Independence & Adventure

adventure

The Oz man got to fly to Texas this past weekend to hang with his Wichita Falls BFF and family. Which is pretty much Oz’s second family. He’d stay with them each time I went on a work trip and blends in as one of their own. That he and Andrew, the BFF, can pick up every time right where they left off a year ago brings warm hugs to this Ma’s heart.

When we told him that he had to fly as an unaccompanied minor again, he groaned. He abhors having to do this. Being treated like a kid (uhhhh, you still are dude), having to have a Delta dudette cart him around the Atlanta airport instead of doing it himself. Yuck. Oz would much rather give half a wave to me at security and have his own adventure…unsupervised. And I’m ok with that. It’s what we want for him, for all of our kids.

Anyways. After he got on the plane Friday morning, I sat with another couple who’s 12 year old daughter was flying on her own for the first time. Dad was fine, Daughter was fine, Mom was struggling. A stream of “what if’s” were flying and Dad headed them off at the pass. By the time the plane finally pulled away from the gate, I was getting concerned that she was going to bust through the window and chase the plane down. True story.

As they made their turn and started towards the taking off part of the runway (that’s a pretty technical term right there) she turned to me and said something along the lines of, “How do you do this and not be terrified?” Here’s what I said, “In my opinion, you are giving your daughter one of the greatest gifts you can. Independence and adventure. Every time she does something like this, she’ll gain a little more confidence in herself, and her ability to deal. You’re doing great.” No, that didn’t bring her a lot of comfort. But she did smile, turn to her husband and took a big breath.

And at the end of the day, that’s what I want for my kids. I want them to embrace adventure with an “I can do it Ma” attitude. I don’t want them holding on (this may not be working with Zandra. Her moving in TEMPORARILY to get her feet on the ground and caught up in life enough to finish school seems to have backfired in that now her “I’m never leaving” seems to gain conviction with each utterance.) But not really. She’s just finally not struggling every moment of every day to survive and I’m pleased.

There seems to be a strong desire these days by parents who want their kids to ALWAYS need them. That’s a shame. Raising children who won’t shake off Mom’s hand and say, “I’ve got this” into their 30’s. Oz did that when he was 3 walking into the church nursery. He’d turn around very seriously and put his hands up, “NO! I can do this.” Well, ya dude but I still need to go and check you in. He hated it.

So, no. Not every kid can get on a plane without mom and dad and we’re very fortunate that both mom and dad have points we can use. But you can send them down the street, carrying their own backpack telling them what an adventure walking without mom is. You can send them to work at their first job telling them, no, you won’t be there to pick them up. You got the job, figure out how to get there and if it includes me driving you, you’ll be giving me gas money out of that check of yours. Or, “Here’s your bus pass, you’re welcome.”

As it does, the time in Texas went way too fast and I imagine they’re heading into DFWville right now. But the stories coming from mom, Tina, are priceless and hopefully we can get Andrew up here this summer for some more adventure. OH! Since Oz has some of his own money, he gets to buy his own airport breakfast…

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…Coke Zero and Cheez-it’s. Breakfast of Champions..

Independence and adventure. It’s a gift. Pass it on.

Life is either a great adventure, or nothing.

Helen Keller

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Monday Bacon: Tis The Season

peanutbutterjelly

Well, it’s that time of year. The time where every globo gym; internet guru; fitness magazine, and next door neighbor will expound their expertise on how to “ditch the holiday fluff” and “finally love the body you’re in.” We all know it’s coming, it’s an automatic tidal wave that hits on January 2nd of every year in America (no, not January first. We’re still hungover and decide “since we’re already hungover we’ll just go ahead and eat our comfort food for one more day. I’ll start tomorrow.)

Anyways.

It’s tough. First off, people are actually using the squat rack when you need it. Sure, their form hurts your eyes but who cares, you need the squat rack ‘cuz your Wisconsin State Meet is in 16 days. GET OFF MY RACK! (Sidenote: I don’t want to hear whining about people curling in the squat rack. We’re adults, you simply walk over and say ‘Howdy, can we switch out so you can curl on the outside while I start warming up to squat in the squat rack?” If they say no, than you wait your turn. Don’t wanna wait your turn? Build your own gym but shut up already about this. It’s boring.)

The gyms are crawling with newbs who are in your way, all of the treadmills are full of fats who don’t know what else to do at the gym, and people are standing in front of the drinking fountain talking story (jeeeebuz, why is this hard? It’s a drinking fountain, MOVE!)

Even better? Those that won’t even hit the gym. They’ll start running. Running. Feeling fat? Run. Blood pressure is up? Run. Don’t want to join a gym? Run. Cuz really, ‘I don’t need to be strong, I just want to be fit.’ Do you even know how many times this has actually been said to me? To my face. As if I’m supposed to just politely stand by and nod. ‘Oh, okay. You just want to be fit. Okay, my bad. I thought strong was fit. I thought a strong system working as a finely tuned machine was fit. I thought strong organs and joints and tissue was fit. I thought increased muscle mass and lower body fat was fit. MyBad. I’m so silly. Thanks for setting me straight.’

