Dinner With the Feds

I am going to a dinner sponsored by the Federal Reserve Bank. It's something that I planned quite awhile ago, but the times are certainly more interesting now than when I made my reservation.

The topic of the presentation is "Monetary Policy and the Economic Outlook." I'll take notes. On the speech and on the dinner. Beans and rice? Or beef? Or an IOU?

"Unencumbered capitalism is not a substitute for social policy; that on its own, without a social compact, raw capitalism is destined to serve the few at the expense of the many."

David Simon, a former police officer and writer, who created "The Wire" makes more sense than any banker I have ever talked to.

Miss Tilly's

I showed the kids pictures from my weekend and Mary said, "Mom, you need to take me to the goat farm now."

The kids had a family event to attend with Eric or I would have taken them with me to the Goat Farm. My dance troupe performed as entertainment. We had plenty of time to wander through wine tastings and honey tastings and sample lotion and soap and cheese (tons and tons of goat cheese). I brought home several varieties of cheese made at the farm and found a dessert wine that I really liked. (Cinnamon-y and not too sugar-y.)

I thought about my parents' farm and pictured goats and cheese and wine. Open Houses on the lawn of the little farm house with a gift shop in the barn. My mom doesn't like goat cheese. I wondered if she would like the flavored goat cream cheese spread. My favorite was the cranberry horseraddish. I know her grandkids would love the goats.

Your mom has good milk, little sweetie pie.

I Am Not Everyone's Parent

"Everyone" started PeeWee Football this year. 4th grade is the first year you're allowed to play it. Pee Wee Football is the little kid tackle version of football, and as you can imagine, it's huge in Nebraska.

"Everyone" does not include my son or the kids on his flag football team. Or the flag football team that they played last night or the ones they'll play in upcoming weeks.

Frank was pretty mad at me initially for signing him up for flag football instead of tackle football. He has warmed to his team and his coach. He is learning positions and strategy. They have a playbook. Pads and tackles will come later.

Last night in the first game, he threw two touch down passes. I am not sure who was happier, him or me.

"Everyone" wants their son to be the smart, blond, football quarterback, right? Who am I?

Strike Zones

It feels foreign to have a boy child, even after all these years. In some ways I feel like I will never get used to someone whose dresser top looks like this. Legos and snakeskins and rocks and baseball memorabilia.

The print is a gift from his Uncle Joe. It's Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth. I look at their strong, pleasant faces every night when I tuck my son in and kiss him goodnight and it makes me thinkof the Guardian Angel prints, usually of that Heige Schutze painting, that so many parents hang in their children's rooms. My son has Lou and Babe watching over him.

It's his 9th birthday today. In some ways he seems both younger and older than that. The years go by so quickly now that I am surprised by the kids' maturity. My kids are each becoming their own people with their own interests. I used to have more influence over their interests. Tank loves baseball and it's something that I can support and encourage, but he has surpassed me with my limited baseball knowledge. The kid reads box scores and keeps track of the team standings.

A couple of years ago, his Poppy taught him to throw the ball against the wall to play catch with himself. He's done that for years. This spring I walked down the driveway and noticed that he had drawn a strike box in chalk on the house. He spends hours every week pitching balls against the house. The window there is my kitchen window and I spend a lot of hours every week listening to the ball hit the house.

It's his birthday today. I bought him a pitching net - you throw the ball against the net and it bounces back at you. Kind of like a wall, but without the thud that makes your mother's head hurt. And the strike zone is a little lower - Little League sized. I did feel the need to take a picture of the house pitching target. I have some video of him, too. I am glad to get him out of the driveway and off my house, but at the same time I will miss the thuds.

Life is Too Short to Eat Cake if You Want Brownies

Mmmm...a pan of Granny Brownies.

Frank followed my lead on this and when I asked what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday, he told me he wanted pumpkin pie. No problem.

Nine years ago I was having a baby. On my birthday!

I prefer having a boy. And having dessert two nights in a row. :-)

It’s a Joint Birthday Party of Olympic Proportions!

Republic of Mary
v.
United Kingdom of Frank

Saturday, September 13, 2008
Noon – 3pm
Antelope Park Picnic Area

Races will be won. Records will be broken.

Mary and Frank will each turn one year older.

Lincoln, Nebraska Rocks

I took the kids to see Styx at the Nebraska State Fair last night. It seemed like a good first rock show for the younger two - it was, you know, free with admission to the fair, and I already had tickets to the fair.

Frank is my classic rock kid. While the girls are more lyrics-oriented, Frank likes guitar solos and drums. He has "Mr. Roboto" on his MP3 player. I thought he would love it.

He felt sick to his stomach from the noise and he wanted to get out of the seating area because it was too loud. So we sat at a table outside the stage area and listened to the music. The girls went off to meet friends and get fried twinkies, and my son happily slurped a root beer float and sang along with "Come Sail Away" from the safety of the picnic area. The girls came back and we moved back into the crowd for the encore. We clapped and sang along to "Renegade" and Frank pointed out, with great concern, that he could feel the music vibrating through the concrete. Mary, the one who has always prefered Simon and Garfunkel, was hanging from the risers to get a better look at the stage and security came over and asked her to get down. My girl got in trouble with security at her first rock concert! I was so proud of her that I was beside myself. Actually I was beside Frank assuring him that the concrete was not going to split at any moment.

"That was awesome!" Mary said.

"That was loud!" Frank said.

"That was Styx?" Anna said. "I actually knew some of those songs."

"Nobody rocks like you, Lincoln, Nebraska!"

At least that's what Styx says.

I Love You

You know how when kids get older they aren't as affectionate? You start out carrying them all the time as infants. Then as toddlers they move away from you but come back frequently for affection. And then as preschoolers they just want you when they are scared or tired or hurt. And then the older they get the less they want you at all. Pull your 11 year old into your lap and smooth her hair on her first day of Middle School? Right. Hug an 8 year old boy who is apprehensively approaching a group of boys for flag football? Not cool.

But take those same two kids to church? They lean on me, wrap their fingers through mine, brush my hair, and put their arms around me. I stood propped between their two leaning bodies in church and knew that if one of them moved away that I would topple over from the pressure of the child on the opposite side.

I did the same thing to my mother. Particularly in the summer. Or at least that's when she complained the most.

Love you too, kid, I think. And hey, I did eventually stop leaning my body against my mom. So I am trying to appreciate these hot, sweaty times with little grubby fingers on my fingers and in my hair and on my arm. It's hard. But soon they will be teenagers who stoically regard the world and would sooner hug a friend from school in public than her own mom.