Johan and I practice the religion of be nice to people and don't be a hater. Before we eat, we hold hands and say "We're thankful for this food. We're thankful for each other."
He also says more traditional table graces when he's with my parents.
Last night at dinner, he told my mom, Roger and me that he wanted to lead the table grace. We all held hands and Johan began:
"Little bunny foo foo
Hoppin' through the forest
'coopin up da field mice and poppin' 'em on the head.
Along come the good very and SHE said:
Little bunny foo foo I don't wanna see you scoopin' up
da field mice and poppin' 'em on the head!"
Amen.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Tonight!
My friends, this is the day I've been waiting for since I first heard Susanna Hoffs' unmistakable voice 25 years ago.
Today is the day I see my favorite band in concert. I know the words of every song. I know the order of the songs on every album.
Yes, dear Bangles, I do understand. I do feel the same. This is burning an eternal flame. It really is.
Today is the day I see my favorite band in concert. I know the words of every song. I know the order of the songs on every album.
Yes, dear Bangles, I do understand. I do feel the same. This is burning an eternal flame. It really is.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
A Perfect Weekend
While I don't normally provide weekend recaps here, there was something about this weekend that I don't want to forget. It was a perfect weekend; one that made me reflect on gratitude and how full my life is.
It started with a car ride home with Thomas, who then pulled on his climbing gear and pranced around in the trees for awhile, trimming the branches. Friends and neighbors; beer and wine; chainsaws and children. It was a crisp fall evening with good conversation and much laughter.
Saturday morning, Addie and I packed Johan and her nephew Louis into the Volkswagon and drove to Belle Plaine for apple picking. The sky was cornflower blue and the trees were the most brilliant reds and oranges as we drove along the highway listening to Raffi. The apple orchard was more than just apples. There were pony rides, a train ride, a giant hay stack for jumping, and old fashioned tractors to climb on. It was a wonderful and happy morning. Except when Johan's eyes got "pokey" because of too many jumps in the hay. Addie saved the day with a damp washcloth. Addie has an amazing camera and an even better eye. Her pictures of our outing are here.
Later on Saturday, after having the professionals finish trimming the trees at my house, Addie and I ate Thai food and watched "The Lincoln Lawyer." Considering the fact that Addie fell asleep during the movie, I think I liked it more than she did. It was a legal thriller, but the crux of it was legal ethics. It was all about attorney-client privilege. Super nerdy and fantastic. As we watched, Addie pointed something that I don't generally notice about a film- the art direction. I was happy to sit next to my friend who sees entirely different things in a movie than I do. We learn from each other.
Sunday morning brought an early rise and coffee with BJ and his family. BJ's house is just up from Minnehaha Creek and after some fantastic coffee, we went to the Parkway and watched the Twin Cities Marathon. Our other partner, TRA3, was running the marathon. As we stood in the brisk autumn air waiting for Thomas to run by, Johan practiced sprinting in the grass and chastised me for not letting him "run with Thomas." When Thomas came by, he stopped to sweatily hug BJ and me, as we cheered him on. It was a lovely moment and made me feel truly and firmly that we have a good partnership. We support each other professionally but we also support each other personally and moments where we cheer for one another are important.
After "Thomas won the race, and everyone else was slow" (Johan Alcantara Lund, 10/2/11) we picked Sylia up and had a delicious brunch at Hell's Kitchen complete with a bit of psychoanalysis, laughter, coffee, and lemon ricotta pancakes. Man, it is good to have her home. Rather than trying to pack 4 months of conversation into a single night, we can have a leisurely brunch and let the conversation flow as smooth as the maple syrup that covered and sweetened our breakfast.
After brunch, the Vikings lost. Ok, so not a perfect weekend. But that's ancillary. Mid-afternoon, it was brought to my attention that my parents' dear old friend Cal was in town from North Carolina and a rather last minute family dinner was impending. Pauly and I hemmed and hawed, lamenting the last minute nature of the dinner and complaining of how tired we were. Then we realized that you never would say, "Gee, I wish I would have stayed home rather than see our dear uncle" but if we missed it, we sure might wish we would have gone. So, I picked up Pauly and we reunited with our lovely, loving chosen family. There we told them our tales and listened to stories of us when we were babies. We hugged and kissed Cal and we knew we made the right decision. We talked about love and loss and babies and children the past and the future. We laughed.
After dinner, I came home and read stories to my wonderful son. I felt grateful for all the love that envelops him. From law partners to new(ish) friends in orchards to the oldest friends I have, that boy is surrounded by smart, kind, generous, caring people.
