Jen's Column / War

There are certain moments in every parent’s life that make parenting worthwhile. Mine are when my unwitting comedians say something so funny that I bend at the waist in laughter. Moments when parenting isn’t only fun, but easy.

Some time ago, we asked the boys to clean the toy room. Ten minutes into the chore, Christian had shelved the stray books, boxed the Lincoln Logs, and lined his superheroes in a neat row. Meanwhile, his little brother, Bergen, had built what was, admittedly, a pretty cool spaceship.

And so, the fate that befalls children who don’t do their chores came to pass. While the rest of the family huddled together for movie night, Bergen was left alone to finish his side of the room. It was in the midst of the resulting tantrum that Bergen said the words that now live in Koski history:

“Why is everyone so mean to me and I’m so cool?”

I didn’t answer him. I was too busy frantically routing around in the junk drawer for a pen, yelling, “Wait, say that again! Mommy wants to write it down!”

Another time, while unloading groceries, I spilled some of the juice from a shrimp tray on our kitchen floor. Wiping up the sticky water with a paper towel, I announced that we’d have to pull out the mop.

“Wow! I’ve never seen a mop used before!” said Christian, in honest excitement. And then, adding with a kind of reverence, “Wow — eight whole years!”

I sat on the floor, the wet shrimp towel in my hand, doubled over with laughter.

“What?” said Christian. “What did I say?”

And then there are times my kids say things that make parenting feel decidedly not easy. Not fun.

“People are getting killed,” Christian said solemnly the other day. “When is the war going to end?”

“Yah,” Bergen agreed. “The war is bad because people are dying.”

When did “people are dying” become something my children could utter so matter of factly? I can protect them from violent videogames, violent cartoons, violent words — these things I have some control over — but not from the violent truths of the real world.

I’ve often struggled with how much to tell my kids about Operation Iraqi Freedom. They know our nation is at war. They know Mommy wishes we weren’t. They know we want our soldiers to come home whole and safe.

I’ve talked to other parents about this. Asked them: What are your kids feeling, what are they understanding about the war? Here’s what they’re saying:

Seven-year-old Jackson told his mother proudly, “America is going to win!” Four-year-old Lucas believes, “The team that we're cheering for won.”

“I don't get it. Didn’t they already get the bad guy?” said my friend Peg’s 12-year-old daughter, Madeline.

Seven-year-old Elliot said, “I don’t like the Iraq War because there is a lot of killing and killing isn't a good thing.” His four-year-old brother, Oliver, said, “Wars are bad and you got to get out of them as quick as possible.”

When my own child asked, “Is the war for our freedom? Is that why we’re fighting?” I struggled with how to answer.

My friends’ children simplified it in their own words: “Because the bad guys think we’re the bad guys,” said Lucas. Elliot said, “Oil. Doesn't Iraq have a lot of oil?”

Ultimately, it was four-year-old Oliver who nailed it for me, answering with the honest, not-at-all funny words of a child: “I don’t really know. Do you know?”

Reason #5963 Being a Mom Rocks

This morning when I went out to start the van to drive the boys to school, Christian had a little surprise waiting for me. In the frost on the hood of the van, he had written, "I love you."

Everyone together now: "Ahhh...."

Love my little guys! :), Jen

We're leaving TRF...

We had a great time in Thief River for Thanksgiving... and now we're packing up to make the big trip back to Rochester. Just had to tell you the very first two things Bergen said when he woke up this morning:

"Do rockets explode?"

and

"Who invented kissing?"

If you have any answers for Mr. Bergen, send them over. He thinks it's likely that George Washington invented kissing. What's your take? :), Jen

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving from our family (circa 2005) to yours! (We don't look nearly as cute in last year's Thanksgiving pictures.)

This year, we are heading up to Thief River to celebrate Thanksgiving with Jen's family, so I will be halting my Great Blog Experiment for a few days.

Think of us as we make the excruciatingly... long.... drive... up north. Seeing as it's Thanksgiving and all, we'll try to be thankful for the drive -- because it means we have a vehicle that works, a little money in our pockets to buy gas, and a family to visit.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving! We're sure you'll be joining us on Thursday in reflecting on how very lucky we all are.

xo, Jen

Jen's Column / Date Night

My husband Jay and I had a hot date on Saturday night. Well, it was a “hot date” if one entails the two of us holed up in his office while he organized some work and I copyedited an article. But, hey, we were alone and the kids were watching movies at the neighbors. So, yes, hot date.

