Pick a Direction. Now Go!

Doug likes to tell the story of his high school graduation gift from his parents: a suitcase. What better message to send to an 18-year-old than "time for you to leave now"? I don't remember my gift, but I distinctly remember crying all the way to Iowa City as my mother smiled encouragingly, reminding me that I would soon be a Hawkeye and my homesickness would fade in no time.

Our parents knew what they were doing. Doug eventually left the homestead, and my homesickness evaporated within days.

Alex designed her dress. Age 12.

We now seem to be at that point on the parenting spectrum. Alex the Eldest graduated from college last May and moved to Denver to make a splash in the world of journalism. She had crushed it in college, after all. Fast forward eight months. Writing jobs are drying up. The food industry pays well. Living is expensive. Daughter is in a funk. Adulting sucks! And just when we were ready to suggest she consider going back to school, Alex declares herself an entrepreneur! With her creativity and tactile proclivities, she's starting a fashion design business for the niche market of drag queens. Now she wonders about taking some business classes. At one time she would've scoffed at that ludicrous idea.

On the other hand, Cole the Youngest is in his last semester of high school, and he's suddenly panicking about choosing the right career path. (It was so much easier when he knew he was going to be Spiderman or a Major League Soccer player!) Does he really want to pursue Exercise Science? What about art? Art design maybe? Or maybe he should reconsider history? What career will ensure him of a penthouse like Justin Timberlake in Friends with Benefits? And a girlfriend like Mila Kunis?

A strong Spidey sense. Age 4.

Important life questions. For sure. So, what's a parent to do?

Doug takes the practical approach: Make sure you find a job that pays.

My approach is a bit less practical: Make sure you find a career that makes you happy.

We're both correct, of course. But there's another element that can be a difficult concept to grasp: make sure you're contributing. It sounds almost formulaic, but it doesn't mean much unless it's fused with a bit of passion and sincere empathy. This doesn't mean you need to solve world poverty, although, that would be nice. It also doesn't mean you need to pull down six figures, although, that would be nice as well. It simply means you made a positive difference in someone's life.

I just finished reading a great book called Britt-Marie Was Here by Fredrik Backman. He's an amazing author with a gift for depicting the most ordinary, yet compelling characters. There's a very profound point in the story when Britt-Marie begins to understand her purpose. The chapter begins with this:

"At a certain age almost all the questions a person asks him or herself are really just about one thing: how should you live your life?"

Britt-Marie is 63-years-old, by the way. As parents, we try to instruct our kids every step of the way when we, ourselves, are also trying to figure it all out. We've made mistakes, and we learned. We made more mistakes, and we learned. We'll make more mistakes, and I hope we will learn. But all throughout, we found many moments of happiness – especially when we realized we were making a difference.

So, kids... pick a direction and go. We'll try not hover. And when you fall down, we'll know you're on your way to great things.

Do You Speak Cinema?

When Alex was just a fuzz past two-years-old, I had to give her a talk about something she shouldn't have done. It was a gentle scold – as mine have always been (and not terribly effective, I might add). But she was only a toddler, and at that age, who knew if she really got what I was trying to say. By the end of my lecture, I asked her if she understood. She stood tall in her crib and replied, "Because being brave doesn't mean you go looking for trouble, right?"

Straight from The Lion King.

In terms of raising kids, that scene is what you might call foreshadowing. Doug and I might've failed in many respects of childrearing, but we did one thing right. We bestowed upon them a fairly deep knowledge of cinema. And now? They are fluent in movie-speak. There's rarely a family outing without a hefty dose of lines from some of the classics.

Here's me trying to get someone to go for a walk:

"Who's with me? Ahhhhhhhh!"  (John Belushi, Animal House, motivating the Deltas to avenge their expulsion from Faber. Then running out the door without anyone following him. Ahem.)

Or, here's Doug responding to Alex who is describing an outfit someone was wearing:

"I remember her wearing black. Everyone was wearing black. I thought it was a fashion thing." (Bill Murray in Scrooged, responding to the ghost of Christmas Present, when she reminded him that his secretary's husband had died.)

Or, here's the family giving compliments to an unknown chef at a restaurant:

"Ugly as sin. But a sweet girl. Helluva a good cook." (Randy Quaid in Christmas Vacation, talking about the Yak Woman, one of his son's circus associates.)

Or, here's Cole facetiming his buddy for a total of ten seconds without a greeting or a good-bye, only needing to know the start of game time:

"When you get your answer, hang up."  (Brad Pitt in Moneyball, when contacting various agents in making trade deals.)