I closed out the weekend with a conversation with Sarah. It only could have been better if she had been sitting with me on my front steps.
Was it a weekend where Johan and I saw everyone that matters? Nope. We weren't at Mille Lacs, so of course there was something major missing for both of us. But, was it a weekend that exemplified all the goodness in our lives? A weekend that made me feel immense gratitude?
Hell, yes.
It started with a car ride home with Thomas, who then pulled on his climbing gear and pranced around in the trees for awhile, trimming the branches. Friends and neighbors; beer and wine; chainsaws and children. It was a crisp fall evening with good conversation and much laughter.
Saturday morning, Addie and I packed Johan and her nephew Louis into the Volkswagon and drove to Belle Plaine for apple picking. The sky was cornflower blue and the trees were the most brilliant reds and oranges as we drove along the highway listening to Raffi. The apple orchard was more than just apples. There were pony rides, a train ride, a giant hay stack for jumping, and old fashioned tractors to climb on. It was a wonderful and happy morning. Except when Johan's eyes got "pokey" because of too many jumps in the hay. Addie saved the day with a damp washcloth. Addie has an amazing camera and an even better eye. Her pictures of our outing are here.
Later on Saturday, after having the professionals finish trimming the trees at my house, Addie and I ate Thai food and watched "The Lincoln Lawyer." Considering the fact that Addie fell asleep during the movie, I think I liked it more than she did. It was a legal thriller, but the crux of it was legal ethics. It was all about attorney-client privilege. Super nerdy and fantastic. As we watched, Addie pointed something that I don't generally notice about a film- the art direction. I was happy to sit next to my friend who sees entirely different things in a movie than I do. We learn from each other.
Sunday morning brought an early rise and coffee with BJ and his family. BJ's house is just up from Minnehaha Creek and after some fantastic coffee, we went to the Parkway and watched the Twin Cities Marathon. Our other partner, TRA3, was running the marathon. As we stood in the brisk autumn air waiting for Thomas to run by, Johan practiced sprinting in the grass and chastised me for not letting him "run with Thomas." When Thomas came by, he stopped to sweatily hug BJ and me, as we cheered him on. It was a lovely moment and made me feel truly and firmly that we have a good partnership. We support each other professionally but we also support each other personally and moments where we cheer for one another are important.
After "Thomas won the race, and everyone else was slow" (Johan Alcantara Lund, 10/2/11) we picked Sylia up and had a delicious brunch at Hell's Kitchen complete with a bit of psychoanalysis, laughter, coffee, and lemon ricotta pancakes. Man, it is good to have her home. Rather than trying to pack 4 months of conversation into a single night, we can have a leisurely brunch and let the conversation flow as smooth as the maple syrup that covered and sweetened our breakfast.
After brunch, the Vikings lost. Ok, so not a perfect weekend. But that's ancillary. Mid-afternoon, it was brought to my attention that my parents' dear old friend Cal was in town from North Carolina and a rather last minute family dinner was impending. Pauly and I hemmed and hawed, lamenting the last minute nature of the dinner and complaining of how tired we were. Then we realized that you never would say, "Gee, I wish I would have stayed home rather than see our dear uncle" but if we missed it, we sure might wish we would have gone. So, I picked up Pauly and we reunited with our lovely, loving chosen family. There we told them our tales and listened to stories of us when we were babies. We hugged and kissed Cal and we knew we made the right decision. We talked about love and loss and babies and children the past and the future. We laughed.
After dinner, I came home and read stories to my wonderful son. I felt grateful for all the love that envelops him. From law partners to new(ish) friends in orchards to the oldest friends I have, that boy is surrounded by smart, kind, generous, caring people.
I closed out the weekend with a conversation with Sarah. It only could have been better if she had been sitting with me on my front steps.
Was it a weekend where Johan and I saw everyone that matters? Nope. We weren't at Mille Lacs, so of course there was something major missing for both of us. But, was it a weekend that exemplified all the goodness in our lives? A weekend that made me feel immense gratitude?
Hell, yes.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Not In My Name.
I feel nauseated when I think about the death penalty. It's been that way since I saw “Dead Man Walking” at the Boulevard Theater circa 1994. I’m disturbed and disgusted that Troy Davis was executed last night. Just like I was when Timothy McVeigh was executed many years ago. I went to bed last night when the Supreme Court was still entertaining one final appeal for clemency. By morning it was done.