Halfway through the evening, Jay ran to Panera to pick up dinner. When he returned, he popped his head in the doorway and said, “Let’s go. Date’s over.”

“What?” I said, confused.

“Van died.”

“What?

“We’re parked in the street.”

“Wha…?”

Outwardly, I may not have been very articulate. But inwardly, my stream of consciousness went something like this: How are we supposed to get home (&*%/$#%!) and is a tow truck more expensive on weekends (&*%/$#%!) and this is why we need a second car (&*%/$#%!) and we’ll never get a rental on Sunday…

By the time we got outside, I was rifling through my inventory of “People to Call In Emergencies.” Lisa was at a benefit. LaNae was in Scottsdale. Sara and Mitch moved to Green Bay a year ago. (Still can’t bear to move them from the list.) The night’s babysitters, our neighbors Bethany and Doug, appeared our best bet. It was in their best interest to save us, after all. They were stuck with our kids if we didn’t make it home.

Though the van had started sputtering at the corner of Second and Broadway, Jay’d been able to limp it down the block and around the corner to the post office — where he managed to parallel park (if you can call it “parking” when your vehicle is 10 feet from the curb and roughly 2 inches from the car in front of you).

“Listen,” my husband said, inexplicably calm. “I’m going to walk to get some gas. The gauge says we’re OK, but I want to cover our bases. You stay here in case the police come by and wonder why we’re parked like we’re drunk. And don’t eat my sandwich.”

As I sat in the dark waiting for Jay to return, I did the first thing that came to mind — which is also the first thing I did when my ’84 Cougar broke down in college. I called my dad.

For the next 15 minutes, I listened with growing horror to the potential causes, necessary repairs, and skyrocketing costs of our automotive ailment — in addition to a well-versed diatribe on why we should really buy a Buick. (“Never breaks down. Great gas mileage.”)

Jay returned and emptied a gallon of gas into our tank. He turned the key; I filled the silence with mournful chatter.

“How are we going to get up north for Thanksgiving?”

Whrrr… whrrr… whrrr…

“This is going to cost us a fortune.”

Whrr…whrrr… whrr…

“It really is. My dad said so.”

Whrr… whrr… whrr…. Bingo! Ignition.

Jay pulled tentatively onto the street, the van moving in fits and starts as I gasped and groaned in harmony. We hobbled into the SA at Seventh Street, and took a chance by killing the engine as we stopped at the pump. “If it doesn’t start again, at least the tow can hook up easier here,” Jay said.

But that would be unnecessary. Jay filled our 20-gallon tank… with 20.103 gallons of gas. Either SA was cheating us, or we’d discovered the culprit. Our gauge was broken. We were out of gas. Who’d’ve thought that would be something I’d add to my list of “Thanksgiving blessings” this year?

What Are You Saying?!

Here's a cute story from December 2004. (I'm telling ya -- I've got them stockpiled!) Bergen would've been about 2-1/2 at this time.

Bergen wasn't falling asleep easily that night. At about 9:30 p.m., when Jay went in to check on him, Bergen was sitting up in bed writing on little sheets of paper with markers. He told Jay he was making "tags."

When I went in to check on him at 10:30, he was still awake -- but the paper and markers were put away and he was cuddled up in his blankets. I said, "Daddy said you made tags."

Bergen said, "Yay! I get to wake up!" He thought I said, "Daddy made eggs."

I said, "No, honey -- Daddy said you made tags."

He looked at me bewildered.

I repeated myself, "Daddy said you made tags."

He sat up, looked at me in exasperation and said, "What are you SAYING?"

Did You Bring Gifts?

Hey, Blogski Readers!

Today is exactly 11-1/2 years since Jay and I got married. Woohoo!!

In honor of 11-1/2 years, three apartments, two houses, one cabin, two children, one cat, two (now dead) goldfish, and fifty bazillion miles driven back and forth across the state together, we are celebrating with... with... well, we're celebrating by doing the same thing we do every Sunday: Hang out, clean up, get ready for Monday. Jay will coach Christian's hockey game tonight. Bergen and I will do his homework. We'll have some tilapia for dinner and convince the kids that, YES, you really did like this the last time we made it. We'll read Harry Potter before the boys go to bed. I'll finish Wednesday's column. Jay will go in the garage and look admirably at his boat.

