Even Tough Girls Have Tough Days

I'm still trying to clean out the nightmare basket in the kitchen, and this morning I found this scratched in Sharpie across a torn piece of notebook paper (from December 2015):

C: "*sigh* Sometimes even tough girls can have tough days."

Me: "That is so true. Who says that?"

C: "Me."

Yes, even tough girls can sometimes have tough days. Yesterday was a tough afternoon for mainly reasons of my own bad mood funk. I got home from church and fed kids lunch and settled them into beds for naps/rests and then I looked around our house as if seeing for the first time all of the things staring back at me... laundry piled for washing, floor crying out for a mop, crap everywhere piling up ready to be sorted for Goodwill... and I promptly put on pajamas and sank onto the couch with some popcorn. It was just that kind of day.

Luckily, we had already accepted an invitation to a parishioner's farm for dinner. The fun of being out in the country and watching C&N pet the horses and startle the chickens and generally run amok got me right out of my funk. Turns out that was all I needed.

I awoke to a better day! Somehow I got a ton of stuff done today including but not limited to purchasing a new (to me) shirt from Goodwill for 5 bucks and coming home to google it and finding out it is on sale right now for $60. Score! And also... who spends $60 on a sleeveless shirt?!

I worked out, ran some errands, did a ton of laundry, got everything in order to register C for Kindergarten, and even managed all of it on one less cup of coffee than yesterday. I call that an all-round win. I've realized giving myself really small increments of time in which to do something is a sure way to get something done. So, for instance, today I put a bag of edamame in the micro, hit 5 minutes, and told myself I couldn't have any until I was showered and the phone call on the to-do list was made. Somehow I did it. Short hair for the win!

Sometimes even tough girls have tough days. Today the tough girl won out. Here's hoping tomorrow is just as great.

Magazine Life

Somehow, miraculously, yesterday's peace and potential resulted in this:

Now would be the time when Nils pops up out of nowhere chanting, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"
Yes, he does that all of the time. It's awesome and amazing and does in fact boost one's energy. I told you, we're raising an 80s villain. He also likes to sing "Go Mommy! Go Mommy!" for me... and himself which is the best "Go Nils! Go Nils!"

Seriously though, Casey! Casey! Casey!

You know how magazines are always acting like people can turn nothing into something just by digging around their house? For once, that worked for me. A few months ago my mom snagged some awesome Kindergarten cubbies from my old school and saved them for us. They were awesome, real wood, and huge. So we cut them in half and turned them into this:

They are so useful. I could have cleaned them up for their blog debut and made them look like a magazine. I could have lined up our shoes adorably across the bottom. I could have put my llbean tote in there just so. I could have a picture that is centered and includes the cool picture hanging above them and flowers on top. But that isn't real life. This is what those cubbies really look like everyday. Hm... perhaps I will paint and distress those too...

Yesterday I contemplated the leftover cubbies (from cutting them in half). I ended up popping the side off of one of them and attaching it to the back of the other to make it stable. Then, I found some leftover paint from my laundry room and got to work (yes, my laundry room is that happy color). What fun! Some sandpaper completed the look and then the kids helped me move kitchen stuff onto it. I love it!

Again, I could have gone with magazine quality... but that's what our island actually looks like this morning.

For years now I've had a picture on our fridge of a kitchen I tore out of a magazine. It is an island with a beautiful shelf built in underneath. Finally! Finally!

Chris has been lovingly teasing me about our house lately. Something about the spring makes me nest. I can't stop daydreaming and working and changing and rearranging. Hm... speaking of which... I have a shelf to go hang in the bathroom...

Life is a Cabaret!

I put down my knitting, my book, and my broom (broom, ha!)...

 

Left our troubles outside. We have no troubles here! Here life is beautiful...The girls are beautiful... Even the orchestra is beautiful!

It was fabulous, of course. One of the best... as usual.

Dinner and a night at the Cabaret. Need I say more?

How To Win Friends And Influence People: Not Afraid of Anything

Remember how I was looking for a book to read at C's school Halloween party?

Found it. Today we checked out The Little Old Lady Who Wasn't Afraid of Anything from the library. It should surprise no one that once I borrow my parents' gray wig (what? other people don't think that's a normal thing to say?*) I have all of the pieces to put together a costume and BE the little old lady.

YEESSSS!

Plus, I have everything to pull together all of the things she isn't afraid of in the book and have a really interactive book reading. The shoes go clomp clomp? Well guess what kid? You get to "clomp clomp" some of Chris' shoes.

The little old lady wasn't afraid of anything... and evidently neither am I because I just sent an email to people who don't know me (and thankfully one who does) depicting the details of my plan. THIS is what they're getting in response to "hey can someone find a Halloween book for us to read to the kids?"