I have great reverence for the Court, even when I disagree with the Justices, but how can they allow the State to put a man to death for a crime where seven of nine “eye witnesses” recanted and admitted to police coercion? How can they disregard the historical significance of a white southern government putting a black man to death under the auspices of justice when it was really anything but? To me, the death penalty is nothing more than sanitized lynching. The statistics bear this out. The black and the poor die at the hands of the state. SCOTUS would be intellectually sound to ban such a heinous and barbaric practice under the 5th, 8th, or 14th Amendments. Or all of ‘em.
Parallel to Troy Davis’ story in the news, I’ve been thinking about the limits of human memory. Davis was put to death on the testimony of people who swore they saw what they saw. No DNA or biological evidence. People have been talking about memory. Do you remember where you were on Sept 11? Of course. Like it was yesterday. How could I forget?
I emailed my friend Susie on Sept 11 to tell her I miss her. She and I both lived in the DR at this time 10 years ago, and I have vivid memories of being with her during that time. We left our jobs at the UN and went to a plaza across from the Cathedral in Santo Domingo. We ordered cheese sandwiches. We sat in stunned silence.
Except we didn’t. Somehow my brain played a trick on me. Susie was sick that day, at home with food poisoning. I went to the plaza with a couple of other co-workers, but my dear good friend was not there. She was there all the days before and all the days after, so somehow my mind converged those things and I remembered her being with me. It’s an unsettling thing to think how time blurs experiences into soft pastels and oil crayon pictures where you can’t see the details clearly at all.
Combine the oil crayon drawings of eyewitnesses with a little racist police coercion and that’s how the death penalty is administered. And so here I sit listening to “Eve of Destruction” feeling at once angry, sad, and powerless to change something I know is wrong.
I have great reverence for the Court, even when I disagree with the Justices, but how can they allow the State to put a man to death for a crime where seven of nine “eye witnesses” recanted and admitted to police coercion? How can they disregard the historical significance of a white southern government putting a black man to death under the auspices of justice when it was really anything but? To me, the death penalty is nothing more than sanitized lynching. The statistics bear this out. The black and the poor die at the hands of the state. SCOTUS would be intellectually sound to ban such a heinous and barbaric practice under the 5th, 8th, or 14th Amendments. Or all of ‘em.
Parallel to Troy Davis’ story in the news, I’ve been thinking about the limits of human memory. Davis was put to death on the testimony of people who swore they saw what they saw. No DNA or biological evidence. People have been talking about memory. Do you remember where you were on Sept 11? Of course. Like it was yesterday. How could I forget?
I emailed my friend Susie on Sept 11 to tell her I miss her. She and I both lived in the DR at this time 10 years ago, and I have vivid memories of being with her during that time. We left our jobs at the UN and went to a plaza across from the Cathedral in Santo Domingo. We ordered cheese sandwiches. We sat in stunned silence.
Except we didn’t. Somehow my brain played a trick on me. Susie was sick that day, at home with food poisoning. I went to the plaza with a couple of other co-workers, but my dear good friend was not there. She was there all the days before and all the days after, so somehow my mind converged those things and I remembered her being with me. It’s an unsettling thing to think how time blurs experiences into soft pastels and oil crayon pictures where you can’t see the details clearly at all.
Combine the oil crayon drawings of eyewitnesses with a little racist police coercion and that’s how the death penalty is administered. And so here I sit listening to “Eve of Destruction” feeling at once angry, sad, and powerless to change something I know is wrong.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
13
At brunch on Sunday morning, my sister-in-law was describing a conversation she heard her (smart, bug-loving, kind, funny) daughter have with 3 of her friends. They are all 13 and entering 8th grade. The girls were talking about boys and then which girls in their class were "whorish."
Excuse me?
She said this with non-chalance as though she were describing the girls talking about a school dance or Halloween costumes. She sort of laughed at it, and I got a pit in my gut. My niece was not in the room at the time, but I could not just sit there and nod. I noted that I was saddened and disturbed that 13 year old girls are calling each other whores.
My sister in law said that this particular girl had already had sex. So effing what? Now, of course no one thinks 13-year-olds should be having sex, and this is disturbing in its own right, but that does not excuse being labelled a whore.
I suddenly felt myself get so upset by this that I was shaking and I could feel my face go red and hot. When I spoke up, I didn't even realize how upset this actually made me.
Name calling is terrible. Name calling that attacks a person's sexuality and sexual choices is some of the most vicious and damaging name calling. Girls can be awful. They can also be wonderful. I firmly believe and always have that women and girls need to be on the same team. There will be enough forces in the world that attempt to shame us, marginalize us, and make us feel less than worthy. We cannot contribute to that. And we have to teach younger girls why words like whore and slut should not be part of their vocabulary.