OK, so it's not so exciting. But, hey. It's worked for us so far -- 11-1/2 years and counting -- so we'll just keep it up. :), Jen

Oops

Warning: This post contains a spoiler! This post "gives away" the story of the coming week's column. So if you don't want to know what happens Wednesday, don't read below!

* * *
Jay and I had a hot date tonight. Well, it was a "hot date" if a hot date entails the two of us holed up in Jay's office, working, while the kids watch movies at the neighbors'.

Halfway through our romantic evening of tweaking a film (Jay) and copyediting a story (me), Jay made a Panera run for dinner. (Mmmm... if you haven't tried the Frontega Chicken sandwich at Panera, you are missing out.)

When he got back to his office, carrying the white Panera bag, he didn't say, "Here you go, Sweetie!" He said, instead, something along the lines of, "Let's go. Date's over."

Huh?

The van had died on him at the intersection of 2nd/Broadway -- which is, for those of you unfamiliar with Rochester -- in the middle of everything. He had limped our silver Town & Country around the corner to the post office, where he managed to parallel park... if you can call it "parking" when your vehicle is 10 feet from the curb and roughly 2 inches from the car in front of you.

Theories abounded: Fuel filter? Fuel pump? Damn transmission again?

Nope, nope, nope.

Ready for the punchline?

We were out of gas.

I'll write the "whole story" for this week's column. :), Jen

Dressing Like Daddy

Well, it's Day #2 of the Great Blog Experiment!

Today's installment comes straight from June 11, 2004 -- when Christian was just short of his fifth birthday.

I can't remember where we were or what we were doing when he said these words, but I wrote them down:

"I love you a little, Mommy, but Daddy is my very best friend. I like Daddy better than you, so you should do some of the things Daddy does… like dress like him."

So cute. (And, no, I didn't take offense. I know I'm still his #1 girl.)

We'll Discuss That Later

Hey there!

I'm doing a little experiment in which I write a little post everyday this week... just to see if anyone notices.

You lovely readers -- who are, as far as I know, my family and Kelly and some other nice people -- tell me that you check weekly for my column. And, yes, I know, I don't always come through for you. So this week, at least, I'm going to deliver like nobody's business!

In fact, I'm going to post a little note everyday until somebody mentions -- either through a post or in an actual, real-life conversation -- that they've noticed!

Lucky for me, I've got plenty of material. When I hear the kiddos saying something funny, I write it down. I've got weeks of stuff stashed away!

So, for my first experiment post, here's a cute little conversation Jay had with Bergen (as I listened in) a couple weeks ago:

[Scene: Tying Bergen's shoes in the front entry.]

Bergen: That’s more gooder.

Jay: You mean "better." Instead of saying "more gooder," you should say "better."

Bergen: I know.

Jay: You do? Then why didn’t you say "better?"

Bergen: We’ll discuss that later.

Jen's Column / Working from home

When people learn that I work from home, they sometimes say, “I could never do that! I’d go crazy!” But mostly they say, “You are so lucky.”

And they’re right. I am lucky. I get to do what I love while hanging out with the people I love. It’s a good gig.

Don’t get me wrong. There are days when I’m crazed. There are days when I wonder why I ever thought I could balance stay-at-home mom with stay-at-home work. There are days when, after getting the boys in bed, the kitchen cleaned and the school papers signed, I finally sit down to work and realize it’s 11 p.m.

There are days my husband comes home from work, innocently asking whether I had a chance to throw his blue shirt in the laundry and I shoot daggers from my eyes as I say, “Did YOU throw a load of laundry in when YOU were at work today?”

For the most part, however, I think I’ve finally worked out the kinks. Now that our boys are in school I even get to work when it’s light out sometimes. (Oh, the luxury!) The best part? I can make my phone calls during my five-year-old’s morning kindergarten class.

Oh yes, I’ve learned my lesson.

There was the time that my office phone rang while my boys and I were building a mammoth Lincoln Logs ranch in the playroom. I’d been waiting for this call all day, so I was ready with the phone at my side. I answered as I sprinted to my office, rounding the corner to the hall in a blur… until I slipped on a paperback book and went flying into the living room on all fours. I twisted. I turned. I yelled, “No, no, it’s a good time! Let me just look that up for you…” while simultaneously extricating my legs from under the couch and waving my hands wildly at my boys who’d decided now would be a good time to jump on Mommy’s back.

