Death by Sharpie

December 12, 2009

I have a love-hate relationship with Sharpie markers. Or maybe it’s more like love-fear. I buy them in mass quantities, in all colors and sizes, fat point, fine point and everything in between. I use them at home to label anything that’s not moving, and at work, I have a set of Sharpie pens that I guard like the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

This obsession probably started back in college when, living in the sorority house, I had to brand my possessions in permanent ink to prevent them from growing legs and walking away. Now, as a mother, nary a day goes by when I’m not busting out my Sharpie to label the kids’ clothes, or their lunches, or yet another box of clothing they have outgrown.

So that’s the love part. Now for the fear.

My mind frequently wanders into “worst case scenario” mode when I explore the possible events that could transpire to shatter my happy existence. Come on, you know you all do it. “What would I do if I lost my kid at the grocery store?” “What if my husband meets someone else?” “What if I get really sick?”

Among these rather serious fears, another terrible scenario strikes panic in my soul: Wyatt or Graham left alone for two minutes with an open Sharpie in hand. Imagine the destruction! My couches permanently tattooed in kinder-scribble. Walls scarred beyond scrubbing. Body art on the kids’ faces, hands, arms, legs, tongues, etc. that takes weeks to fully disappear. I shudder to think of the possibilities.

While my fear of Sharpie permanence haunts me, I’m too foolish to store my collection away in some secure location—a water-proof, hermitically sealed bunker that ought to prevent my markers from falling into the wrong mits. Every time I see a Sharpie hanging out on the kitchen countertop, mixed in with Wyatt’s washable Crayolas, or rolling around on the floor within inches of Grammy’s grasp, I think, “You big bozo. You are really asking for it.” And I usually snatch the Sharpie up and put it just out of rug-rat reach. But inevitably, the marker o’ death finds its way back to a place within three feet of ground level.  

I’m an idiot. Or maybe there’s a little bit of a rebellious teenager left in me who likes to play with fire. Probably both, and whatever the case, it’s only a matter of time before I issue the screech heard round the world upon entering the living room and finding my one-year-old with a permanent mustache drawn by his older brother’s loving and creative hands.

O Tannenbaum! How Weighted Down Are Thy Branches

December 3, 2009

With small children scurrying around our house, Christian and I have been of the “wait until the last possible minute” mindset regarding our Christmas tree for several years now. There are many who like to decorate for the holidays immediately after Thanksgiving (and sometimes before…sacrilege!), but for us, spending a full month playing goalie between our toddler and our tannenbaum is really not an enjoyable use of time. So we’ve generally put the tree up a week or two before Christmas and taken it down promptly after the last bit of wrapping paper hits the curb.

This year has been a different story. With Wyatt nearing four, he’s finally starting to figure out what this whole Christmas thing is about, and he’s super excited. Inspired by too many viewings of Alvin and the Chipmunks, Wyatt has been asking to put up our Christmas tree for weeks now—every day, several times a day. Last weekend, still delirious from our Thanksgiving tryptophan overdose, Christian and I caved in and drug our 7-foot artificial monstrosity down from the attic.

To my great surprise, Wyatt was actually very helpful in setting up the tree, stringing the lights, and putting on the ornaments. Even if he wasn’t actively engaged in tree trimming at every moment, at least he watched patiently and didn’t get into too much trouble while Christian and I had our hands full.

When the last of the ornaments was on, Wyatt pronounced the tree “beautiful” and was adamant about having his picture taken with our bejeweled beauty—first by himself, and then with Daddy and Mommy. Here’s a very cute shot for your viewing pleasure:

Little did Christian and I know when we pronounced the tree “finished” that Wyatt had other plans in mind. Last night, while I was making dinner and Christian was out at a basketball game, Wyatt took it upon himself to take our Christmas tree to a whole new level. From the kitchen, I could hear lots of giggling (which is never good with a preschooler), and when I came into the living room to check out the scene, I discovered that Wyatt had adorned our tree with his shoes, winter coat, and hat, along with this entire set of giant legos. The tree looked like it had been caught up in a tornado, and I came within about an inch of majorly losing my cool.

But then I saw the look on Wyatt’s face—pure pride in his workmanship and utter delight in his creation. Despite my urge to clean up his mess, I decided to let it be and enjoy the humor in his creativity. Wyatt’s shoes and legos are still hanging right where he placed them, and they may be there still when jolly ol’ Saint Nick slides down our extremely dirty chimney to deliver the goods. I hope our Christmas tree gives him a chuckle, too.

