would go longer if we did not get such dirty looks from the wait staff who are trying to close up and go home on a Tuesday night. My husband has said on more than one occasion, “What do you talk about for that long? How do you sit in one place? I’d shoot myself in the eye.” Well, that’s how I feel about football, which is equally as long, not nearly as funny, and no one is wearing anything that I care to know where it came from so I can go get one for myself.

So yeah, girlfriends rock. To all my girlfriends, consider this my love letter to you. I thank each and every one of you for being in my life, for making me laugh way too hard, for talking me through things, for listening me through things, for having my back, for making me feel normal, for making me feel special, for inspiring me, for giving me role models to look to, for loving me for who I am, and for letting me know who you are. Because you are all beautiful. I feel honored to swim in your schools.

And to my husband, lest he feel slighted by this post: This fish may not need a bicycle, but I have never been a strong swimmer, and I much prefer the ride offered by your wheels.

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What I WAS Going to Write About: The Enigma of the Three Year Old

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop3 Comments
doctor pediatrician
“There has to be something wrong, right?” (photo modified from Flickr under CC by 2.0)

Last week I began formulating an idea for a blog post, born out of the frustration that comes with being the mother of a three-and-a-half year old. I have often said that the age of three should be declared a medical affliction. After all, there has been many a mother who has gone to the pediatrician with complete certainty that there will be a diagnosis of an ear infection, a sinus infection, an ANY infection to account for the increasingly whiny behavior of her child, only to have the pediatrician tell her he is completely healthy…he’s just a three year old. True story. And if three is a medical affliction, then three-and-a-half is a chronic disease.

That WAS what I was going to write about in my post.

I WAS going to pepper the post with a slew of examples proving my hypothesis that the age of three-and-a-half is a chronic disease, examples from right under my own roof. Like last Saturday when Michael pouted that he didn’t want his dad to take him to the playground because he would rather sit in a gym with me and watch his sister’s basketball practice (yes, it is nice that he loves me so, but only a three-and-a-half year old could make going to the playground a bad thing). Or Monday when Michael noticed that I sprinkled just the tiniest dash of flaxseed in his mac ‘n’ cheese and would not eat it because it apparently smelled and tasted “ridiculous.” Or pretty much any time Grace has something worthy of being on video: every recording of her performances, recitals, or games has the sound of Michael whining in the background. And in the case of last year’s Christmas dance recital, he is actually physically IN the background (listen for the cue around the 2:43 mark where I whisper “MICHAEL!” in horrified embarrassment at what I know is about to happen yet have no power to stop).

I WAS going to post about all those things, until a series of good behaviors and heart-melting actions made me feel like a frigid mommy dearest for even thinking to disparage my sweet little boy. Like the fact that on Sunday we were in a church with no cry room for literally almost three straight hours (mass followed by a baptism) and he was a complete and total champ about it. Or the fact that on Tuesday, for pretty much the first time all school year, he walked right over and sat on the rug after hanging up his coat, instead of latching onto my leg and making the goodbye process a battle of wills. Or the fact that on any given day, at any given time, I can ask him for a snuggle and he happily obliges, usually throwing in a goofy little smile as he squashes my cheeks together with his little hands before planting a sticky kiss on my face.

So that is what I AM going to write this post about instead. About a little boy who pretends to be Santa and wraps up things around the house to give his sister. About a little boy who plays house with his four Batman figurines, designating a Dad Batman, a Mom Batman, a Brother Batman, and a Sister Batman who all throw a party in the Batcave for the “Terrible” Hulk so he will turn into the “Happy” Hulk. About a little boy who has me read Llama Llama Misses Mama over and over again because it helps him remember that his own mama might go away sometimes, but she also always comes back. About a little boy who, every day as soon as we drop Grace off at school, says “I miss sis.” About a little boy who calls the kitchen the “chicken,” thereby making it hysterical every time he scolds our dog by yelling, “Scout, get out of the chicken!” About a little boy who sounds like Forrest Gump when he says “ice cream,” and who makes us giddy by humoring us with the movie line we taught him to say for full effect: “Lieutenant Da-an…iiiiice cream!” About a little boy who still has the captivating sing-song voice of innocence, making me sometimes hang on even his jibberish ramblings just to listen to the way he says the words.