Ah, memories.

There was the time I got a call from a new editor — an editor who was notoriously hard to reach and whom I wanted desperately to impress. My three-year-old and I were wrestling in the living room when the phone rang. “Stay here and be quiet as a mouse, OK?” I begged.

The look in his eyes told me that he took my words as a challenge. The race was on: His stocking feet padded down the hall behind me as I jogged to my office. “Tom!” I said in a rush of breath as I lifted the receiver to my ear. “This might not be a good time. My son is…” And that’s all poor Tom heard before my little guy lifted the extension, yelled, Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!” into the handset and pulled the line out of the wall.

And then there was the moment that sums up my work-from-home/stay-at-home career. I was on the phone finishing up an interview with a story source. We were just about done, and I was feeling very, “I am work-from-home woman, hear me roar!” when we both heard my son’s voice coming from the bathroom: “Mommy!” he yelled. “Wipe my butt!”

Yes, he did.

Those days are over. Now that the kids are older, in school, and — for the most part — reasonable people who can handle all required bathroom duties on their own, I should be OK. But just in case, if you call my office, don’t expect me to call you back anytime after morning kindergarten.

Jen's Column / Hometown

Hey everyone! Here's a preview of Wednesday's column. My birthday is actually tomorrow--but I had to write ahead! :), Jen

* * *
Yesterday I celebrated my birthday. The 36th. It’s not one of the “big ones” — like 30, when you’re officially a grown-up. Or 40, when (I’m promised) you finally feel like you really know who you are and what you want out of life.

But it’s still a landmark birthday for me. Thirty-six is 18 doubled. Thirty-six means that I’ve now lived away from my hometown just as long as I lived in it.

Which is kind of a weird thing.

When I set off for college at 18, I suppose I figured I’d return home during the summers. But I never did. After my freshman year, my girlfriend Nenna and I headed west to South Dakota to spend the summer pushing free ice water at Wall Drug. After my sophomore year, my roommate Becky and I found a fabulous rental house that we didn’t want to give up — so we got jobs waitressing at a local restaurant and lived near campus year-round until graduation.

And that was that. I haven’t spent more than four or five consecutive nights in my parents’ house since.
It turns out that 36 isn’t too old to be a little sad about this.

There’s something about a hometown that is, well, home. This is not a unique epiphany. But this week, I admit to some sentimentality.

My hometown, Thief River Falls — a community of about 9,000 people in the heart of northwestern Minnesota’s snowmobile and hockey country — isn’t just where my parents still live. It’s where a great many of my most formative experiences and indelible memories were made.

It’s where Miss Cerne taught me to recite, “These are grandpa’s spectacles and this is grandpa’s cap…” in kindergarten. It’s where I walked across the stage during my high school graduation.

It’s where I learned to ride my first bike — an orange hand-me-down with rusty fenders. And it’s where I learned to drive my first stick-shift — a white hand-me-down with dented bumpers.

It’s where my two built-in playmates — sisters Amy and Angie — and I would erect forts in the woods and catch frogs in the ditch, seeing how many we could fit in our hands before they wriggled out. It’s where we’d meet up with neighbor kids on warm summer evenings for “night games” — hiding from each other under the deck during breathless, lightning-bug lit rounds of Kick the Can.

It’s where I spent countless hours in my basement bedroom listening to Def Leppard and Poison on the radio and talking to my girlfriends on the phone about what we were going to wear to school the next day.

It’s where I had my first crush — on a boy named Tony who leaned over my shoulder to help me tally my bowling score during phy. ed. class. It’s where I first fell in love — and where I first got my heart broken.

It’s the smell of my Grandpa Haugen’s basement and the taste of my Grandma Haugen’s molasses cake. It’s the feel of the velvet-like bark of my Grandma and Grandpa VanRooy’s climbing tree — and the sight of my Grandpa George’s reading light from the end of the driveway.

It was, for my first 18 years, a very small and safe world where everyone I loved was still alive and living within a five-minute drive. And I have a feeling that 18 — or even 36 — years from now, I will still have a soft spot for the small, safe world that was my hometown.