Or, here's Doug wafting the blankets in my face after passing gas and I'm telling him to stop:

"Well, if you don't want me to..." (Fever Pitch. The response to Jimmy Fallon after asking his buddy "Why you shaving my balls, Doc?")

Or, here's any of us saying goodnight, with a deep, unrelenting hug:

"I hate good-byes!" (Jim Carrey, in Dumb and Dumber, as Mary Swanson's driver, whom he just met.)

Or, here's Cole taunting his father into a fight:

"Don't try it Anakin! I have the high ground." (Obi Wan Kenobi, in his fateful light saber fight with the Jedi who becomes Darth Vader. But you all knew that.)

Or, here's he-who-must-not-be-named (hint: Cole or Doug) belching or farting in a way that should clear the room while the rest of us are are screaming how terrible it is:

"Terrible, yes. But great." (Ollivander the Wandmaker in Harry Potter, speaking of the evil Voldemort.)

There are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of more quotes we use on fairly frequent basis. But I think "that'll do, donkey, that'll do."

I remember as a child that there was a common notion that TV and movies were going to be the ruin of us. (Thankfully, this was not a sentiment my parents shared.) Well, as a solid Gen X'er, I can say with a fair amount of confidence that TV and movies didn't ruin us. It kind of made us, really. Storytelling has been around since the beginning of time. And no matter what form it takes (books, movies, even video games), it will always connect us. As we begin this new year with a load of new movies to take in, may the force be with you.

What quotes have become part of your family's language? I'd love to hear them!

Star Wars. Nothing but Star Wars...

Controlling Christmas

It's been quite a holiday season. There's been everything from seeing Jesus Christ Superstar to fighting sickness to partying on a holiday party bus to announcing a reorganization at work to fighting sickness (again) to hosting Christmas for the first time.

It's been a mix of wonderment, fun, illness, anxiety, excitement, and... a bit of sadness.

Last weekend, I had somewhat of a breakdown. It seemed that a simple cold had pushed me over the edge of this sensory-laden season. My hubby knew better. After some empathetic questioning, he forced me into an epiphany. It's an epiphany he's tried to help me see almost since the day we said I do. Here it is:

I can't control everything.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

No matter how right I think I am. (I had to modify that sentence. It originally stated "no matter how right I am.)

I can't control everything.

It's s difficult mantra, me thinks, particularly when a mother has to accept that her children are technically adults.

Alex had to work the days before and after Christmas, so she wouldn't make it home for our favorite family holiday. I get this. That's why I asked her to look into a plane ticket that would bring her back just for one day. I'd pay! Even Alex wouldn't let me purchase the $800 ticket. "Mom, I'll be home the following week." Sigh. Okay.

Cole has hardly given any notice of his gifts under the tree. There's not one sign of wrapping paper rips. There's been no counting the number of boxes. I keep coaxing him, but he won't even shake his presents! Either he's spoiled because he has everything already, which is a very distinct possibility. Or, he's eighteen. Sigh. Okay.

We celebrated Christmas Eve at my parents house, performing the usual fun rituals like eating, playing games and watching a good old-fashioned holiday movie like Animal House. But it was sans Alex. So we sent her a loving video message just before leaving for the midnight Mass, which was incredibly lovely and beyond peaceful. But it was missing an important element: the sound of my daughter's voice singing Silent Night next to me in the pew. After the service, Cole told us that we had a video message from Alex. "Mom, you're gonna cry." And I did. It was our lovely 22-year-old telling us how much she missed us and couldn't wait to come home. While it broke my heart, it also made me just a little bit happy. She still loves us.

A rare frown. Still adorable.

The next day was a blessing as we hosted Christmas on the Kramer side this year. Instead of wallowing in self-pity about how our kids are growing up, I was busily distracted with things like food, wondering how we would get my sister-in-law's locked keys out of her car (along with the chicken tortilla soup), strategizing on how to get the alcoholic white elephants, and being completely entertained by Carson, part of the newest generation of cuteness. And Alex showed up after all! Via Facetime, albeit. But she was there, showing off the lovely Frida Kahlo painting her roommate had given her.

Families grow up, expand and relocate. Thank goodness for Facetime and family group texts with funny GIFs of Elf and Cousin Eddie. Holiday traditions may transform, but we still manage to connect and show our love for each other. That, my friends, is what we can control. As a matter of fact, it's probably the only thing worth controlling.

Hope your holidays were magical.