Now, of course, adults can't stop what 13 year old girls say when we aren't around. But this was a sort of unique opportunity where the girls were at a hotel sleep over and having this conversation while they knew an adult was in the room. It was a missed chance to bring up the issue of treating other girls and women with respect and compassion.
My sister in law just didn't get why it was such a big deal. Sigh. I realize that parenting isn't easy and that sometimes things come up so quickly, it's hard to know how to react. But, at least to me, there is no gray area here. My reaction was so visceral. I don't know if I'll ever have a daughter, but I will do all I can to impart these values to my son. He will always know where we stand on referring to women as whores.
Since this happened, this old Dar Williams song has been running through my head. "As cool as I am, I thought you'd know this already. I will not be afraid of women." Might be time to bring my niece to a folk concert or at least sit down over coffee.
Excuse me?
She said this with non-chalance as though she were describing the girls talking about a school dance or Halloween costumes. She sort of laughed at it, and I got a pit in my gut. My niece was not in the room at the time, but I could not just sit there and nod. I noted that I was saddened and disturbed that 13 year old girls are calling each other whores.
My sister in law said that this particular girl had already had sex. So effing what? Now, of course no one thinks 13-year-olds should be having sex, and this is disturbing in its own right, but that does not excuse being labelled a whore.
I suddenly felt myself get so upset by this that I was shaking and I could feel my face go red and hot. When I spoke up, I didn't even realize how upset this actually made me.
Name calling is terrible. Name calling that attacks a person's sexuality and sexual choices is some of the most vicious and damaging name calling. Girls can be awful. They can also be wonderful. I firmly believe and always have that women and girls need to be on the same team. There will be enough forces in the world that attempt to shame us, marginalize us, and make us feel less than worthy. We cannot contribute to that. And we have to teach younger girls why words like whore and slut should not be part of their vocabulary.
Now, of course, adults can't stop what 13 year old girls say when we aren't around. But this was a sort of unique opportunity where the girls were at a hotel sleep over and having this conversation while they knew an adult was in the room. It was a missed chance to bring up the issue of treating other girls and women with respect and compassion.
My sister in law just didn't get why it was such a big deal. Sigh. I realize that parenting isn't easy and that sometimes things come up so quickly, it's hard to know how to react. But, at least to me, there is no gray area here. My reaction was so visceral. I don't know if I'll ever have a daughter, but I will do all I can to impart these values to my son. He will always know where we stand on referring to women as whores.
Since this happened, this old Dar Williams song has been running through my head. "As cool as I am, I thought you'd know this already. I will not be afraid of women." Might be time to bring my niece to a folk concert or at least sit down over coffee.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Gluten Minimus
I have fairly strong feelings about food allergies. I hate them and think they are mostly fake. Yes yes, I know some people will die if I say "peanut" in their presence, but mostly it's a farce.
In early August my mom and I decided to kick start a plan to lose some weight by doing the South Beach diet. It meant cutting out alcohol and all carbohydrates for 2 weeks. I almost immediately stopped getting heartburn. At first I thought maybe it was the alcohol. This was distressing. But then I reintroduced red wine and the heartburn did not return. So I started testing myself, and it's become clear that if I eat bread or drink beer, I get heartburn.
Gluten is the culprit.
What now? It's not an allergy. I mean, sometimes there is going to be pizza. Or artichoke dip and the only thing for dipping will be french bread. Maybe it's best described as gluten sensitivity. I'm trying to avoid it as it's nice to not have heartburn and it's also helpful in the weight loss plan. 12 pounds so far. Not too shabby.
The best news of course is that it was bread and not wine that was giving me trouble. And now that I'm not really eating bread, there's more time to drink wine. Salud!
In early August my mom and I decided to kick start a plan to lose some weight by doing the South Beach diet. It meant cutting out alcohol and all carbohydrates for 2 weeks. I almost immediately stopped getting heartburn. At first I thought maybe it was the alcohol. This was distressing. But then I reintroduced red wine and the heartburn did not return. So I started testing myself, and it's become clear that if I eat bread or drink beer, I get heartburn.
Gluten is the culprit.
What now? It's not an allergy. I mean, sometimes there is going to be pizza. Or artichoke dip and the only thing for dipping will be french bread. Maybe it's best described as gluten sensitivity. I'm trying to avoid it as it's nice to not have heartburn and it's also helpful in the weight loss plan. 12 pounds so far. Not too shabby.