Yes, there is definitely a lot to complain about with a three-and-a-half year old. But fortunately, there really is so much more to love. And that is the best medicine for any chronic disease.

What I WAS Going to Write About

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop3 Comments
kid at the doctor
There HAS to be something wrong with him…right?

Last week I began formulating an idea for a blog post, born out of the frustration that comes with being the mother of a three-and-a-half year old. I have often said that the age of three should be declared a medical affliction. After all, there has been many a mother who has gone to the pediatrician with complete certainty that there will be a diagnosis of an ear infection, a sinus infection, an ANY infection to account for the increasingly whiny behavior of her child, only to have the pediatrician tell her he is completely healthy…he’s just three. True story. And if three is a medical affliction, then three-and-a-half is a chronic disease.

That WAS what I was going to write about in my post.

I WAS going to pepper the post with a slew of examples proving my hypothesis that the age of three-and-a-half is a chronic disease, examples from right under my own roof. Like last Saturday when Michael pouted that he didn’t want his dad to take him to the playground because he would rather sit in a gym with me and watch his sister’s basketball practice (yes, it is nice that he loves me so, but only a three-and-a-half year old could make going to the playground a bad thing). Or Monday when Michael noticed that I sprinkled just the tiniest dash of flaxseed in his mac ‘n’ cheese and would not eat it because it apparently smelled and tasted “ridiculous.” Or pretty much any time Grace has something worthy of being on video: every recording of her performances, recitals, or games has the sound of Michael whining in the background. And in the case of last year’s Christmas dance recital, he is actually physically IN the background. You can watch it here (listen for the cue around the 2:43 mark where I whisper “MICHAEL!” in horrified embarrassment at what I know is about to happen yet have no power to stop.)

I WAS going to post about all those things, until a series of good behaviors and heart-melting actions made me feel like a frigid mommy dearest for even thinking to disparage my sweet little boy. Like the fact that on Sunday we were in a church with no cry room for literally almost three straight hours (mass followed by a baptism) and he was a complete and total champ about it. Or the fact that on Tuesday, for pretty much the first time all school year, he walked right over and sat on the rug after hanging up his coat, instead of latching onto my leg and making the goodbye process a battle of wills. Or the fact that on any given day, at any given time, I can ask him for a snuggle and he happily obliges, usually throwing in a goofy little smile as he squashes my cheeks together with his little hands before planting a sticky kiss on my face.

So that is what I AM going to write this post about instead. About a little boy who pretends to be Santa and wraps up things around the house to give his sister. About a little boy who plays house with his four Batman figurines, designating a Dad Batman, a Mom Batman, a Brother Batman, and a Sister Batman who all throw a party in the Batcave for the “Terrible” Hulk so he will turn into the “Happy” Hulk. About a little boy who has me read Llama Llama Misses Mama over and over again because it helps him remember that his own mama might go away sometimes, but she also always comes back. About a little boy who, every day as soon as we drop Grace off at school, says “I miss sis.” About a little boy who calls the kitchen the “chicken,” thereby making it hysterical every time he scolds our dog by yelling, “Scout, get out of the chicken!” About a little boy who sounds like Forrest Gump when he says “ice cream,” and who makes us giddy by humoring us with the movie line we taught him to say for full effect: “Lieutenant Da-an…iiiiice cream!” About a little boy who still has the captivating sing-song voice of innocence, making me sometimes hang on even his jibberish ramblings just to listen to the way he says the words.

Yes, there is definitely a lot to complain about with a three-and-a-half year old. But fortunately, there really is so much more to love. And that is the best medicine for any chronic disease.

Ode To My New Dishwasher

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop4 Comments

We have had our new dishwasher for exactly one week. My 20-year-old self would find me incredibly lame because, well, it has probably been the highlight of the last seven days…even taking into account the facts that I had a frosty from Wendy’s on Monday AND I allowed myself to buy the double-stuffed Oreos instead of the reduced-fat ones at the grocery store on Thursday. I know. Just add this to the list of things I never said when I was twenty-four.