An Unconventional Gratitude List

Someone asked me the other day if I was still blogging. Of course, I am! But the last several blogs have mostly been in my head. I had a beautiful essay on the beauty of harvest after riding in the combine with my husband one night. It was somewhat self-aggrandizing for someone who doesn't do much on the farm except sing in a combine. That post got cut. (I'm a tough editor.)

So, here I am, back to it. Tapping the keyboard on my day off – the best way to burn off those turkey day calories – thinking deeply about gratitude. I could bore you all with the standard litany of thankfulness: God, family, friends, dogs named Percy who are so adorable sleeping in front of a Christmas tree and not barking or pooping. But I'm not gonna do that. (Disclaimer: I do not believe God nor family to be boring. Insert sign of cross.)

I sent out a survey to the Kramfam, asking them to name something unconventional they are thankful for. It took some time before I received any response, so here are a few things I came up with in the meantime:

• Untangling lights. So frustrating. So satisfying. Once I've unraveled a strand, I always wonder if I shouldn't have become an engineer. I'm sure unraveling lights is similar to building bridges.
• Having in-depth "top-five" lists with my son. E.g., top five movies not a part of a franchise, top five movies within a franchise, best superheroes... you get it. Hubby and firstborn think these conversations are silly.
• A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Indisputably, the best novel ever.
• Being an alum of a superior writing school school with sports programs that make any win seem like a national championship title. Black. Gold. Black. Gold.
• Being a child of the 80s when video killed the radio star. #Def_Leppard #I'llMissThoseJeans. (Shameless plug?)
• Day drinking on my days off. The recipe of choice:
  
          *1 shot of North 40 Vanilla Bean
          *1 Can of Fresca (or Diet Squirt)
          *1 Squeeze of Orange
  
  For best effect, mix and drink fast. Make another. And then another. Sponsored by Lonely Oak Distillery. 

Just in! The unconventional gratitudes from Alex, the eldest of our children:

• Salt. It makes gross shit taste great.
• Hands, and a sense of rhythm so I can play music.
• Bruce (the dog) because he's strange but beautiful.
• Not to be sleeping on a friend's couch anymore, to have a bed of my own.

She's profound and broke. And she did graduate from the best writing school in the world. 

After a little prodding, I finally heard from the boys in the family unit:

From Doug, the patriarch:

• Iowa Hawkeyes beating the Nebraska Huskers... and (in quieter voice) the ISU Cyclones.

That's it for the hubby. Well, there were other things I choose not to repeat.

From Cole, the youngest:

• Girls
• White Christmas lights.
• Snow

"Because all of them are pretty." 

Our son added that he hoped girls would read this and be impressed. He is 18 and doesn't realize that my audience doesn't include a whole lot of teenagers. As a matter of fact, my audience doesn't include a whole lot of anyone, really. But it doesn't matter! I'm happy to have a few moments to reflect, to write and make a few of you smile. Oh yeah! I just remembered another gratitude: Smiling! In the immortal words of Buddy the Elf, "I love smiling. It's my favorite!"

As we kick off this holiday season, I hope you all continue to think about those unique things we take for granted... like readers of inconsequential blogs. With that in mind, thank you. Seriously, thank you. I appreciate having a forum to tell a story or two. 

"We are all storytellers... there isn't a stronger connection between people than storytelling." 

-Jimmy Neil Smith

A Twisted, Beautiful Day

I love Saturdays.

But today was weird.

I completely intended to sleep in until at least 7:30 – a nice reprieve from my normal 5:30 alarm. So, when I woke up at 4AM with a splitting headache, I was a tiny bit frustrated. It's normal for me to have a headache, so I follow a strict routine in attempt to cure. I start with a prescription dose of ibuprofen and put together an ice pack for my head. After securing and balancing a Ziploc ice bag on my head, I fell back asleep. When I awoke a few hours later, the ice had melted. So I picked up the bag, carelessly. Then, as it began to split wide open, I literally froze, feeling helpless as the broken bag waterboarded me. There's nothing quite like having a cup of icy cold water pour all over your face. Apparently, I had used a plethora of ice. After waking Doug up with a bloodcurling scream, there was nothing I could do. Except laugh with my hubby. It was kind of funny.

Then, minutes later, after changing out of my soaked t-shirt, I found my son standing at our bedroom door.

"Mom?" he said as I wondered if he was sick. (It was still quite early, mind you.)

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "But Percy puked all over the floor."

Percy didn't just puke all over the floor. He spewed like a volcano, all over the shag carpet. His particular brand of lava was chuckage of cheesy chicken and corn which really bonded nicely with the carpet fabric. All before 7:30.

But it was still Saturday!

