4th Quarter Katie

So this morning as I sorted through the newspaper, scavenging for coupons and Jumble, I happened upon a couple of toy magazines.  I thought it would be incredibly useful to this momma (and Santa) to have Redden circle the things he wanted the most.  Color pictures, prices, and coupons are the best elves a parent can have during this season.

About 30 minutes after handing him the magazines, he called down the stairs to me, “Momma, I circled the things I want.  I didn’t circle much because Santa will remember what I wanted from last year and bring me that.”  I queried him with, “Like what?”  To which he replied, “Umm I don’t remember, but he will.” Oh boy.

As I flipped through the magazines I noted prices, associated coupons, and contemplated my and Santa’s budgets.  All of a sudden I was stopped in my tracks.  My jaw hit the floor, and after a few stunned seconds, I started laughing.  This is what I found.

I must say that Target clearly did not do a good job of advertising the wagon.

Change is a funny thing.  (I am not talking about money, but since I brought it up I will go ahead and declare that pennies are useless.)  Sometimes change is welcomed and even initiated, other times it is fought stubbornly.  And even more ironic, is that welcomed change for one is often stubbornly fought by another.  For those of you who know us well, the Kentucky Garrity-clan has recently experienced this kind of change; and uniquely so between the twinkies of the clan.  One week ago tomorrow, Beth and Stephen shut the door to their moving truck and also to their residency in Kentucky.  Northward to the land of Uff-da’s, don’tcha knows, and 7 month winters – Minnesota.  We’ve all known for sometime that this move was imminent – Beth welcoming this new adventure, Katie loathing the distance that was about to be put between her and her 2.  Each morning as we set out for our daily run, I would crawl inside myself dreading the descriptions of progress, and the excitement I would have to show, but wouldn’t feel; and each morning, Beth would bound down the sidewalk with new information, ideas, and anticipation building.  This carried on for months, slowly rubbing my emotional nerves raw as my ability to be her sounding board increasingly broke apart.  The bottom dropped out one week prior to her move.  Fighting this change emotionally while knowing that acceptance was mandatory, had turned me into a stubborn, childish, wreck.  And apparently Beth’s outward excitement and welcoming of this big change, held its own contingencies.  She was struggling to accept certain aspects of it as well.  Our raw emotions came spewing out in a fit of yelling, crying and immature behavior.  At that moment we both came to the sinking realization that our biggest ally in dealing with this situation, was also our circumstantial foe.

Time and the counsel of a few good people healed the wounds enough to allow our twinship to come in and do the rest of the work.  Beth and I spent our last night together, laughing, crying, reminiscing, and just being.  That night, we both allowed ourselves to accept both the positive and the negative aspects of the change.

I thought I would be a blubbering mess in the days that followed her move.  Turns out, I’m okay.  And she is too.  We miss each other and it does hurt, but the pain doesn’t last and life goes on.  It seems to me that change often gets a bad rep and is something that should be celebrated more often.  So with the remainder of today’s blog, I am going to celebrate the recent changes in my life…

- My toenail polish.  It was chipped and I was resistant (aka – lazy), but I did it!  And my toes have been dancing in my shoes for the past few days!

- The scent in my Scentsy warmer.  It smells like a French Kiss all over my house – halitosis not included.

- The clock back.  Hey that was celebration in and of itself.  But to adequately take advantage of the extra hour, I did absolutely nothing.  It was awesome!

- The CD in my car.  Some of you may know that I am highly inclined to listen to a CD over and over and over and ov… (okay, you get it), especially if it is a mixed CD.  (Who doesn’t love a good mixed CD?)  Yesterday evening, I made a new one and have throughly enjoyed it while driving around today.

- My every-other-Tuesday lunch routine.  From now on, every other Tuesday, instead of going for a run, which I can do in the morning or evening, I am going to have lunch with Reddenator-gator.  It is the most gratifying experience ever.  He is especially cuddly and attentive during this half hour and I learn all kinds of new stuff.  Like today, I learned a new game called, ‘Grill, Gut, or Groin’.  

Who wants to play?

I know it has been a while, but that’s probably a good thing.  It means I have a life.  hehehe  At least Mom will be happy knowing that a good portion of my life is currently happening behind closed doors.  And I say to her, “Or on Facebook…”

And I jest.  Anyway, I felt the urge to break my silence because tomorrow is the birthday of the one that I love more than I love anything or person.  (See, that is the problem with physically giving part of yourself to someone, you end up really, really liking them a lot.)  My Reddenator-gator is turning seven tomorrow.