After telling Michael almost every day to NOT stand on the dishwasher door, we let him jump on the old one all he wanted while we waited for the new one to be delivered.

So yeah, this new dishwasher is pretty rad, mostly because I don’t have to pre-rinse the dishes before I put them in. That’s right. No cleaning my dishes by hand in order to have them cleaned by a machine. I have to say I was a little skeptical when my brother-in-law Ryan told us that is what we could expect when we asked him his opinion on which dishwasher we should buy. Ryan is a contractor, and an incredibly talented one, so we trust his judgement. You can check out his work at McCarthy Design + Build (…and then go ahead and give him some business. My two nieces could probably make a living off of being so darn cute, but we would all prefer they go to college). But I still thought that surely a dishwasher couldn’t be THAT good. But it is. It even got off dried-on smoothie, which was my old dishwasher’s mortal enemy.

So out of gratitude for this simple pleasure in life, I give you “Ode To My New Dishwasher:”

I thought no pre-rinsing was only true in fairy tales                                                         Meant for rich people, but not for me                                                                        Detergent spots were out to get me (duh-doo-doo-doo-doo)                                       Baked-on food too (duh-doo-doo-doo-doo)                                                            Rewashing forks haunted all my dreams

Then I got my Bosch                                                                                                          Now I’m a believer                                                                                                                Not a speck                                                                                                                           Of peanut butter on my knives                                                                                              My dishes are clean (ooooooooo ahhhhhhh)                                                                       I’m a believer, I couldn’t clean it better with my hands

But for the record, I still hate doing dishes. I’ll write a novella about the dishwasher that can remedy that.

Denying My True Self Through Pinterest

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop1 Comment

I finally know what it must be like to be a drug addict. And I have Pinterest to thank for it.

Last month I thought I would just check out this thing that has become quite the little craze. I was curious, looking for something new to put a little pizzaz into what can be a sometimes hum-drum life of a stay-at-home mom. At first, I really did have control over it. I was just an occassional user, mostly because I hadn’t figured out how to bring up the page that shows you what all your friends have been pinning. I was simply using it as a glorified “favorites bar.” But then my friend Angie opened up the Pinterest world to me, and now it’s not pretty.

Sure, the site has been a virtually endless trove of ideas for organization, DIY crafts, party ideas, and the like. But if there has ever been something that has made me feel such an unnerving combination of hope and self-loathing, I have yet to come across it. As my eyes flutter among the hundreds of ways I can improve my life, be a better mother, have a nicer home, and make more satisfying dinners,  I am at first exhilarated by the promise of what we all secretly desire, but few admit: to move one step closer to Martha Stewart status, one of the most highly prized components of the ever-elusive SuperMom. But here is where that double-edge sword does its handy work. The only thing that promise ever really seems to do is remind me of all the areas I am supposedly falling short in. Becoming panicky at the idea that I totally suck at life, I almost mindlessly grab a pen and start making a list of materials I need to buy at Michael’s to make this nifty little menu planning board that will surely revolutionize my family’s dinners. Yes, the menu planning board. If I just make this menu board, I will eradicate all those inferiorities I feel as the nourisher of my loved ones. But chances are, after I end up spending $35 on supplies and hours of time I don’t really have creating this board, I will still end up staring into my refrigerator at 5:15 pm wondering for the first time all day what I can throw together for dinner. Here comes the self-loathing again…and here comes Pinterest with my next fix.