Halloween finds. Great price. Great look.

After all was cleaned up, Cole and I decided to make a quick trip to Wal-Mart. Nothing perks me up like a shopping trip of any kind whatsoever. And we needed to pick up important Halloween supplies. We had pretty good luck! Upon checkout, the cashier asked me if I had good eyes. I wasn't sure where she was going with this, and I hesitated to respond. She asked me again. This time a little impatient. So I said, "I think so." (My eyesight isn't that great, but I panicked.) She asked me to read a UPC number on the Batman shirt I was buying because the tag had been cut off. Well, I failed. Twice. The font size was like "1"! And I'm 50 years-old for goodness sake. I sent Cole back for another shirt with a tag as the line behind us began to grow. Cole zipped back for the all important Batman shirt, so I bonded with the cashier and the guy behind me – trying to keep in his good graces. The nice cashier wasn't having a bad day. It was going fast for her! She had already been there an hour! (It was 9:00 AM.) That was good, she said, because often her work days didn't go so fast. She was really looking forward to Wednesday and Thursday – her days off. Anyway, the happy ending to this part of the day? We got the Batman shirt. And I feel like we made some friends.

This afternoon I decided to submit that winter is coming. I began to put away the outdoor furniture, sad as it may be. After making progress on that front, I thought to myself, what the heck. Let's transfer some of my lilies. A grave error on my part. Within minutes, I was covered with black pirate bugs who adored the taste of my skin. After doing the bug-get-off-me dance, I gave up on chores and showered. I was getting ready to make tatortot casserole, when Doug called for a water break. And he had a surprise! He told me he wouldn't be harvesting too late, and we could do something tonight. And I believed him. After nearly 30 years of this harvest dance, I believed him.

So, here I sit, in a really cute new vest, contemplating the events of the day. And I'm smiling. No matter what time the boys get in, it was a good day. Who cares about soaked t-shirts, dog puke and bug bites? My headache disappeared. I got to spend time with my son. I saw both my parents. My daughter texted me. The Hawks won. And I will soon have a beer with my hubby... even if we don't quite make it out tonight. It was a little twisty, but it really was a beautiful day.

Bittersweet Coming of Age

Our daughter has now settled in Denver – a city brimming with art, food, music, craft beer, legal narcotics, and majestic scenery. It's a place conducive to activity: biking, running, hiking, kayaking, walking dogs. She resides in a stylish townhouse with two of her high school pals. Truly, it's a haven for young people. I'm happy for her. Really. But I fear she may never come home again. It takes approximately eight hours and three minutes to get there from here. Doable. Not terribly practical. But doable. I'm guessing she thinks it's the perfect distance from her parents.

A Quick Trip to Denver...

I'm not gonna lie. I don't wan to interrupt her life, but there are so many things that pop into my head that I need to share with her. She's my girl, for goodness sake! Doug and Cole aren't gonna care about a potential hairstyle. They don't understand critical decisions needing to be made such as: flats or heels? And they most definitely won't care about a Netflix series that explores something as enthralling as feminism.

Cole has just informed us that he will most likely go to University of Iowa (3 hours away) and then eventually live in California (light years away). Now, I'm super excited we might have another Hawkeye alum in the family. But can't our kids at least pretend to be sad about moving away from us? Just a little?

I often hear people over the age of 40 complain about our attachment to cell phones. But I'm quite certain I'd need super dosages of anti-anxiety meds if I couldn't track the kids on Life 360 or send them threatening texts for not responding to me. And I'd be one sad mom if I couldn't Face-time my daughter who seems destined (or determined) to live hundreds of miles away.

There it is. The "Really, Mom?" look.

Okay. I understand the idiocy of my pity party. I know, I know. You raise your kid to be independent. To an extent, I'm happy about that. Proud, for sure. But, there's this gigantic maternal hole that plagues me as I feel the kids slipping away. I've had a couple of ideas on how to fill that hole. Grandkids come to mind. Then I shiver at the thought of our 18-year-old boy becoming a dad. I've even brought up adopting a 10-year-boy. But as Doug so profoundly pointed out, he'd just leave eventually too. Then it came to me this week. An idea so simple and so perfect. Something I've been doing with my own mother forever. A mother-daughter book club.