The best news of course is that it was bread and not wine that was giving me trouble. And now that I'm not really eating bread, there's more time to drink wine. Salud!
Saturday, August 6, 2011
A few weeks ago
...someone I know moderately well, but is by no means on the inside of my life, made some very hurtful comments about how I parent Johan, the life we have, and about Johan in general. I have always kind of thought that I only get offended by comments if there is some truth to them.
For example, I can be passive aggressive sometimes. So if I were to get called out on that, I would probably take offense. And I can be mercurial. I am sensitive when that is pointed out to me.
But this stuff? Of course I am not a perfect mom. And Johan is not a perfect kid. Our family is not perfect either. But we are pretty solid. Johan is a bright, vibrant, spirited, kind kid. He can also be mercurial. He comes by that honestly. But I try hard to make sure he is not spoiled or coddled. I try to teach him to be polite and respectful and to treat others the way he would like to be treated. He does a good job with these things a lot of the time. But he's also three. And if he's overtired or overexcited, sometimes he whines or acts out. He's not allowed to "get away" with that kind of behavior and I discipline him for it, although not in front of other people. I usually take him out of the room and discuss inappropriate behavior privately with him. Public humiliation and shame are not part of my discipline routine.
I've thought a lot about the comments this person made. I've wondered if I'm sensitive about it because I worry she's right. I've thought, maybe she thinks I'm not disciplining him since I don't do it in front of her. I've now settled into some comforting conclusions. 1) She's wrong. 2) She doesn't know Johan, me, or our life. 3) It's none of her business. 4) Her opinion of our life affects us in no way whatsoever. And 5) I've been angry not because her comments are true, but because I am not used to be people being bluntly unkind.
When I think about the good people in Johan's and my life, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude and fortune. Our universe of family and friends, both blood-related and not, are not just folks who pat us on the back and say "good job." They challenge us to be the best we can. They call me out when I've got a head full of crazy. They do so, however, in supportive ways. They are not mean.
I'm not really sure of the thesis of this, but I can tell you that I no longer think that I am only sensitive to criticism I fear is true. Sometimes cruel words, even if entirely untrue, can seep in and get to you. Their sting is hard to forget.
But, I get daily reminders from Johan that he is a wonderful kid with a mom who, while imperfect, is doing the best she can. When he offers to share his treat with a littler kid and then "read" her a story; when he wants to help clear the table; when he cuddles up to me in the early morning when I'm still half-asleep and kisses my cheeks, I know that we are doing just fine.
For example, I can be passive aggressive sometimes. So if I were to get called out on that, I would probably take offense. And I can be mercurial. I am sensitive when that is pointed out to me.
But this stuff? Of course I am not a perfect mom. And Johan is not a perfect kid. Our family is not perfect either. But we are pretty solid. Johan is a bright, vibrant, spirited, kind kid. He can also be mercurial. He comes by that honestly. But I try hard to make sure he is not spoiled or coddled. I try to teach him to be polite and respectful and to treat others the way he would like to be treated. He does a good job with these things a lot of the time. But he's also three. And if he's overtired or overexcited, sometimes he whines or acts out. He's not allowed to "get away" with that kind of behavior and I discipline him for it, although not in front of other people. I usually take him out of the room and discuss inappropriate behavior privately with him. Public humiliation and shame are not part of my discipline routine.
I've thought a lot about the comments this person made. I've wondered if I'm sensitive about it because I worry she's right. I've thought, maybe she thinks I'm not disciplining him since I don't do it in front of her. I've now settled into some comforting conclusions. 1) She's wrong. 2) She doesn't know Johan, me, or our life. 3) It's none of her business. 4) Her opinion of our life affects us in no way whatsoever. And 5) I've been angry not because her comments are true, but because I am not used to be people being bluntly unkind.
When I think about the good people in Johan's and my life, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude and fortune. Our universe of family and friends, both blood-related and not, are not just folks who pat us on the back and say "good job." They challenge us to be the best we can. They call me out when I've got a head full of crazy. They do so, however, in supportive ways. They are not mean.
I'm not really sure of the thesis of this, but I can tell you that I no longer think that I am only sensitive to criticism I fear is true. Sometimes cruel words, even if entirely untrue, can seep in and get to you. Their sting is hard to forget.
But, I get daily reminders from Johan that he is a wonderful kid with a mom who, while imperfect, is doing the best she can. When he offers to share his treat with a littler kid and then "read" her a story; when he wants to help clear the table; when he cuddles up to me in the early morning when I'm still half-asleep and kisses my cheeks, I know that we are doing just fine.
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