{maniacal slytherin laughter is appropriate here}



*I also have been known to say, "Oh this old thing? It's my banana costume on permanent loan from the Jim Rush Collection."

Ah ha ha ha Stayin' Alive Stayin' Alive

Hey, Blog. I'm alive. I'm kind of sick of my blog and Facebook. Perhaps for no other reason than my grouchy Svendsen gene. I AM related to Ed the Red after all. I don't know. To quote my cousin as a child, "One dalmatian. A hundred dalmatians. Dog. Dog. Dog. I don't know."

After going to the writer's conference recently, and signging up Carolena for ballet ($$$$$) I'm trying to spend my writing time in a more productive manner and sending off to publications. Yes, really. I'm just stumbling around though. I have no real direction or purpose. Maybe that will come someday. Really, I have a degree in theology and should be writing in that capacity... but that's intimidating. Rejection in the theological ring sounds painful. For now, getting rejected from a woman's magazine sounds far less hurtful. Plus, they pay a dollar a word and that sounds like one story would cover ballet. Damn, two would practically cover vacation.

I'm not in a funk or a bad mood. I'm just sick of the summer. *gasp*  say it ain't so! There will come a point in the year when my friends in places farther north are sick of the winter. They'll be ready to go outside and play. That's where we are. I'm ready to be outside again and not sweaty on every single inch of my body. Just getting kids in and out of the car makes us all soaked. I'm ready for fall. You know, fall, when it's still hot but the humidity has dropped just enough for us to sit outside with coffee and not put ice in it.

Last year Kelly told me that it was time for her eldest to either start Kindergarten or find work as a hired hand on a whaling ship. I realize we're talking Pre-K here... but I'm beginning to see what she was talking about. C is sick of summer too. We've exhausted the fun. Too much fun is no longer fun. Plus our friends the Double H's are here: HOT and HUMID. The pool is luke-warm. The splashpad is shooting out lava. C is antsy. She's ready for school to start again. Hell, had it been up to her, we never would have stopped for summer.

We've still got a sizeable chunk of summer in our house as kids don't go back until after Labor Day. So, I've got to think... what would Mr. Toad do...? "Here today, up and off to somewhere else tomorrow! Travel, change, interest, excitement! The whole world before you, and a horizon that's always changing!" Perhaps we need another adventure.

Diet Coke

My senior year of college one of my professors had each of us do mock interviews with him to prepare us for the looming "real world." We each had to schedule a time to meet in his office as though we were being interviewed for our dream job.

Question One: If you were a drink, what would you be?

I began to muse out loud.

"Well, I would certainly be carbonated... I have a lot of energy. And definitely caffienated because I bring a lot of energy as well. Hmm... Coke?

No, wait... not Coke. I'd be Diet Coke... because I'm actually not terribly sweet... I'm just sweet enough."

We stared at one another for a moment and then he pushed away his papers and said, "No more questions. You got the job."

Unfortunately, he did make me sit for the rest of the questions. Double unfortunately, I've never been asked that question in the real world.

Artist in Residence

"It's a ghost. He's wearing stripes and saying 'Hey, who stole my gum?!" Carolena


 

"Cheeeeese!" Nils

Heredity

Nils Morgan 2014

 Carolena Michele 2012

Casey Carolena 1984

As Carolena would say, "Yep. That's how we do it."

BOO!

Get ready Mr. Potato Head, I packed my angry eyes...

Yesterday we loaded up the fam and took a trip to one of my least favorite places on Earth: a warehouse store. Which, in Costco's defense, is many people's idea of heaven. For me, going into a huge warehouse of crap is mainly just depressing. That can be a ranting post for another day. Alas, the combination of my children's non-potty-trained hineys along with an empty diaper basket meant that a trip to Costco was in order.

As per the usual we quickly succumbed to the strange universe of the discount warehouse. What else do we need? We pondered the seemingly endless possibilities while Carolena yearned for the end of the trip when she could redeem her prize of looking through the toy aisles.

A huge clamshell of grapes, some dish detergent, and wine were all tossed alongside our haul of diapers, and then we were off to see the toys. As Carolena checked out everything, I perused the toys making mental notes of things that might be great for Christmas. It was then that I stumbled upon a display of costumes. Seeing an astronaut costume I dodged some oversized bears and dashed past the gaudy three snowman tower to check out the price.

I clutched the astronaut costume in my hands, happy with it's overall look and quality. I glanced up a the sign, $14.99 - cool. Then, I read the sign. "Toddler BOY costumes." Disgust came over every fiber of my being. The astronaut costume placed firmly back in place, I backed up to read the signage and found this:

Costco has designated all of these as the "boy costumes."