FOK!

The hoards may never realize that strong is fit. A strong body, strongest, will perform so incredibly more superior  than a weak body (no matter how thin or good that weak body looks in their Gloria Vanderbilts.) People will still make comments about wanting to “get fit”, “lower the blood pressure”, “get off heart medicine”, “avoid the ‘betis that’s heading my way”, etc. They’ll say them to me. Or to my husband. Two people they KNOW who train with barbells. Two people who have found some relative success in their fringe sports.

And ya know what? I’m kinda tired of it. I’m tired of feeling as if I need to be nice and show respect to people who just don’t have a respect for all of our hard work. Cuz see, working with barbells is hard. It causes us to be sore, or have tight hips; some days walking isn’t pleasant. Couple that in with competing in a season long sport and more often are the days where moving around is less than optimal. Maybe I can’t do something to be part of the crowd the night before a heavy and important training session. I choose that. I own it. But I’m not going to politely take shit for it. I’m proud of my hard work. I am not on any medications. To my knowledge I am disease free and I tell ya what, if a day comes where I AM dealing with a disease, being stronger will aid me to become well. True story.

There is no “instant” pill or diet or technique or program to make you “fit.” Increasing muscle mass and losing fat will be achieved through a solid barbell strength and conditioning program along with a solid food program that’s best for you. It may take months, it actually may take years to dial in everything. Not the “Miracle 12 week” program that most commercials are promising.

I asked my hot yoga instructor today if hot yoga is like gym memberships on the New Years. Will it fill up like crazy for about three weeks and then die off?

Yup. Which means I need to get there sooner to be able to get my mat down near the door like I enjoy. PIA.

Luckily I don’t have to deal with squat rack issues because we train here at the house. I don’t need to train with silly girls in spandex or Bro’s tryin to help out the little lady (me) with my squat form. STFU bro’s, I’ve got this. But it DOES mean that I get to hear conversations around me talking about the latest boot camp where people get really strong (no, you don’t. You will probably, at first, get in better shape than doing nothing but realize you will quickly adapt and then you stop making significant progress. Duh.) You don’t get strong at yoga, not even hot yoga. Know why folks are so flat and bendy in yoga? Cuz they lack the muscle mass that tends to get in the way of being so bendy. True story, today the instructor tried to push my shoulders down to the mat. Afterwards, she apologized and said she didn’t realize they were so muscular. Now, no, they’re not swole. But they ARE swoler (that a word?) than the average yogi and most instructors don’t realize that. That’s okay, one in the world is hip to the fact now.

Strong is an integral part of “fit.” In fact, I contend it’s THE most important part of it. Strong comes from barbells. Sure, you can add strength with kettlebells; slam balls; wall balls but adaptation is finite with those methods. Barbells are loaded and you get to play with loads and reps to push adaptation through life. But it’s hard. And it’s not the season of hard, it’s the season of quick promises. Empty, but quick.

Good luck.

Character is the ability to carry out a good resolution long after the excitement of the moment has passed.

Cavett Robert

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This Old Stove

stove

After I moved to Wisconsin, we were dealing with house projects Matt’s brother was “finishing”; two room-mates who moved out while Matt was on the road which meant stuff they didn’t want to take they just left for us to deal with; a kitchen that had a refrigerator in the middle of it that hadn’t been cleaned out in forever (really. Forever), and oh by the way? A truck and a trailer full of my stuff to  unload. To say it was chaotic is the year’s understatement.

As happy as I was to be with Matt, I was incredibly overwhelmed at the state of my new home. That we made it out of that summer intact was a plus, heh. Things have improved since then. I’d say drastically; however; with Zandra’s arrival brought a basement full of boxes which cuts down our living space by a third. She’ll be digging into those in the new year…or I will. True story.

Anyways.

The house is getting more love now than it has in quite some time. New doors; new paint; more cleaning; more dog hair, the important stuff. And while our kitchen is actually a great size (not too big, not too small) it is definitely outdated. Including our old stove. I was talking to friends about the kitchen the other day. Their advice? Don’t touch it unless we know we’re staying put for another 10 years (which we’re not. Hopefully.) We’ll never get our money back.

It got me thinking. Even though a shiny new fridge and stove would be so much fun, we’ve done pretty darn good with this old stove. We’ve made many meals on it which kept us healthy and strong. Matt almost burned the house down when he put my Texas Bluebonnet oven mitt on it with a burner still going (you still owe me a Texas Bluebonnet oven mitt Bigg guy.) We’ve made some meals that were quite delicious and adventurous. We’ve made steaks in that cast iron and finished them in the oven. We’ve made meals that have fed friends and family (and dogs when the food falls on the floor) that has brought a lot of love and laughter in our home. The pounds of bacon and ground hamburger that have been made on this stove number somewhere in the 100’s I’m sure.