The time has passed so quickly!  The “Don’t you tell me say no!”’s have turned into, “It must be hard being an adult.”’s  The velcro spiderman shoes have turned into the most fantastically ugly self tied bows.  F-ucks (fire trucks) are now the vehicles driven by the profession he wants to be.  And seven years from now, he will be 14.

I wake up everyday convinced that today is the last day that he will think that I am beautiful, funny, smart, and a snappy dresser (which he does).  Each night that I tuck him in, I swear that the next he will refuse to pay me in kisses.  But as he grows, he becomes more and more a gentleman.  Not a morning or afternoon goes by where he doesn’t dutifully hold the door for me.  He helps me cook and clean and runs to check on me if I cough or cry.  It strikes me as ironic that the little boy I don’t want to go away, is the becoming the man that I have dreamed of holding onto for a lifetime.

I am so proud of him.  And I am so thankful of the people he has in his life.  His Daddy who never went a day without believing in him.  His Oma who challenges life patterns by paying love forward on a daily basis.  His Opa who gives him hours of train and peddle time and humors all of his wild notions.  His aunt Beth who can’t look at him in any other way than her surrogate son and lovingly gives herself and time completely to that little boy, in ways his own momma can’t.  His Ma and Pa who can’t resist any chance to spoil him, cuddle him, and show him their love.  And all the others that I haven’t mentioned, namely – my friends who have made my little boy a part of their lives.

Redden Kyle Bugg, I wish you a very happy birthday.  I love you in ways I can’t express and my greatest hope is that you never live a day without knowing that.

(A brief departure from the Ireland blogs, for a comic interlude…)

Its official, I have figured out just what is wrong with kids these days.  We as adults have bought into the idea that are children are little prices and princesses and thus, should be treated as such.  You all probably already knew that.  But the real breakthrough that I have made is the discovery of the perpetuators of this idea.  First grade teachers.  In their unassuming denim, school spirit t-shirts, and bright-eyed smiles, they stroke the egos of our 6 and 7 year olds by assigning “Mommy (and Daddy) homework.  Every assignment that I have been asked to assist Redden with are in fact, assignments for me. 

For example, the first was the assignment which asked parents to help their kids find numbers around the house, cut them out, and paste them on a sheet of paper.  Can you really see sending your child around the house with a pair of scissors and the liberty to cut anything with a number?  There goes your American Eagle shirt with the number four on it.  Twenty dollar bill?  Not anymore!  Work presentation notes with crucial budget numbers? Better be looking for a new job my friend.  And at 6.75 years old, Redden is more likely to cut himself or an expensive leather surface than he is to actually cut the numbers out of something correctly.  And may I add, if my son doesn’t know what a number looks like, what does that say about his school?  Last year he was adding, subtracting, multiplying, and doing calculus – clearly they are regressing.

Anyway, that was my first taste of Mommy homework.  Naively, I assumed that this was an extraordinary circumstance and that we would settle into our predictable worksheets in no time.  Boy, was I wrong.  The next assignment came packaged deceptively like Kindergarten homework.  I pulled out the familiar worksheet/book combination, glanced at it, and dropped it on the table.  As I started to walk away, prepared to work on it another night, something clicked and I realized that this was not the old “friend” but a new beast of burden.  One I hadn’t seen before and one that I didn’t understand.  (Yes, we are still talking about 1st grade homework).  I backpedaled to the table and began the first of many heavy scans of the text.  At the top was a note that says, “Keep sheet in bag and return to school everyday.”  Yet at the bottom of the page it said, “Return worksheet on Friday.”  Huh?  In between these indecisive notes were some questions and a bunch of gibberish.  I finally deduced that Redden and I needed to read the story then he should answer the questions out loud.  I assumed it to work in the same manner as the kindergarten homework, use the same sheet to answer questions out loud about different books.  Not so.  The next afternoon, as Redden unpacked his backpack, out came the same book and the same worksheet.  This time, Beth and Jen were with me.  They can vouch for the obscure nature of this assignment.  As we realized that this was indeed homework for me and not so much for Redden, I stomped my feet and declared that I would not participate in Mommy homework.  But as a new day dawned, a lump rose in my throat just thinking about getting the same stupid worksheet sent home for a third time.  I quickly scribbled the answers and jammed it in Redden’s backpack.  