Gobble Fest

November 22, 2009

Every year right before Thanksgiving, my husband hosts an event called “Gobble Fest” at the elementary school where he teaches. In the center ring of this annual circus, you’ll find a highly competitive game of Cornish-game-hen bowling. That’s right—six lanes of unbelievably wound-up children hurtling frozen Cornish games hens across a plastic-covered gym floor toward a set of multi-colored bowling pins. It’s quite a scene to behold.

I arrived a little late for the event this year, hand-in-hand with Wyatt and balancing Graham on my hip. We waded through the crowd of kids and parents to get in the door, and once inside, we hung back to watch the controlled chaos unfold. Christian was there in the middle of it all, teaching this kid and that how to properly launch their frozen fowl, and it was a real treat for me to watch him in his element.

Several minutes went by with game hens flying, kids running and laughing, parents standing by dumbfounded, and my own sweet hubby keeping everything under control as much as can be reasonably expected. Wyatt watched it all with his mouth agape and his eyes full of wonder. Then at last, when he couldn’t stand still any longer, Wyatt slipped his hand out of my own and made his way through the bustling crowd toward his daddy.

Within a matter of seconds, Wyatt had scurried and scampered his way through a pack of children much bigger than he, and when he arrived at Christian’s side, he simply placed his hand on his daddy’s leg to say “I’m here.” In all the hubbub, Christian hadn’t noticed our arrival, and when he looked down and saw his little red-headed boy clinging to his pant leg, he smiled probably the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen from him. I stood motionless, watching it all with a lump in my throat.

Moments like these remind me just how lucky we are to be parents. Life can be so painfully busy that it’s easy to wish for the “old days” when Christian and I could sleep as late as we wanted, go on a spontaneous date, or vegetate on the couch watching marathon Sopranos. Those days are gone. But in their place, among the chaos of our own lives, we have moments when the touch of Wyatt’s hand or a giggle from our Grammy can make it all worth it—and then some.

What’s in a Name?

November 8, 2009

Looking back, it amuses me to think about how much time Christian and I put into choosing our sons’ names while they were in the womb, given that we rarely use those names when addressing our children. I’m not sure why or how, but we seem to have taken the concept of nicknames to the extreme. Here’s just a brief sampling of the pseudonyms each of our boys has assumed:

Wyatt Oscar:

• Wy-Wy
• Wosky
• Wosker
• Bosker Brown
• Downtown Bosker Brown
• Brown
• Wosky Doodle
• Oscar the Grouch

Graham Henry:

• The Great Grahambino
• Grahamster
• Grammy
• Hammy
• Hammerstein
• Teddy Graham
• Golden Graham
• Grammy Bear

Sometimes I fear that our children may grow up without actually knowing their names. I can just picture Wyatt’s confusion on his wedding day when the pastor says “Do you Wyatt take [fill in the name] to be your wife?” “I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?” he would reply. Or Graham, as he’s being sworn in as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, asking the President if he could possibly take his oath as “Teddy Graham.”

These fears may seem irrational, but consider this: Not long ago, the Nord family was shopping at our friendly neighborhood home improvement mega mart, and when a nice sales lady leaned down to ask Wyatt what his name was, he responded in a very loud and growly voice, “Wyatt Oscar the Grouch!” She beat a hasty retreat.

Given that our boys are three and 10 months, we have some time before our use of nicknames will become a source of total embarrassment for them, so I guess we should enjoy this time while it lasts. But here and there, we probably ought to refer to our children by their given names so as to avoid an identity crisis before their tenth birthdays.

It’s Liturgy for This Lutheran Lady

November 1, 2009

Today, Christian and I joined Calvary Lutheran Church—he through confirmation and I through affirmation of faith. Calvary is probably the most special congregation I’ve ever been a part of, and I’m really happy to be a member. But even more so, I’m thrilled to be a Lutheran again.

I grew up a Missouri Synod Lutheran, and as a teenager, I remember being painfully bored by the liturgy and formality of the service. I couldn’t understand the purpose of saying aloud the Apostles Creed, the Lord’s Prayer and all the other responsive reading, and in fact, I remember feeling almost hypocritical speaking those words when I didn’t have any thought or feeling behind it. What was the point?

