Though I’ve always considered myself the polar opposite of June Cleaver, lately I’ve been a cooking WIZARD.

Well, maybe “wizard” is overstating it a bit, since I’m just following a magazine’s plan for a month of simple dinners. But for a gal whose previous culinary stylings were limited to heating and serving whatever I happened to find in my freezer… I’m kicking some serious ass.

The weird part is, I feel oddly and immensely satisfied by this tiny accomplishment — instead of conflicted over finding myself in such a traditional role (something I never expected, but somehow fell into). I’m finding that when I cook for my family, I feel a little like Wonder Woman:

• My house smells like a home-cooked meal at appropriate, predictable times.
• My husband and kids gather around our table to eat — simultaneously.
• If I leave the house after dinner — whether for a PTO meeting or just to take out the garbage — when I come back in I smile, because my house smells like good food love.
• I can dodge bullets, at least figuratively. When I know a meal’s going to be ready at 6:00, the rest of our schedule seems to fall into place. Homework? Check. Cleaning up the day’s clutter, so we have a place to sit down and eat? Check. Baths? Check.

Maybe this is the way the rest of you feel all the time — you confident, vibrant stay-at-homers who’ve embraced your roles from the get-go, knowing that what you do is valuable and worthwhile. A valid choice. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to get here. Is it because I’ve quit railing against what simply is? Is it because I’ve quit caring so much what others think of me and my choices? Is it because I don’t currently have freelance jobs falling out of the sky?

Hmph.

I still consider myself a feminist. I know that another career awaits me in the near future, when the girls are older.

But, for the moment, I feel happy as I whip efficiently around my kitchen. I feel energized as I blow through mountains of laundry. My heart bursts when I see my girls playing nicely together, looking out for one another, their bellies full of good food that I made.

Much as I’m loathe to admit it, June has me pinned. Round One goes to Beaver’s mom.

At 40, I know I don’t exactly have one foot in the grave. But having walked the Earth for this long, I do have a better appreciation of the here and now. (Better than the clueless, flaky 20-year-old me, anyway.) I now understand that the “here and now” will be “done and gone” just as quickly as it arrived. Better enjoy it while it’s happening!

I guess that’s why lately, I’m finding beauty in the darnedest places.

The other day on MPR, the announcer closed a segment with a musical clip and accompanying statistic about the Owl City song “Fireflies,” saying it was the most-viewed video on YouTube. (Or something like that — I did note it had over 10 million views at one point. That’s a lot, right?)

I immediately liked the sound of it and wanted to hear more — especially since they said it was written in the artist’s parents’ Minnesota basement. So off I went, in the middle of a hectic school-day breakfast, on a merry hunt for what is now our New Favorite Song.

I say “our” because my girls, ages 7 and 3, are now obsessed with it. We downloaded it and play it constantly, and both of them now know it word-for-word. And I have to say, even though it’s simple, the melody is catchy and the lyrics are sufficiently angst-y. But most interesting of all, it seems to have a beautiful, almost transporting effect on my girls. Concentrating, singing, dancing, twirling, asking questions about what this or that phrase means. If nothing else, this song has provided us with a welcome artistic break in the mundane tasks of living.

(Here’s my older daughter, completely absorbed as she sings along, while the younger one rolls her fists, disco-style, and aims a cheesy grin at the camera. Yeah, when you’re three the whole world’s a stage. I guess she’s not too concerned with any deeper hidden meanings. If there are any.)

Listening to "Fireflies."

Now I’m remembering this summer when we took a trip to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts (one of our city’s greatest free attractions). It was a rainy day, and I was inspired by a fellow blogger to bring along our sketchpads, crayons, pencils and markers. My goal was to let the girls lead the way, and stop wherever they wanted to sketch what they saw, write a story… or just whine for food. (Let’s be real here, shall we?) I wanted them to experience art as only a child can — without any preconceived notions of how to do it, whether a piece was “important” (and why), or any hang-ups about not knowing “enough” about art history to really “get it.” (Cripes, can you tell who does have hang-ups?)

Sketching in the Japanese garden.

Should I use the blue or the orange crayon?