I snapped a picture, wrote up a comment, which in my opinion was ooooozing with sarcasm, and posted it to Facebook.
And to think I almost allowed my three year old daughter who loves space, watches youtube videos from the ISS, and knows Neil Armstrong's name and why he's famous to get an astronaut costume. Silly me. Luckily, Costco had the "Toddler Boy costumes" clearly labeled lest anyone get confused into thinking girls were good enough at math to be astronauts. Hm... perhaps a firefighter costume... oops... nope... those are boy costumes too. Sigh, what oh what is a toddler gal supposed to be for Halloween? Guess she'll have to go as a housewife again this year.

Perhaps I wasn't clear enough? Perhaps too many people merely skimmed my post instead of reading it? Perhaps the people who were confused are the reason bigwigs at Costco think women are too dumb to be astronauts? How could anyone have thought this was a post about Halloween costumes?!?!

Who the hell even cares about Halloween costumes? I care about the fact that it is 2015 and people are still telling one another that things for boys require brains and brawn while things for girls require tulle. I find it disturbing that this kind of sexism is still being engrained into this new generation.

Dear Costco, it is in fact possible for women to be astronauts. We should encourage little girls to dress up as astronauts and dream of going to space. Astronauts' suits are gender neutral. The dress up version does not need to be labeled as specific for boys.

Then, after my fb post, I found something even more disturbing - normal everyday (supposedly) intelligent people who thought my post implied that I didn't buy the costume because it was "for a boy." What? People actually do that?! People were under the impression that I had put the costume back because the sign said it was for a boy and I have a girl. They thought that my anger was at the fact that this suit was labeled for a boy and that they didn't offer astronaut costumes for girls. I've even gotten suggestions on how to make an astronaut costume for her. What the hell would that even look like? Pink? Bedazzled?

Let me be very clear: if Carolena wants to be a BOY for Halloween, she can. If she wants to wear camo shorts to school, she can. If she wants to dress like a boy every single damn day, I will let her. She can be who she wants to be. The problem isn't Halloween. The problem isn't what C will wear for Halloween. The problem has nothing to do with Halloween.

My children are being raised to be who they are. I want them to like what they want to like. Carolena loves snakes and alligators. She happily plays with trucks and trains. She plays dress up in tulle. She turns everything into her baby. She loves princesses, and dinosaurs, and (gasp) astronauts. She is who she is. I don't need Costco or anyone else telling her that some things in life are designated for boys.  As far as I'm concerned the only thing boys can do that girls can't is pee standing up. Men limit their gender in so many ways by designating things as "girly." Remember the age of sail when brave strong men had to be able to sew? Fine, limit your own lives, don't limit mine or my family's. That is what this is all about. Halloween is inconsequential.

This is more of a problem for girls than it is for boys. In the future, if Nils wants to dress up as Snow White then by all means throw on that costume. We've already got it. He can be whoever he wants to be. What bothers me is that society tells boys that they can be astronauts and firefighters and policemen while girls have to pluck those costumes from the boy department.

If you can't figure that out I can't help you. You are not smart enough for imaginary space walks. Please return your pretend astronaut space helmet and pick up a tulle skirt and fairy wings on your way out.

The Glorious Fourth

 

Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Five kids under the age of five.

 

Two types of creatures kissed by Carolena: two hermit crabs and one mullet. 

Don't dare that girl to do anything.

 

 At least one nap.

 One more female who proved the continued strength of the Svendsen Gene. 

Welcome to the club, Jack Jack.

One picture of Carolena that strangely looks nothing like her. Who is this child?

Oh, there she is! One picture of Carolena that captures so much... "Carolena won't get offfff meeeee."

Two cousins who will go through life hearing the phrase, "this photo will be at their joint graduation party someday" over and over and over. 

Actually, strike that, there will be at least four cousins hearing that phrase...

One baby who likes pacifiers. One baby who likes to steal pacifiers just to get his goat.

One set of muppets in a sink bathtub. "We're baby tigers." Ah yes, because of the buckets on your heads. That makes perfect sense. I should have known.

A full day on the beach complete with picnic and skipped naps.

Blondies and watermelon and pineapple and American flag sheet cake.

S'mores. Oh Lordy, the s'mores.

Three big kids in pjs on Jimmer's lap for Brer Rabbit bedtime stories.

Children insisting that "Moom do it."What is "it" in this sentence? Anything and everything.

Record breaking seaweed.

Kids old enough to sit on the deck in pajamas and watch the fireworks.

A glorious fourth indeed.