The kicker in this is that Redden spent minutes hee-hawing about how the teacher had said that this was Mommy and Daddy homework.  I don’t know if I believe him or not, but something twisted in my gut as he said it.  It felt real. And that got me thinking, ‘is his teacher one of those adults who think that childhood should be so well cushioned, that parents should bear the brunt of the life for the first 18 years of their lives?‘  In that case, I am doomed to re-live at least first grade (a grade in school that was very very bad for me – I was almost held back…), if not more depending on how many more of these Peter Pan teachers Redden encounters in his life.  No doubt that I am definitely seeing the case for home schooling or better yet, revoking the child labor law and letting him get some real hands on experience!

Upon leaving Belfast, I was a bit nervous that my entire Ireland experience would be a let down.  I was afraid that every town I visited would look a lot like any other city in America.  But as I temporarily forgot, not every town in America looks the same. 

Six to seven hours later, my bus pulled in to Galway.  I was so focused about trying to figure out where I was going that I forgot to just look around.  My breath caught in my throat as I opened my eyes upon this new place.  It was nothing like Belfast, and I could immediately sense the town’s charm.

The first thing I noticed right off the bat, was the lack of street signs.  Mild panic set in as I began to walk, trying to figure out how I was going to find my way to the hostel.  By the grace of God alone, I turned the correct way and happened upon my hostel within seconds.  I checked in and compared to the hostel in Belfast, this place seemed like the Ritz-Carlton – a bathroom and shower (large at that) in the room, lots of space to place luggage, and most blessedly – only women in my room!

After showering and settling in, I decided it was time to explore the town.  Only having an idea of where I was at and where I was going, I began wandering in the direction that I thought the tour guides were pointing me too.  As I rounded the final corner I had to laugh, it was glorious!  In front of me stood tall old buildings in the most brilliant colors of goldenrod, coral, soft green and baby blue.  Most were accented in fire engine red, electric orange, and grass green.  Fresh flowers hung near the doorways and deep awnings covered outdoor seating.  The street was jam packed with people.  Every language you could imagine was being spoken.  I floated on this could of euphoria into a pub to grab a bite to eat.  I flipped open my book and settled into the ambiance of this wonderful place called The Quays.  Later that evening as I was walking back to the hostel I was lured into a pub by the familiar sounds of traditional Irish music.  At that particular moment, my soul felt content.

The next morning I started my day with a run around town.  The pep in my step matched the thrill I was feeling from running around a new town, with no route in mind and no street signs to guide my way.  One of my favorite things to do is to run without direction or time constraints.  To rely on the senses and the pounding of one’s own feet.  To just run.  In the span of 30 or 40 minutes I had managed to get myself thoroughly lost and thought it only appropriate to retrace my steps; and that is what I did.

Once back at the hostel I cleaned up and headed back out to check out the town at a slower pace.  Before long, I was feeling out of my element and lonely.  I had some postcards I wanted to send so I wandered into a shop.  As I was trying to sort through my mishmash of Euro, Pounds, and American Dollars, a kind older gentleman asked if I would like to be shown to the nearest post box.  I jumped on his offer and followed his quick step down the street.  At the post box he asked if I would like to join him and his friend for coffee.  The ache of loneliness dimmed at this offer and I gladly took him up on it.

At coffee I discovered that my new friend, Pete, was indeed a Busker, someone who performs for tips, generally a musician.  His friend was a journalist for the Galway newspaper.  We had a fantastic time talking about a few of my favorite things, socialism, Obama, and the Gate’s Foundation.  Later, Pete offered to show me around Galway.  I learned all kinds of things about Galway, including the fact that Claddagh (the traditional Irish ring) is also a place in Galway, and that those who live in this community consider themselves separate from Glaswegians.  After my tour, I went back to the hostel to rest and catch up with my loved ones via the internet, however not before making plans to meet back up with Pete that evening to search out traditional Irish music. 

That night we met up for a pint and were talking and laughing when we connected with a pair of twins from the States.  I was stunned and delighted, and only more so when I realized that they not only were staying at my hostel, but they were also in the same room.  We all headed over to a pub called the Crane.  It was by far the most beautiful and authentic pub I visited while in Ireland.  The tables were low and the only seating offered were three-leg stools.  Quickly Bridget, Molly, and I made friends with another young woman from Australia, named Teagan.  She too was staying at our hostel, so it was clear to the 4 of us that we were meant to meet and spend the evening together.  Pete soon departed our company realizing that spending time with four young women was actually quite boring for a man in his 50’s.  The four of us talked and laughed and sang and clapped late into the night.  When we finally made it back to the hostel we fell into our beds with satiated souls.