Well, there was a point. Now some 15 years later, I’m really thankful that I “suffered through” the liturgy as a kid because, little did I know it at the time, but those words had become a part of my soul.

Since college, Christian and I have always attended contemporary, community-style churches. While the music and preaching were good, there was always a void for me in my worship, and I struggled for years to figure out what it was. But over time, it dawned on me: What I was missing was the verbal profession of my faith. Yes, those very words that bored me to tears in my youth.

Now, I realize that Lutheran liturgy is not for everyone. It’s certainly very formal, and it’s easy to mumble through the readings without giving much thought to the meaning behind the words. But for me, I need to speak the Word of God aloud for it to stick. And I need to make my confession aloud; otherwise, it’s all too easy to let that important but sometimes uncomfortable aspect of my faith go undone.

Since we’ve been at Calvary, I’ve found that what I’m speaking aloud and learning during the service each Sunday is finally sticking with me past lunch time. I’m thinking about my faith as I drive to work during the week, as I put my kids to bed at night, and as I struggle with the same old sins that have been plaguing me for years. At last, my faith is becoming a part of my everyday life—not just a passing thought on Sunday morning.

I’m really excited to see the walk of faith that my family will go on through our membership at Calvary. I’m sure our boys will be bored with the liturgy (and sometimes Christian and I will be, too), but I’m hopeful that Wyatt and Graham will allow the spoken Word to change them as it has me.

It’s good to be a Lutheran again. This is most certainly true.

A Paper Bag and a Piece of Bologna

October 25, 2009

Though it’s only October, I’m already in Christmas shopping mode. My hope is to distribute our spending over the course of a couple of months rather than cramming it all in at the last minute and starting the new year in abject poverty.

With Wyatt now three years old, I’m starting to feel that all-too-common parental compulsion to “go big” for him. Perhaps he’d like a Leapster. How about that creepy life-sized robotic horse? Or maybe one of those Hummer all-terrain vehicles he could use to run over the cats and destroy my garden.

Luckily, before I let these grandiose yet totally idiotic ideas get the better of me, my husband, Christian, told a funny story at the dinner table the other night that snapped me back to reality. He’s a PE teacher, and all year, he’s been struggling with the Kindergarteners, trying to come up with creative games for them that would keep them amused while also teaching them some sort of new skill. Unfortunately, his ideas have largely been disastrous, mostly because the little tykes can’t follow really basic instructions.

So on a day when Christian wasn’t feeling particularly jazzed about explaining a new game to the Kindergarteners for the umpteenth time, he decided to try something painfully simple. He lined the curtain climbers up on a blue tape line on one side of the gym, and on his whistle, he told them to run to a line on the other side. Then he blew his whistle again, and they ran back. Rinse and repeat.

To his great surprise, the kids loved this activity. They smiled and asked for more. He thought to himself, “What the heck have I been doing all year? Why have I been breaking my back to come up with all these new activities? I could throw out a paper bag and a piece of bologna, and they’d think that was the greatest game ever.”

Christian certainly has a way with words. :-)

I have adopted his paper-bag philosophy as my guide while Christmas shopping this year for my own little dudes. I need to remember that Wyatt would much rather play with a cardboard box full of Styrofoam peanuts than the expensive electronics that came inside it. And Graham just has no clue.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not going to go totally cheap and boring on the boys this year. But it’s always helpful to remember that sometimes the simplest gifts are the most used and loved.

Best Do It at a Bit of a Run

October 10, 2009

I make a living as a professional writer, spending every week day (and too often weekend) creating web content, press releases, corporate blog posts, memos, emails, proposals, etc. in the name of the company for which I am dutifully employed. I’ve wanted to do some personal blogging for many months now but have created one excuse after another for not doing it. Here’s the abridged version:

“I don’t want to spend any more time in front of a computer than I already have to.”

“I don’t have time for personal writing; I have kids.”

“My life isn’t exciting enough to interest anyone but my closest friends.”

“What on earth would I say?”

Today, I’m done with excuses, and I’m taking the plunge. My doubts still nag at me, but I’ve decided that it’s time to do something for myself. I love to write, and I hand over the “author within me” every day in exchange for a salary. Today, I’m taking some of it back. And I hope to push myself in new directions—writing with a bit of wit here and there, instead of my usual corporate blah.

So this is post one, and many more to come. I’m going to keep in mind some wise advice from J.K. Rowling’s Mrs. Weasley:

“Best do it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous.”