I have to face reality. Pinterest is not going to change me. There are four laundry baskets of clean clothes sitting in my front hallway as I write, and at least some of them will likely be there again tomorrow. The day I put away all the laundry the same day I do it will be the day you need to suspect the pod people have finally made it to earth. My car has smelled like Wendy’s for three days now, probably because there is a wrapper or stray french fry in some crevice, and finding it just really is not on my “to do” list at the moment. I will continue to be the kind of person who one day decides she needs to clean the house like a freak until you can eat off of every surface, but on a regular basis is too lazy to throw her dirty clothes down the laundry chute and instead tosses them on the floor right in front of it. I will forever be someone who craves organization, but can never stay organized. All the DIY crafts in the world can not save me from myself. If my Pinterest boards reflected reality, they would have titles like Television Shows I Watch While My Kid Naps, Things I Always Meant to Scrapbook and Never Did, Things I Convince My Kids to Do So I Don’t Have to Do Arts & Crafts With Them, and of course Favorite Recipes, with only two pins, “Spaghetti with canned pasta sauce” and “Imo’s Pizza.”

Fortunately, I read something today that made me feel okay about that. I am sure many of you by now have heard of the blog “People I Want to Punch in the Throat,” home of the now infamous post, “Over Achieving Elf on the Shelf Mommies.” I am a fan. The author, Jen, cracks my cookies up. Check her out if you haven’t already. Anyway, today she posted an interview that DC Metro Mom had done with her, and she said something that really resonated with me: “There’s a real movement out there to manufacture memories for your children and I just don’t buy it. Every day is not a party and kids don’t need it to be.” Pin that, Pinterest. Jen is my guru for the day.

My kids aren’t going to fondly remember that mom had this kick-arse menu planning board and 25 different ways to make zucchini. They are going to remember the time I was too tired to cook and let them have cereal right out of the box for dinner. Or maybe they won’t. But they will remember that when they were hungry, I had food for them (well, except for maybe today…the cuppards are pretty bare because I am bound and determined to wait until $10 off Thursday at Shop ‘n’ Save).

Don’t get me wrong, fellow pinners; I will not be entering Pinterest rehab anytime soon. I doubt my enthusiasm will even be curbed. I may have just uncovered it as a harbor of the manufactured mother myth, but a girl can still have dreams. I may be smart enough to realize Pinterest will not change my inferiorities, but I am also smart enough to realize that if I stop striving to be better, I am not really living at all.

And to prove it, I just went and moved those four laundry baskets out of the front hallway and into my bedroom so that the pizza delivery guy wouldn’t see them and judge me as the housekeeping slug that I am.

By the way, you can pin this is you want to. Pin It

If It’s Not Popcorn Math, It’s Fuzzy Math

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop5 Comments

Today my first grader asked me to help her with her math homework. After staring at it for about five minutes, I had to tell her to ask her dad for help when he got home.

Wow. Pathetic.

I knew this would eventually happen. I have even admitted to my blogging public that most math is pretty fuzzy to me (see “Lock Your Doors“). But I expected to maybe make it to AT LEAST fourth grade math concepts before I needed to start turning over that portion of homework help to my enginerd husband. Maybe?

I suck at mathAside from being a tad embarrassed at myself, I am also incredibly impressed with the curriculum at my daughter’s school. Believe it or not, I remember a fairly good chunk of my own first grade experience, thanks to an incredibly cruel joke God played on me by blessing me with a brain that is a steel trap for most things useless (like the theme song to the 80’s television show Small Wonder) but a leaky sieve for genius-making material (like algebra). And from what I remember, things were pretty basic. I have very intense flashbacks to staring at a red felt grid, taking tiny popcorn kernels out of old margarine containers, and placing them in various columns to find the sum. My daughter brought home a worksheet on mode and range. Seriously? Granted, once my enginerd hubby told…um, reminded me what mode and range were, I could see that it would fall into the realm of concepts my daughter could understand. But the fact that she was sitting there having a discussion with her dad using those words, mode and range, while I am sitting here still trying to remember what you call the two numbers you add together to find a sum, well, it blows my mind a little. Apparently, I couldn’t even handle popcorn math.

(And speaking of other first grade memories, I wrote about one of my favorites in an earlier blog post. And it is a lot more entertaining than popcorn math. Two words: Michael Jackson.)

There are no big revelations here. Really this incident has just served to reinforce what I, every math teacher I ever had, and my dad (a.k.a. my math tutor and also an enginerd) already know: calculators were invented for people like me.

