13 posts tagged “family”

This weekend, we hosted our first official visitors!  My parents flew in to Seattle for Memorial Day and, along with my brother, braved the holiday lines at the border to drive up and see us.  It was the first time my dad has been to Vancouver and, therefore, the first time we’ve ever been in the city as a complete family <cue Full House music>.

Despite a nasty head cold (that knocked me on my ass Thursday-Monday), I enjoyed spending time with everyone.  On Friday, we hit up the Lookout tower (the Vancouver equivalent of the Seattle Space Needle) and saw the newest Indiana Jones movie at a downtown theatre.  On Saturday, we toured Stanley Park, drove both North Shore bridges, walked the Lynn Canyon suspension bridge and stopped by Queen Elizabeth Park (joining dozens of neon-clad high schoolers dressed up for prom).  The weather was perfectly sunny and breezy; we really couldn’t have asked for a better three days.

And, for those of you wondering, we were able to find places to feed my dad.  Not that he needs to be...fed in the literal sense, just that he’s a meat-and-potatoes guy, and this is not so much a meat-and-potatoes town.  But we hooked him up with hamburgers, hot dogs, beef ravioli and prime rib.  So you meat-lovers needn’t worry: you will be welcome here!

Excerpt from my conversation with Grandpa this weekend (who chatted with Shane while I was in the bathroom).

Grandpa: So, I understand you were just in the toilet.

Me: <laughing> That’s correct.

Grandpa: Ah, good for you.

Me: <still laughing> Thanks.

Grandpa: It’s important, you know.  Bowel movements keep you healthy.

Me: Absolutely.

On Friday of last week, we left town to a Saturday forecast (in both Washington and Vancouver) of 80% chance of rain.  I was sure the West Coast was preparing to hit us with a wet, welcoming bitch-slap on moving day.  However, we miraculously managed to avoid the rain in BOTH locations, loading and unloading our moving van with nary a sprinkle until nightfall.  Much gratitude goes out to Ian, Mary Jo and Rick for helping us avoid getting drenched!  (And for cramming the bulkiness of The Couch™ up two, tiny flights of stairs.)  You guys rock.

We've spent the days since unpacking, unpacking and then doing some more unpacking.  It is truly insane how much stuff we’ve accumulated over three-plus years of living together.  Thankfully, this apartment came with plenty of storage space – both in our suite and in our storage locker downstairs – so we found a place for everything and then some.  I would especially like to give a shoutout to our kitchen closets, which are totally (and roomily) awesome.

There are still a few finishing touches we want to put on the place before the official “unveiling.”  But no worries, Internets, we will give you a virtual tour soon!  And you too can experience sitting in this very chair I am typing from.  Except without the having-to-wash-dishes part that is about to follow (you lucky bastard you).

In other news, The Couv underwent a federal and provincial inspection today.  Aside from needing (ridiculously expensive) daytime running lights (seriously, it felt like I was back with my Focus for a moment), our Prius passed with flying colors.  Next stop: registration, license plates and insurance, all of which are apparently taken care of through B.C.’s Autoplan, whatever that is.  (I guess we’ll find out...)

This month’s banner theme is puppy ornaments!  Back in 1992, my grandmother bought me the second in the Hallmark collection Puppy Love.  We shared an adoration of our family’s dog, Sugar, and thus I loved that she bought me this gift.  From that year on, she purchased each addition to the series as part of my yearly Christmas present.  When she passed away, my mom took over the gift-giving.  And when Shane entered my life, he went on eBay to find the ornament that had started it all in 1991 (sound familiar?).

 

Understandably, the tradition of receiving Puppy Love ornaments (now a complete set!) has come to mean a lot to me.  Though I am not normally a big collector of trinkets like these, I am excited to see what new little dog will be released each year.  So it feels very appropriate (and totally for cute) to incorporate them into this month’s banner. 

 

Happy December, everyone!  (And on behalf of the MN weather: welcome to winter, bitch.)

When Shane and I decided to get engaged on Halloween in 2005, we made an explicit agreement that no rings would be involved.  Neither of us thought the major investment required in such a purchase was worthwhile; we could both think of a MILLION things we would much rather buy with such a lofty sum.  That’s just how we are – practical to a fault.

 

Our respective families more or less responded to this decision with a “so be it/live and let live” philosophy.  But my grandfather on my dad’s side – my last remaining grandparent – didn’t think it was quite right.  So he offered to give me my grandmother’s engagement ring.

 

Can I even begin to tell you what this meant to me?  My grandmother on my dad’s side was my favorite.  She was everything I imagine a good grandparent is supposed to be: loving, supportive, warm, funny and very involved with my life.  She passed away around Halloween in 2001, and I (not to mention my dad and grandfather) have missed her terribly ever since.

  

So despite my plans, I ended up (happily) wearing a ring for the majority of our engagement, joining it with a simple silver band (from the fabulous GreenKarat) after the wedding.  I love what this ring symbolizes for me – my current union with a loving husband as well as a connection to my past and all the people who loved me before I was even born.