We had such a great time, and it was eye-opening to let them call the shots about where we went and what we looked at. I could never guess what would capture their attention next — what is beauty to a seven-year-old, or a three-year-old?

I’ll tell you what the smaller one regards as beautiful. (Cringe.) She took this shot on her own. I’m going to call it “Still Life: Cinderella Takes Her Vitamins So That She Can Work Her Way Through College and Begin a Brilliant Career in the STEM Fields.” Or maybe, “Who Needs a Stinkin’ Prince to Save My Sorry Ass?” Sorry, I digress. More on that another day.

(I think she’s wearing Sleeping Beauty’s dress… so I guess that means all the Disney princesses of the household are now getting along, sharing nicely. Of course, I did see a headless body under the couch the other day. So I can’t be sure.)

Not quite sure how I got from fireflies to sexism in fairy tales (in a post about beauty in the little things, no less), but there you go. Where do you see beauty unexpectedly?

One of my favorite things about living in this new/old house (new to us/actually 101 years old) is our morning ritual. One or more of the girls pile into bed with me, and for a few precious minutes, we snooze and snuggle quietly, listening to our particular tangle of suburban morning sounds through the open windows:

• Birds calling, woodpeckers occasionally attacking the house.
• Cars carrying human early birds to work, I imagine with steaming, no-spill commuter mugs of coffee in hand.
• The unmistakable, metallic sound of a driver hitting a golf ball. (Lest you think I am some country-clubber, let me reassure you by saying that last I checked, Minnesota had more golf courses per capita than any other state. So they’re pretty much squeezed in everywhere.)

This morning, when I attempted to sit up and make my way to the bathroom, my three-year-old pulled me back down, saying, “No, you’re too snugglish!” Of course that bought her several more minutes. Mmmm. My version of heaven. I love the way she burrows into me, trying to get ever closer.

Lately I’ve been hyper-aware of the temporary nature of things, and taking the time to appreciate everything. I know my girls won’t always be 7 and 3. They won’t always like snuggling. They won’t always like me. Heck, we may even move across the country again (but not anytime soon, believe you me).

And just as my trees and garden show the passing of time, from summer into fall, so does… my face. I’ve been noticing with horror some new lines and bags under my eyes that, in certain lights, make me look like my uncle Jim. (No offense intended to my beloved uncle, you understand. It’s just a family resemblance that’s popped up out of nowhere.)

Which reminds me — I saw a post this week by my hilarious bloggy friend Jillian that made me laugh… in it, she was noticing things about her body she wanted to change:

As I got dressed the other morning, with eyes half shut so as not to offend myself, I evaluated my torso in the mirror.

I may just have to try this. That way, I can keep the so-so image I have of myself in my mind, and not be bothered with silly things, like the truth or objectivity or endless trips to the gym. Ignorance is bliss, right?

Let me get right down to it. Turning 40 this month was indeed something I’d been dreading, even as I tried, tried, tried to embrace it. I thought I’d be moved to write something profound about it. (Well, profound to me.)

Turns out, I wasn’t.

So, rather than feeding the build-up and making an even bigger/fatter/hairier deal out of it, I just sat back and let it happen. To me, it felt more like I was driving by in a car, waving out the window as I passed this milestone.

Yet another moment in time, lost in the rearview mirror.

Photo Courtesy: Kourosh Azar

I love art. I love crafts. And while I appreciate and respect the 35th Annual Holy Hill Arts & Crafts Fair — not to mention all the talented artists represented there — I know that at least a handful of the 7,000-10,000 attendees will, at some point, get sick of the mob scene, pack it in, and attempt to high-tail it out of there. Maybe even before they’ve (gasp) strolled past every last tent!

Lee shows his granddaughter how to throw a pot!

In my opinion, that would be a swell time to swing around the block and visit Lee Curtes Pottery. Lee’s having an open house the day of the Holy Hill fair, and may I just say that his work is not only gorgeous and affordable. It’s functional. Because it’s high-fire stoneware, you can use it safely in the microwave, oven and dishwasher. I use my coffee mugs daily, my girls use their cereal bowls every morning, and I love having dinner guests so I can break out my serving pieces.