Even Stupid Has a Purpose

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop8 Comments

stupid question comicWhen I was teaching, I used to tell my students there was no such thing as a stupid question. But let’s be honest. There are stupid questions. But I could never say that to my students, lest I get an angry phone call from some parent about how I had forever damaged the delicate psyche of her daughter, who obviously had no concern for my delicate psyche when she slept through my class and told me that reading Twain was a boring waste of time. Just to be clear, this probably would have been the same parent who told me that she did not pay good tuition money for her daughter to get a “C” in my class. Well, maybe you should chat with your daughter about that, Mrs. I-Prove-I’m-A-Good-Parent-By-Bullying-People-Into-Giving-My-Child-What-She-Wants. Because I’m guessing that grade had a little bit more to do with the fact that she finds Twain a boring waste of time and less about my teaching skills.

But I digress. And I am starting to worry that it is not so healthy to harbor such bitterness after being out of the classroom for six years now.

So let me get back to the real reason for this post: stupid questions. Lately (and by lately I mean the past four years since Grace has been able to hold a conversation) I have been feeling as though a good 45% of my day is spent fielding questions from my kids. And considering the rest of my average day is spent in a combination of doing laundry, washing dishes, picking up the same revolving clutter, driving in my car, and tripping over my dog whose only real talent is knowing the absolute worst place to lay down, all with the frequent background noise of PBS Kids, these questions frankly annoy the crud out of me most of the time. Because they are stupid.

I know, I know. I am being harsh. Certainly the teacher in me can appreciate the honest curiosity in my kids. An inquisitive mind is a highly valued characteristic which most parents wish for their children. It is one of those things you hear moms on the playground boasting about: “Dakota is just so curious about the world. The other day he was completely enthralled with knowing all about how caterpillars turn into butterflies.” But that is just code for the reality that little Dakota drove his mom to the edge of insanity by asking a barrage crazy inquiries like “Does the caterpillar poop out the butterfly?” and “Can a caterpillar turn into a Power Ranger?” along with loosely related questions such as “If I turned into a monster would l still need to take a bath?”

Sometimes curiosity kills the cat…or the very last thread of patience the cat was playing with.

So what, do you ask, are the specific question marks that have been pestering me so much that I felt compelled to “blog it out?” Here are the ones that make the most frequent appearances:

Michael is heavy into the what’s this? phase. But he has categories. There is the what’s this? when he genuinely does not know what something is. The answer is usually followed by “but what’s this?”…in reference to the EXACT SAME THING he just asked about, which means he apparently did not like my first answer. I have learned not to simply give him the same answer a second time. That just ends up in a vicious cycle of “what’s this – it’s a can opener – but what’s this? – it’s a can opener – but what’s this – it’s a can open-oh for the love of all that is holy and sane! IT’S A THING THAT OPENS CANS!”

Then there is the what’s this? he asks even though he knows what it actually is. I think he does this because, even at the age of three-and-a-half, he enjoys feeling as if he knows better than his mother:

“What’s this?”

“You know what that is buddy. It’s a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”

“No, mom. It’s a T-Rex.”

Oh. Well, excuse me.

There is also a subcategory of this particular what’s this? where he asks the question about what he THINKS he knows the answer to:

“What’s this?”

“It’s a mango.”

“No, it’s an apple.”

“No, it’s a mango buddy.”

“I think it’s an apple.”

“Fine. It’s an apple.”

I’ll have to remember this particular habit of his when he is in high school, and I am tempted to threaten his teacher with the statement I’m not paying all this tuition for him to be getting a “C” in Biology. Because he likely earned that “C” by insisting a chromosome was actually a Cheeto.

You would think my three-and-a-half-year-old would corner the market on annoying questions, but Grace may just have him beat. Her six-year-old mind has obviously been grappling with intense moral questions. I know this because on an almost daily basis I am treated to a host of “Would you rather (fill in the blank) or kill me?” questions.

Would you rather be blind or kill me? Would you rather shoot a police officer or kill me? Would you rather break our car or kill me? Would you rather pick up a crumb or kill me? 