I've recommended millions of books to my daughter. But as I've pointed out, she's quite independent. I don't think she believed I could suggest a book that would satisfy her intellectual cravings. Nevermind, that I was an English major. (Maybe she too clearly remembered my obsession with the Twilight series.) However, recently I struck gold. Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler is a novel about a 22-year-old writer who moves to New York City and gets her start as a server in a swanky restaurant. How could my journalism major who is getting her start as a server in a swanky restaurant resist? Last week she began texting comments about the book. When we spoke on the phone, our conversation drifted to the story. Then it hit me. We were our own book club! I asked Alex should we formalize it? Set a date to Face-time and answer real book club discussion questions? She was in. And my world shone just a bit brighter.

The other morning Cole mentioned how much he loved the book he was reading right now: Catcher in the Rye. Interestingly, there are a few parallels between that classic and Sweetbitter. Also interestingly, it happens to be one of my ALL TIME FAVORITES. (You just can't beat a good coming-of-age novel.) I told Cole that perhaps he'd make a good English major. He shrugged me off. That's what kids do. That's okay. I got plans for him after he graduates from college and moves to California. A mother-son book club.

Cars

There's been an ongoing debate in our household about the coolness factor of my car.

An old Buick. This one in tarnished silver.

When I was in high school, my friends and I dreamed of the sporty car we would drive once we made it big. This might've been a direct result of driving, well, junk. (Sorry, parents!) If I was lucky I'd get to drive my mother's Chevy Citation, but that wasn't the norm. The ugliest car I ever drove was my dad's 68 Buick. Gold. Not shiny gold. I'd say it was more like tarnished gold. Not only was that beast an eyesore, but it held a kindly aroma of Dad's cigars. When carpooling to school, Dee Dee and I decided it would be best to park behind the school, away from the main lot to avoid pity stares. Dee Dee had her own car problems. While her sister got to drive a cute little Monza, she was given the indestructible, monstrous, LTD – also in... gold. If we were going out for the night and it was her turn to drive, she'd make me take the wheel. I understood. We all felt the same bit of shame over those junk cars that our fathers insisted had character. And it wasn't always about the appearance of the cars that gave us fits! There was always that fearful element of breaking down. One night we were out driving in Lyn's old Monte Carlo (definitely one of the nicer cars) when we heard a horrible screeching sound. She put the car in park and said, "Hold on a sec." She popped out, and in a few minutes she popped back in with the culprit in hand. "Tailpipe anyone?"

It makes me laugh now. Maybe it was sort of a dad strategy to keep away boys.  Nevertheless, driving an old car was motivating! Nicole always made us drive with the windows down, practicing for the day we owned our convertibles. It was a certainty that we would eventually drive convertible sports cars. I had my heart on the IROC-Z. Any color would do.

I've driven a number of cars since my high school days. The Cutlass Calais which required jumper cables for every start. The Buick Skylark with its fancy digital speedometer that made this Kirkman girl feel like a million bucks. The Grand Am. My first new car out of college. I loved that sporty, red thing with the spoiler. Of course, I almost ruined it by bottoming out on my boyfriend's parents' long, gravel lane that would eventually become our own long, gravel lane. Oh, there's been so many! The metallic green blazer that 2-year-old Alex loved so much she cried when we traded it in. The Dodge Van whose smell of death hardly offset its convenience. And all those small cars we bought when we had the urge to save on gas.

Here's the funny thing? I don't remember ever shopping, or even considering shopping, for a Camaro. Definitely not a convertible.

Convertible Porsche would be fine.

A few weeks ago my parents asked Doug and I to accompany them to a fundraising event that sponsored an auto show. (My dad was asked to bring two of his motorcycles.) We thought it'd be fun. And it was! What we didn't expect? To fall in love! Oh, those classic cars with their vivid salmon and turquoise paint jobs! Some the size of a large whale! Some the size of a broom closet. It was surreal to be in a lot full of cars that weren't all homogenous, white SUVs. Part of me thought... maybe our fathers were on to something in high school.

Doug preferred this one.

Our kids don't really understand the lessons learned from driving old cars. I'm sure they think they have old cars even though both of their rides are less than 10 years. But they've never "rolled" down a window or only listened to an AM radio. And despite the luxury of their Focus and Fusion, I still hear them mention the appeal of Mustangs and Chargers. And, oh yes, Teslas.

Now, I drive a Chevy Traverse.  A white one. Beyond the general family-truckster-ness of its shape, I've glorified it a bit with my Iowa Hawkeye license plate labeled: KRAMFAM. In all truthfulness, it really is my favorite. And it will remain my favorite at least until kid #2 graduates from college and has his own car insurance. Maybe, just maybe, there will be room on our insurance plan for that convertible. In the meantime, I'll be prepare myself by driving the Traverse, windows down.

A Ferrari would be too ostentatious on the farm.