Have you ever had an idea on how you think things are going to work out, and then had yourself plesantly (and sometimes, not so plesantly) surprised that they worked out completely different than you had imagined?  That was yesterday.  Fortunately for me, I had anticipated every possible disaster and had basically assumed that all said disasters would indeed happen to me.  I assumed that I would miss a flight, lose my luggage, get lost in Dublin, and end up robbed, taken advantage of, and dispondant by oh… 4pm.  I am happy to report that I am snug as a bug in my little hostel in my first destination city.

Oh crap.  There was one major disaster… me being me, I over packed.  I am going to come back looking like the incredible hulk from hauling around my backpack.  Note to self, just because your pack CAN hold everything, doesn’t mean you should BRING everything.  Doh.  The darn thing weighs as much as me, I am convinced.  I am in desperate need of a good massage, any volunteers for when I get back? (By the way, I know a couple who are excellent and both of their names begin with B… Come on, you know you want too…)

I was insanely happy and praising the good Lord as I arrived at my hostel with no mishaps or wrong turns.  I checked out my accomodations and jumped right in to checking out the local flavor.  It did not disappoint.

My first Irish encounter was with a 50+ woman who in hindsight, had been drinking all day.  She took it upon herself to show me the Belfast nightlife.  It became clear to me after visiting, Muriel’s, a fantastic little pub, that she was not in it for the long haul.  She was just plain drunk.  As soon as I could slip out unnoticed I made my way away from her and to a bar where I met a fabulous group of 30 – 40 somethings on a birthday outing.  We laughed and talked and they adopted me for the evening.

I spent the next morning and afternoon wandering around Belfast, then I headed back to the hostel for an evening in.  There I met some great people, including an adorable British woman and a pair of betrothed Canadians who had been living in Ireland.

The next day, the Canadians and I went on a tour of the coastal causeway and specifically, the Giant’s Causeway.  Along the way we had an unfortunate mishap.  The bus driver accidentally hit a small boulder in the road.  We spent 3 hours waiting for a tire change.  Finally underway, we head to Carrick-a-rede and the Giant’s Causeway.

The Giant’s Causeway was well worth the delay.  I cannot describe the profound beauty of the Giant’s Causeway at sunset.  The formations are unbelievable.  I also met an Italian woman named Marta.  She and I toured together and made plans to meet in Galway.  That evening I went to bed feeling content and spent.

Over the next week or so I plan to relay the details of my trip to Ireland.  The format I plan on using is a mix of realtime and recollections.  I tell you this so that you know that I am back, safe and sound and that some of what I will post was written while it was occurring. 

I will start with this disclaimer.  Some of what you will read will be deeply personal and is meant to be an account for myself and my son, as a reminder of who I was before the trip, during the trip, and who I am becoming because of the trip.  Accolades are welcomed, but unnecessary.  All I ask is that any judgements of my emotions/actions/ponderings be withheld.  I say all this not to my friends and family who know and love me, but because of the feedback I have received in the past.

All that being said, as I hope you will discover, it was an amazing and life changing adventure.  Get ready to have some fun reading my blog over the next week or two!

Over a month without a blog.  I would say that I am slipping, but I think the honest truth is that I took the opportunity to fully immerse myself in my life.  Since you last heard from me, I have visited Wisconsin and Minnesota for the first time.  Amazing landscapes and fantastic people.  I can’t wait to go back!  Work has been full throttle with the annual reporting deadlines, a key upcoming experiment, and primarily for me, 3 hulking pieces of metal, plastic, and electricity that are itching for a trip to Tahiti.  I am pleased to say that my 3 large babies have a cruise to the South Pacific booked for August 5.  After I see them off, I will be making a trip of my own.  One destined to a cooler, more green, and more inebriated place than French Polynesia.  

Yes, my much anticipated trip to Ireland.  I can’t describe how excited and nervous I am.  The idea of roaming a foreign country with nothing more than a backpack, some cash, and my big beautiful brain both thrills and terrifies me.  Those of you who know me best, know the anxiety I have the ability to suffer regarding being alone.  This time feels different.  Over the past few months, people, events, circumstances, and mostly, my damn persistence to succeed and thrive, have molded this woman into someone she is more proud of.  I am excited to be traveling alone, with her.