I kid you not; these are all questions that came out of her mouth. After entertaining her for about two or three of these, I always look at her and say, “Grace, the answer will always be whatever is NOT killing you.” Although one time I did catch her off guard by answering that I’d rather kill her than eat her brother’s boogers in hopes it would stop the questions. No luck. She didn’t believe me.

The last question that really gets my goat is one both of my children just LOVE to ask me, in the car, usually in traffic or other perilous driving conditions : What’s this song about? I can usually satisfy Michael with a simple answer like “love” or “dancing.” Though sometimes he will start with, “What’s love?” in which case you can refer to the previous paragraphs. But Grace’s relentless inquiries make me realize that even the songs I think are rather innocuous are about subjects I would rather not discuss with my six-year-old on the way to her Catholic school.

“Mom, what’s this song about?”

“Love.”

“But she says it’s a bad romance. That’s not very nice. Why does she say that?”

“Um, I don’t know. Lady GaGa wears meat for a dress. Why would you expect her songs to make sense? Hey, I bet you can’t find ten yellow cars.”

Are all these questions stupid? No. I realize it is just one of the vehicles my children are using to navigate through the world. And I guess on the positive side, they are looking to ME for the answers, not someone else…because when they look to me, I can control the answers. So despite how annoying the constant questioning is, I better keep providing answers so they do not go looking elsewhere when the questions become more hard-hitting.  Maybe reassuring Grace day after day after day…after day…that I would rather do anything else in the world but kill her will help her realize that I would do anything for her, and that she can turn to me when she has questions she can not answer.

So bring on the questions, you little rugrats. Even the stupid ones. If having the answers to the stupid questions convinces them later on that I will have the answers to the tough questions, then I did something right. The right thing isn’t always easy, and the easy thing isn’t always right.

So what does a good mom do? Well, that’s a stupid question.

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More of the Same in 2012: A Year in Review

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop4 Comments

Believe it or not, both of my children stayed up until midnight last night to ring in the new year, albeit by accident. We had planned to “celebrate” early like most parents of young children, but for some reason, everything just ran a little behind. We ate dinner later than we planned, which moved back our movie start time. Before we knew it, we had unknowingly blown right through 9:00 and 10:00 pm. My husband quickly gave the kids a bath in order to have our celebration at 11:00, but then we realized what the heck. If they can make it to midnight, more power to them. And they did.

So as we watched the ball drop, the sparkling apple juice was flowing. We all wished each other a happy 2012…all of us except for Michael. These were Michael’s very first words of the new year, in order: 1. “Ew, they’re kissing.” 2. “Sis, you’re in my way” (accompanied by a push)  3. Sticking out his tongue and spitting at us.

Well, I thought. It looks as though 2012 is going to be pretty much the same as 2011.

On second thought, however, that really would not be such a bad thing. By most accounts, 2011 was a kind year to me. There were definitely some horrible moments throughout the year, most notably the passing of Kurt’s grandfather and our friends’ little boy Chase, as well as the horrible tornadoes that struck the area, including the homes of both my in-laws and my great-aunt and great-uncle. Thankfully, the twister’s damage resulted in fixable things, so I count that as a blessing.

But more often than not, 2011 brought positive things to my life. My kids treated me to more gems of hilarity and uber-cuteness. Grace learned to read, ride a bike, and get herself ready in the morning, while Michael figured out the potty-training thing…all four of which are very freeing things for a mom. I spent a lot of life-renewing time with a lot of different friends, including two girls’ weekends: one of which helped me get back in touch with the girl of my yesteryear, and one that helped me appreciate the woman I am and the life I have now. I also made some new and wonderful friends, and welcomed another

St. Louis Cardinals 2011 World Series
Photo by Jleybov via Wikipedia (CC BY-SA 3.0)

adorable niece, Kate, into the world. I had five whole days to myself this summer when Kurt mercifully took the kids on vacation with his family, which meant that for five days the house was clean and quiet, I was well rested, I did not have to watch PBS Kids, and I painted my toenails for probably the first time all year. I did join the family later in the summer to visit the Chicago area and spend time with my “bestie” and her family. The Cardinals won the World Series the same night we had our annual Halloween party, so I got to wear a costume AND sing “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang at the same time: win-win.  And speaking of Halloween, FX made me giddy with their new show American Horror Story, which let me feel spooky long after the ghoulish holiday was over. Sometimes, I am really easy to please.