 

The ring also gave me a new appreciation for inheritance.  I had always considered the tradition of passing material items down as an action taken to appease the older generation.  Now I see how both parties can benefit, how the importance of the item changes to accommodate each owner.  Thus, when my grandfather wrote me recently to ask if I would consider taking some of his mother’s (my great-grandmother’s) decorative Japanese plates, I was happy to agree.

 

We went to pick up the plates from my parent's house on Friday.  They are beautifully hand-painted and full of rich history.  I can’t wait to make them a part of my home.

On my mom’s side of the family, the boy cousins easily outweigh the girl cousins.  (I believe the breakdown in numbers is six to twelve.)  So the three of us girl cousins who were closest in age - and regular attendants of the family reunions - tended to stick together.  I have many fond memories of running around various houses and hotels and campsites with Anna and Amber, spying on our elders and pulling pranks on our male counterparts.  (Ah, toilet paper, you are so perfectly versatile.)

 

As my cousins and I began graduating high school, we inevitably started seeing less and less of each other.  The majority of people moved out of the state and, some, out of the country (we may have one of the most well-traveled extended families in the Midwest).  Thus, turnout at holiday get-togethers is now at record lows.  Reunions are mostly for the original seven siblings and their spouses.

 

But recent events have brought the three of us into (relatively) close proximity to one another.  So, on Wednesday night, I invited Anna and Amber over for dinner at the apartment.  We cooked a fabulous meal together (one even involving alcohol! and swear words! for the first time ever!) and had, quite possibly, our longest conversation since 1999.

 

It is so nice to know that I can still sit down and enjoy the company of these two ladies, years after we shared our last canoe trip together.  Because, honestly, time has made me a bit jaded about relationships.  I feel like a lot of the people I was close to at a young age are no longer people I want in my life (perhaps in part because of my change in worldview).  As an introvert, I am careful with how I choose my friends, so each friendship I have given up is a painful loss.

 

So thank you to my cousins for an enjoyable evening.  You have added to my tentative hope that growing up doesn’t always mean growing (awkward, insurmountable distances) apart.

When I was in fifth or sixth grade, my cousin Anna sent me a special birthday gift.  It was a mail-order only item, and it arrived at our house in a white, rectangular box of Styrofoam.  Within the hollowed-out center, I found a plastic bag filled with water.  And floating in that water was a tiny, transparent tadpole.

 

As far as I was concerned, it was the best present EVER.

 

My new pet (or “African water frog,” if you believe the label) came with a set of instructions covering all of his housing and feeding needs, with kid-friendly text and illustrations.  This booklet also listed other Fun Frog Facts, like how he would end up around the size of a quarter and would live for approximately five years.  But these bits of information only became interesting much later.

 

You see, my tadpole started to grow, as all tadpoles do, but then he KEPT growing.  He grew WELL beyond the booklet’s prediction, past even the half-dollar coin, ending up somewhere more in the dollar-bill range.  And we came to realize that what we had welcomed into our home was no ordinary frog.  This was, in fact, Superfrog.

 

Or, rather, Superfrog!  Faster than a speeding (water-bound) bullet!  More powerful than a (very miniature) locomotive!  Able to leap out of any fish bowl in a single stroke!  Disguised as a mild-mannered frog, he secretly battled for TRUTH, JUSTICE and the AMERICAN WAY!  (Or, at the very least, more frequent feedings.  And better aquarium plants.)

 

Yet Superfrog’s most amazing feat was not his size so much as his ability to delay Death itself.  He blew past the expected five-year lifespan, first doubling and then TRIPLING it until he reached the ripe old age of fifteen – outliving two dogs and a parakeet.  Amazing.  And it wasn't until just this past week that he at last succumbed to the ravages of time (and, undoubtedly, the pains of superhero-dom). 

 

My parents held a short burial in the backyard, at which time my mom said the words I'm sure you all have been waiting for: “He finally croaked."  But, since I was not there, I will take this opportunity to pour one out for ol' Superfrog, the strange visitor from another zipcode who came to my mailbox with powers and abilities far beyond those of mere mortal frogs.  May you rest in the peacefulness of that small cardboard box.

“We are all atheists about most of the gods that societies have ever believed in.  Some of us just go one god further.” – Richard Dawkins

 

I’m a bit of a closet atheist, which is to say I’m a bit in-the-closet about it, not that I’m a bit of an atheist.  In fact, I’m a whole LOT of atheist.  I’ve got atheism coming out of my ears.  These days, I can’t imagine my life any other way, but it wasn’t that long ago I saw the world from a drastically different perspective.

 

I was raised in a heavily religious, Lutheran family; my grandparents did missionary work and my mother currently works part-time as a church organist.  Nearly all of my extended family members (both sides) can be categorized as conservative Christians.  Growing up, I too was part of the WWJD bracelet-wearing crowd.  My idea of a good time was a church lock-in or T.I.M. (Teens In Ministry) Team meeting.  I read the Bible regularly, prayed my little heart out each night and wore a cross around my neck every day.  While I fit in perfectly with the friends and family around me, something about this role didn’t fit for me.