Now all of this being said, there will be people that I miss terribly.  My family, including Redden, just left this morning for the annual trip to Folly Beach, SC.  I couldn’t hold back my tears over the sadness I felt seeing my precious baby boy hop in Oma and Opa’s car, put on his sunglasses, and blow me a kiss as they drove off.  It’s not right, but the morbid side of my mind drifts over all the possible disastrous situations that would prevent us from ever snuggling again.  I guess that is one of the trials of being a parent.

I am going to miss the time with my family.  Over the past couple of years, this beach trip has reminded this family how much we love to be together and how much we LOVE each other.  I love the laughter, camaraderie, innocent teasing, intimate conversations, and unselfish giving that is experienced during that trip.  I simply adore my family and I will miss being a part of this year’s festivities.  But another thing I love about my family is that they recognize what I am doing, why I am doing it, and they whole-heartedly support and encourage this trip.  There has been no guilt trips about not being at the beach, no questioning on why I would dare to venture out alone, no doubts about the woman I am or the decisions I make; only love, excitement, and huge grins shouting, “Have fun!”  I am utterly humbled by this family that God allowed me to be a part of.

I will miss others too.  You know who you are.  We never get enough time together and that is the only reason the pain doesn’t hurt so much.  I always miss you and thus, with you, it seems I am fed a constant diet of Novocain.  That being said, I would rather live with that ache than without you.  

Alright, enough with the mushy stuff.  Time for something funny…

I don’t know what it says about me that I am spending a portion of my Monday pondering Bundt cake.  This morning, I was asked, “What is bundt cake?”  That led me to ask myself, “What IS bundt cake?”  To me, it is plain dry cake.  It is the kind of food that I imagine people in medieval times forcing down their gullets because it’s cheap to make and thanks to its brutally slow metabolic rate, it only requires one to eat 8 or 9 times per year.

And which came first, the Bundt cake or the pan?  Was the fancy pan created to dress up this nasty dry cake or did someone create a pretty pan leaving the actual cake as an afterthought? I tend to lean towards the later.  People are crazy about their Bundt pans.  There is literally a Bundt pan for everything.  Having a tailgate party?  Why not make a Bundt cake in the shape of a stadium?  Going to the beach?  You’ll be pleased to know that you can take with you an ocean-themed, dry, nasty cake!

At some point in Bundt cake evolution, someone realized that their edible works of art weren’t being consumed (inevitably at a pot luck.  Have you ever noticed that people get downright hostile if there food doesn’t get eaten at a pot luck), so in an effort to tempt would be diners Bundt Cakeurs decided to add flavoring and/or icing to their dense confection.  you can now find all kinds of flavors of Bundt cake.  There’s cinnabundt, banana pudding bundt, chocolate whiskey (because I always put those two flavors together) bundt, gingerbread pumpkin pear frappachino latte bundt – actually that one isn’t really a flavor, but I am willing to bet that it would be just as dry and gross as all the other flavors. 

I guess like all time-tested oddities, the bundt cake will not go quietly into the cold dark night.  It persists forward like mullets, plaid, and black denim.  It issues its silent battle cry as it sits in untouched stoicism at the center of the dessert table, garnished with berries and fresh flowers.  Inexplicably, Bundt cake will be, forever.

And now for your viewing pleasure, I give you Bundt cake:

As most of you will recall, about 5 and 1/2 months ago, one sick morning, not only did I lose the previous nights dinner, but also my kitchen.  (Could I possibly fit another comma into that sentence??)  You can go back and find the post if your sweet little heart desires; however, I don’t care to rehash it in this post.

Five and a half months (most without use of cooking supplies) later, I am finally back in business.  I have lamented and kicked dust about the lack of a microwave, stove, and dishwasher (or even a good sink to wash dishes in), but I would never allow myself to gripe about my circumstances.  I could try and claim a noble reason for my tight lips, but I won’t.  Let me be completely honest.  This kitchen.  Scratch that.  This GORGEOUS kitchen, only cost me $500.  I will allow you a moment to reattach your jaw…

Okay, now that your jaw is back in place, I will explain.  $500 was the cost of the deductible.  The kitchen nearly cost me over $10,000.  It would have if the damage done had been just about anything other than burst pipes.  I thank God for saving my ass in this one.  (Actually, he saves my ass all the time, but I always notice the financial hiney savings most acutely).

So without further adieu… here is my new kitchen (and 1/2 bath!)