micky dolenz meet and greet
The Happy Couple – Me and Micky

I feel like I am forgetting something really momentus…ooohhhh yeaaahhhhh. Did I ever mention that The Monkees embarked on their 45th Anniversary Tour? A tour us fans did not think would really happen? A tour that worked as a vehicle to show me the depth and breadth of my husband’s love for me? Yes, 2011 boasted the magical weekend when Kurt and I traveled to Columbus, OH, and I rocked out to my favorite band of all time from the front row (see A Completely Biased Review). Not only that, but twenty-five years of waiting to meet my idol, Micky Dolenz, finally paid off with one geek-out moment hug and an unintentional groupie moment (see Meet and Greet). And I was not the only one to have a brush-with-greatness moment this year. Kurt also caught a glimpse of one of his favorites, celebrity chef and host of Good Eats Alton Brown, AND saw a live performance that included his favorite radio personalities and comedians, Bob & Tom, Chick McGee, and Jimmy Pardo. That’s right ya’ll, we were rubbing elbows with the A-List.

Finally, 2011 gave birth to this blog. While in itself, this is not all that amazing, what it has represented for me is. You can read my first post on the Genesis page to learn more about why I started the blog in the first place. For now, I just want to recognize the happiness I have found in creating my stories here, in remembering a passion I had forgotten and left to collect dust. And the fact that people have taken delight in reading it…well, that is just the hug from Micky on top of The Monkee concert cake.

So if 2012 wants to bring on more of the same, I say that is fine by me. Here’s to a new year!

More of the Same in 2012

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop4 Comments
new years eve ball drop
courtesy of http://www.sessions.edu

Believe it or not, both of my children stayed up until midnight last night to ring in the new year, albeit by accident. We had planned to “celebrate” early like most parents of young children, but for some reason, everything just ran a little behind. We ate dinner later than we planned, which moved back our movie start time. Before we knew it, we had unknowingly blown right through 9:00 and 10:00 pm. My husband quickly gave the kids a bath in order to have our celebration at 11:00, but then we realized what the heck. If they can make it to midnight, more power to them. And they did.

lady gaga new years eve 2011
Lady Gaga…whatever (photo courtesy of zimbio.com)

So as we watched the ball drop and Lady Gaga start the new year looking just as idiotic as she did in the past year, the sparkling apple juice was flowing. We all wished each other a happy 2012…all of us except for Michael. These were Michael’s very first words of the new year, in order: 1. “Ew, they’re kissing.” 2. “Sis, you’re in my way.”  (accompanied by a push)  3. Sticking out his tongue and spitting at us.

Well, I thought. It looks as though 2012 is going to be pretty much the same as 2011.

On second thought, however, that really would not be such a bad thing. By most accounts, 2011 was a kind year to me. There were definitely some horrible moments throughout the year, most notably the passing of Kurt’s grandfather and our friends’ little boy Chase, as well as the horrible tornadoes that struck the area, including the homes of both my in-laws and my great-aunt and great-uncle. Thankfully, the twister’s damage resulted in fixable things, so I count that as a blessing.

But more often than not, 2011 brought positive things to my life. My kids treated me to more gems of hilarity and uber-cuteness. Grace learned to read, ride a bike, and get herself ready in the morning, while Michael figured out the potty-training thing…all four of which are very freeing things for a mom. I spent a lot of life-renewing time with a lot of different friends, including two girls’ weekends: one of which helped me get back in touch with the girl of my yesteryear, and one that helped me appreciate the woman I am and the life I have now. I also made some new and wonderful friends, and welcomed another

cardinals 2011 world series champs
Awwww Yeaaaaahhh!