The old stove has served as extra counter space when needed and somehow we’ve been able to keep over seven dishes going at once with some careful juggling. It is the center of the universe for us most days and I’m thankful for it. Even our old fridge which is actually in rougher shape almost always has food in it (when I’m alone for a week or two while Matt is traveling it holds a few salads and 5# of chicken in it but that’s all I need.) There is almost always some scrumptious beer ready to be enjoyed and while Oz is here the pepperoni and Snackables seem to come out of nowhere.

So I’ll take it. And I’ll appreciate our old stove. But I never want to see what’s behind it or in between the wall and the stove on the side. That’s a horror story waiting to be written I’m sure.

True story.

Health is the greatest gift; contentment the greatest wealth, faithfulness the best relationship.

Buddha

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Monday Bacon: Christmas Revolution

lutefisk

There were two items each Christmas that my brother, sister, and I had to endure; a crazy Christmas church schedule which ensured we never sat together and caused enough stress to barely make Christmas bearable AND the stink of Lutefisk in the house for an entire week.

See in the olden days (yes, my youth) the Lutefisk still needed to be soaked in lye prior to baking. The smells would permeate every fiber, every cell, every surface of the house. Winter coats weren’t safe; hair needed to be washed about three times a day, the couch still smelled of the Lutefisk as far out as spring break. True story.

And that’s only the smell. The taste is a whole ‘nother thing. Know how to get a bite of Lutefisk down? Have a piece of Lefse coated in butter and sugar ready to go immediately after. A Swedish meatball dredged in gravy doesn’t hurt as a back up too. ANYthing to get that Lutefisk taste out of your mouth.

But the quicker you take your mandatory bites of the jelly fish, the sooner we could get dishes done and open prizes. Parental blackmail is so effective.

Until one year. The year of the Christmas Revolution. My mom decided that the meatballs would be served on Christmas day instead so we were missing a key ingredient to our back-up plan. The Lefse was pretty much finished off before we even sat down for dinner which left the Lutefisk and potato’s. UffDa! WHAT NOW????

That’s when my older brother, Jerry, staged one of the most magnificent Coup’s in history. He jumped out of his chair, stood up so majestically I was sure he grew to around 10 feet tall and declared, “ENOUGH! I’m making us hamburgers! Who’s with me?” (Okay, I added the ‘who’s with me’ for dramatical affect, he didn’t really say that but it adds flair doesn’t it?)

I sat in stunned silence. Hamburgers? That’s an option? I nervously looked at my dad who just kept eating. Mom, on the other hand, didn’t go down without a fight. “Don’t even think about it Jerome John Peterson!” You know Mom’s mean business when you get all three names staccato’d out. True story.

My dad, in between bites of the jellyfish finally said, “Aww, just let him make some burgers. Kids should eat what they want on Christmas.” Parent point goes to Pastor John.

And we ate hamburgers for Christmas Eve dinner. I can probably say without a doubt that it was, and is still, the greatest hamburger of my life. A burger served with a side of revolution. What’s not to love?

Ya know what though, I miss the smells of Lutefisk. It’s Christmas. Yes, it’s disgusting, but bygod it’s Christmas and the house should stank of Lutefisk. I’ve even made it in past years and my husband loves me so much he ate it. Put enough butter on pretty much anything and he’ll eat it. Since we didn’t go to Minnesota for Christmas this year I had to pass on having it in the house and that makes me a little melancholy for it.

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But we DO have Olsen’s pickled herrings, which has been around since 1910 which means that we’ve been eating the Lutefisk from Olsen’s since about 1971 (well, me anyway.) I have two buckets worth fresh from Minnesota and I can’t wait. I overeat pickled herrings at Christmas time. Get in enough just to last me another 11 months. (I actually love it all year round but will only eat Olsen’s. Tradition.)

And even though I do miss the smells and the groans of having Lutefisk in the house, I’ll be sure to enjoy just as much the prime rib roast and pierogi and herrings and crescent rolls (I swear to god if you don’t eat crescent rolls at the holidays I don’t even want to know you) and swedish meatballs and…well you get the picture. We do aight. But the smells aren’t the same.

Thank goodness.

(Sung to O Christmas Tree)

O Lutefisk, O Lutefisk, how fragrant your aroma,
O Lutefisk, O Lutefisk, you put me in a coma.
You smell so strong, you look like glue,
You taste just like an overshoe,
But lutefisk, come Saturday,
I tink I eat you anyvay

O Lutefisk, O lutefisk, you have a special flavor.
O Lutefisk, O lutefisk, all good Norvegians savor.
That slimy slab we know so well
Identified by ghastly smell.
O Lutefisk, O lutefisk,
Our loyalty won’t waver.

Red Stangeland

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