Apples Don't Fall Far

Earlier this week Carolena yelled, "no!" at her crib and then was very adamant that she wanted to sleep on her "nap mat" (a.k.a. pile of blankets on the floor - her school nap mat stays in the car). She spent the next few naps and nights curled up on the floor right next to her crib.

A few times this week I asked her if she wanted to sleep in her crib. "No mama" was the repeated response.

* She's on a "mama" kick right now. Roo calls Kanga "mama" and thus, Carolena feels the need to do the same.

Today Carolena looked at me, said "all done crib," and then helped move all of her clothes and stuffed animals into her "big girl room." Luckily, Chris and I have had her twin bed set up in there for months.

After her bath this evening she brushed her teeth and we read Cat in the Hat in her twin bed. I sang a few songs and then left the room. She's currently sound asleep in her new room. No crying. No fussing. Carolena just decided on what she wanted to do and did it.

Yep, she's a Svendsen all right.

Just Like My Love Everlasting

Growing up I spent nearly as much time doing arts and crafts at our kitchen table as I did eating at it.

For approximately fifteen years our family heirloom dining room table had written across it in Sharpie, "cracks me up" from a brochure and t-shirt I made about the Liberty Bell in the third grade.

I would sit and sort through buttons while my mother would sew, and later I would work on my own (somewhat pitifully constructed) sewing projects.

Every time we went to Craft Etc. I asked to get a new cross stitch kit. My parents reaped the benefit of a quiet project for me to work on while my grandparents carefully hung my masterpieces on their walls after receiving them for Christmas.

I learned to sew on a button pretty much as soon as I was old enough to thread a needle.

When I was in college my grandfather saw me sewing a button and after saying, "what the hell are you doing it that way for?" (classic Ed the Red), he taught me to sew a button as he'd learned in the navy. I bet the button I sewed on that pair of capri pants will still be on them at the end of time.

I learned that it is impossible to hot glue something without burning your fingers before I learned long division.

I remember evenings with my mother sitting at the dining room table working on art for a local store's newspaper ads while I stood in awe of the magic of her using tracing paper to combine all of the best of her drawings.

My grandfather had an entire room of his house completely turned into an art studio. And by "art studio" I mean room that an artist sees as an art studio and everyone without a creative eye sees as a hell hole of paint, brushes, half finished paintings, and piles and piles of binder clips. Well, perhaps it was both.

Yep, I guess you could say creativity is in those Svendsen genes.

Yesterday Carolena sat at our kitchen table and colored for a while and then spent nearly an hour sorting through my button jar while I worked on an embroidery project. And the beat goes on...

Viking Women Were Independent

One of Carolena's books is an Eyewitness Book whose subject matter is the Vikings. Honestly, it's fascinating and I can spend amazing amounts of time pouring over its pages. Last night I pulled it out and read this portion out loud to Chris:

The page title is Women and Children and the first sentence reads, "Viking women were independent." The book goes on to say, "women had a considerable amount of power and status. When their husbands were away on raids or explorations, they were left to run the farms, so they were capable and strong-willed..."

Indpendent. Capable. Strong-willed. Yep, that about sums it up. My female Viking ancestors must have had dominant genes, although, that's really no surprise all things considered.

The Svendsen Gene

Perhaps you heard the phrase and thought we were all saying "Svendsen jean" in which case you probably imagined skin tight bell bottoms straight from my mom's closet in the 70s or from the rack at a thrift store. You know the kind: so tight on the top you need pliers to get them on, so big on the bell bottom you might receive a check from the city or a street cleaning service for your help in cleaning up the streets. You would be right in thinking of those particular jeans if you heard the phrase "Svendsen jean," but nonetheless you would be wrong. What we're saying, in fact, is "Svendsen GENE."

If you aren't familiar with the phrase "Svendsen gene" I can't help you there. Move on. Pick a new blog to read.

Okay, okay,  I'll give it a try. Svendsen is my mother's maiden name. I can summarize the Svendsen gene phenomenon with 2 stories: 

1. Carolena has a children's book about the Vikings. It stresses that Viking women were tough, independent, "don't get in my way" kind of women. While the men were out pillaging and exploring and all that jazz, the women were at home... doing everything. So when the viking men came back from their travels, who did they find in charge? The viking women. Want to know who my ancestors were? My mom's maiden name is Svendsen.

2. I once saw my mother converse with a man who looked exactly like Mr. T. He had come straight to her from being released from prison. PRISON. And did I mention that he looked like MR. T?? During the course of their conversation I witnessed my mom grab Mr. T by the collar, yank him halfway over a display case, and say sternly, "Don't F*$K with me." THAT my friends, is the Svendsen Gene.