adorable niece, Kate, into the world. I had five whole days to myself this summer when Kurt mercifully took the kids on vacation with his family, which meant that for five days the house was clean and quiet, I was well rested, I did not have to watch PBS Kids, and I painted my toenails for probably the first time all year. I did join the family later in the summer to visit the Chicago area and spend time with my “bestie” and her family. The Cardinals won the World Series the same night we had our annual Halloween party, so I got to wear a costume AND sing “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang at the same time: win-win.  And speaking of Halloween, FX made me giddy with their new show American Horror Story, which let me feel spooky long after the ghoulish holiday was over. Sometimes, I am really easy to please.

micky dolenz meet and greet
The Happy Couple – Me and Micky

I feel like I am forgetting something really momentus…ooohhhh yeaaahhhhh. Did I ever mention that The Monkees embarked on their 45th Anniversary Tour? A tour us fans did not think would really happen? A tour that worked as a vehicle to show me the depth and breadth of my husband’s love for me? Yes, 2011 boasted the magical weekend when Kurt and I traveled to Columbus, OH, and I rocked out to my favorite band of all time from the front row (see A Completely Biased Review). Not only that, but twenty-five years of waiting to meet my idol, Micky Dolenz, finally paid off with one geek-out moment hug and an unintentional groupie moment (see Meet and Greet). And I was not the only one to have a brush-with-greatness moment this year. Kurt also caught a glimpse of one of his favorites, celebrity chef and host of Good Eats Alton Brown, AND saw a live performance that included his favorite radio personalities and comedians, Bob & Tom, Chick McGee, and Jimmy Pardo. That’s right ya’ll, we were rubbing elbows with the A-List.

Finally, 2011 gave birth to this blog. While in itself, this is not all that amazing, what it has represented for me is. You can read my first post on the Genesis page to learn more about why I started the blog in the first place. For now, I just want to recognize the happiness I have found in creating my stories here, in remembering a passion I had forgotten and left to collect dust. And the fact that people have taken delight in reading it…well, that is just the hug from Micky on top of The Monkee concert cake.

So if 2012 wants to bring on more of the same, I say that is fine by me. Here’s to a new year!

My Name is Miss Grace, And I Am Your Teacher

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop5 Comments

kids playing schoolI think my daughter is enjoying first grade. She has been spending a lot of time at home today playing school. Well, not actually playing school…preparing to play school. She has taught very little. Her entire afternoon has been filled with making math workbooks, rearranging furniture, creating alphabet lessons, and making a list of rules which apparently does not include a dress code, since her only pupil Michael is attending class in his underwear. She has informed him that the most important rule is “no burping, along with no fighting and no stealing.” I’m finding her to be a very perceptive teacher. Already, she knows her student well.

She does, however, have her work cut out for her. Michael is not always such a willing participant in her games. Even after starting the school day with recess, she still had to bribe him with money to get him to stay and be her student for a bit longer. To be honest, I’m not sure where she is getting said money, or what the heck my three-year-old would do with it once he had it. And I’m not convinced it is going to buy her much of his attention span. All that prep work for very little payout. Welcome to the real world of teaching, Grace.

As I sit here at the computer, playing the role of principal that was assigned to me, I overhear what is possibly a shining moment of genius on my daughter’s part. The conversation is as follows:

Grace: “Why do we have A?”

Michael: “Because it’s a cupcake.” (laughs at what was apparently a joke)

Grace: “Okaaaaaayyyy. Why do we have B?”

Michael: “Because it’s like F.”

Grace: “It is kind of like F. (drawing on the chalkboard) If you get rid of these two big bellies and put two lines at the top, you get F. That’s why I like B,…because it’s like F and F is my third favorite letter.”

Well, I’ll be. Maybe this little girl will follow in her mama’s footsteps one day after all. But she still has a lot to learn about classroom control. Michael keeps running away to find something new to play as Grace yells after him, “You have to have my permission! Do you know what permission means? It means you have to ask me if you can leave!”

I guess that’s my cue to bring him into the principal’s office and call his mom. I hope she’s not one of those parents who blames everything on the teacher. I hate those people.