 

Then along came College.  During the course of my freshmen year, my point-of-view EXPLODED in size.  I began to realize what a tiny, narrow perspective I had from my perch high upon the cross.  I finally could pinpoint what it was about this lifestyle that unsettled me.

 

I hated religion because it asked me to judge others.  It told me to label every person as good or bad, as saved or not saved, as accepting of Christ or not.  I didn’t understand (and never WILL understand) how any religion (or other system of belief) can claim it has the moral authority to impose its dogma on everyone else.  I mean, how can there be only ONE right way to live?  Shouldn’t acceptance, you know, that piece about loving our neighbors as ourselves, far outweigh the need to convince those neighbors they must share our faith in order to be worthy and good?

 

The answer I arrived at set me down the path of atheism, and I never looked back.  The journey from conviction to questioning was immensely freeing.  I listened to scientific explanations and saw this beautiful world of ours in a wonderful, new light.  I kicked my habit of prejudice cold-turkey and allowed myself to view the non-Christians, the gays, the sexually active (the list goes on) as HUMAN BEINGS, rather than sinners.  I had become born again in reverse, by removing the influence of the church.

 

Yet my positive personal transformation has been met with hostility at almost every turn.  People are so THROWN by the concept of meeting a real, live atheist here in the Midwest that I rarely admit to it.  My extended family knows next to nothing of my 180-degree turnabout.  My parents only found out when they tried to insist on holding my wedding in a local church.  There are just so many misconceptions about what it means to forego the idea of a god, it’s hard to know where to begin!

 

That’s where Richard Dawkins comes in for me.  He’s arrogant, outspoken and occasionally offensive, but he talks and writes about the difficult truths surrounding religion and atheism with intelligence and honesty.  He puts into eloquent words the criticisms I have long held in my heart.  He sifts through the confusion surrounding atheism to clear up many issues, among them that atheists are not immoral, satanic, depressed, or unappreciative of the amazing mysteries in this life.  He will try his best to cram atheism down your throat, yes, but he’ll also make you think - and when it comes to religion, I believe we could all use more of that.

 

If you have any curiosity about the subject, I recommend reading Dawkins's recent book, watching one of his BBC documentaries, or listening to any of the interviews he has given in the past few months.  All of this provocative media has played an important role in helping me take a few, tentative steps out of my atheism closet, and I figure the more people who are willing to join (or at least hear) the discussion, the better.

My mom enjoys telling the story about a perm I got when I was a young girl.  I had begged her for WEEKS to let me get my hair done.  I envisioned gorgeous, wavy locks cascading down my back; my mom, on the other hand, assumed I meant an actual perm, like the tight, curly one she had.  She insisted I wasn’t ready for such a big change, but I refused to be talked out of it.  Oh, I so badly wanted that soft, flowing hair.

 

Eventually, Mom relented and took me in to get a perm.  The stylist worked and worked to get my hair set, as I sat in eager anticipation, wrinkling my nose at all the strange salon smells.  After what seemed like (a stinky) forever, she turned my chair around so I could finally see my new ‘do in the mirror.  My hair was short, springy and LOOKED LIKE GRANDMA’S.  I promptly burst into tears.  This was not the way my perm was supposed to go!  But I had no choice, no way back.  I was stuck with that style until it worked itself out.

 

Now jump to the present day.  For more than two years, I had my hair cut by the same woman, Kelley, at a salon near my work.  (She also did my hair for the wedding, even though it meant driving all the way out to my parents’ house on her day off!  Yay for Kelley!)  However, she recently moved to Chicago, so I was forced to schedule my next appointment with a new stylist.

 

That appointment was last Friday.  My cut did not go well.

 

Thankfully, I didn’t comprehend the extent of the damage until Saturday afternoon.  My hair finally dried and started spelling B-A-D (all caps) in the mirror – crooked bangs, ratty layers, ends flipping out all over the place.  Suddenly, I was that little kid again, the one who just wanted to cry and pout and hide under the covers for the time it would take to for my world to right itself and my cut to grow out again.

 

Because this whole bad haircut thing?  Despite my age, it still feels Totally Not Fair.  (Waaah.)

On Wednesday of last week, my parents left for a vacation down in Florida.  On Thursday, my grandpa – my dad's father and the last of my grandparents – was rushed to the hospital following a sudden collapse in his apartment.  Needless to say, I had a rather stressful couple of days.

 

Everything is over now; my parents are home and my grandpa is going to be fine.  It turned out he had hit his head earlier, causing a minor subdural hematoma (a blood clot).  The doctors initially thought he would need surgery, but after two days of observation and no change in the size of the clot, they sent him home with instructions to rest until his body heals.

 

But how unsettling it was to be the one “in charge” for the duration of his hospital stay - and to be the person cleaning up his apartment and buying groceries in preparation for his return home.  I was lucky to have my parents’ friends helping out, but even so, that feeling of responsibility for the care of a parent-figure was overwhelming.  I hope it will be many, many years before I need to step into that role again.