The best part of buying pottery directly from the artist? You have a marvelous story to tell your friends and family when you receive compliments on it (and believe me, you’re going to get compliments!). Even better, this year Lee Curtes Pottery is donating a portion of the day’s proceeds to Project ADAM (Automated Defibrillators in Adam’s Memory) — read why here.

Lee Curtes Pottery

Open Saturday, September 19, 2009

10:00 AM – 4:00 PM

5899 Shannon Road, Hartford WI 53027 (less than a mile from Holy Hill)

Listen up, pottery lovers — and anyone else planning to hit the 35th Annual Holy Hill Arts & Crafts Fair (yeah, you and 10,000 of your closest, sweatiest, pushiest friends… ick!). Ahem. The Fair will be fabulous, of course — but when you’re ready for some crowd control, head to the Lee Curtes Pottery show on Saturday, September 19th, 2009! Heck, it’s right around the corner from the Basilica of Holy Hill, so you may as well check it out. He won’t even charge you admission (I know this because he’s my dad and I can vouch for his Good Guy-ness). And my mom (who’s a known Food Pusher), will no doubt encourage you to eat something delicious.

Buy some gorgeous handcrafted bowls from the man my girls call “Pata,” knowing that you’re not just covering the cost of clay… you’re supporting a great cause. See, Pata is donating a portion of his proceeds on Saturday to Project ADAM (Automated Defibrillators in Adam’s Memory). For those who don’t know, my dad is alive today because an AED was on hand to save him nearly ten years ago. So it’s a cause very close to our hearts, so to speak.

Seriously, my dad’s been working like a fiend on new glazes, firing techniques and has been throwing pots for months in preparation. He’s hoping to see lots of friends and family on Saturday, as well as some new faces. Go to Lee Curtes Pottery for all the details.

How cute are they?

Lately it seems like everything I do here involves a trip down memory lane. Which would make sense, I guess, given that I spent nearly a decade of my life here in Minneapolis. Except that it was a decade ago, as well. So much has changed in my life since I left. But so much remains the same, and I’m reminded of that in every little thing I do…

• Riding bikes with my daughters around the lakes? There’s where my husband and I met, playing beach volleyball. That’s where we creamed most of our 2-on-2 opponents. There’s where he proposed. The young, strong bodies now in our places on the sand courts look as if they belong there. Just like we felt we did.
• Catching the 10:00 news? I expected big changes, but so many of the talking heads are the same. (Hey! I remember when Belinda Jensen was a brand-new meteorologist!) But even they, with all their makeup and telegenic presence, look a little older to me. A comforting thought as I inch toward 40 in a couple of weeks. Crap, at least I don’t have to age on TV!
• Picking my way through Uptown for a homecoming haircut with my all-time favorite, now super-expensive stylist? Ah, I see Ragstock is still there… where my friends and I bought some vintage high school band uniforms to use as Halloween costumes. (You have never seen a more drunken bunch of marching idiots.) And hey! Falafel King has weathered the economic slump!
• Road-tripping to Wisconsin to see my parents? Thank God, here’s Tomah, the halfway point on the five-hour stretch of Highway 94. Wasn’t there a pretty clean bathroom in that rest stop? Here’s the turnoff, right before Madison but after Cascade “Mountain.” (Hah! scoffs the recent Colorado Rockies transplant.) And here comes Hustisford — but where’s the giant cow statue I once “milked” on a late-night dare? I’m practically home.
• Spelling my name for the lady at the drycleaner? Don’t bother — she knows to ask whether it’s SwensOn or SwensEn. “O-N or E-N?” she asks with a smile. You’ve got to love the Nordic influence around here. People just get each other. I don’t have to explain myself. How very odd.

Just heading to bed after a lovely neighborhood barbecue. I know I will feel at home here again soon, surrounded by such nice people. But right now, with all the memories coming at me from every-which-way, I’m feeling almost dizzy. Sometimes I even forget for a moment what city and state I’m sitting in. Please God, let that NOT be an early sign of dementia…

I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and I’ll get there. I know this. I’ve done it before. I know it takes time. And I will get there. Get up, snuggle and feed the kids, make my coffee and a plan for the day. Take the first sip. Take another step forward.

It’s gonna be okay.

It’s Day 2 of my new, nearly-daily posting habit. Or maybe it’s Day 1, since I skipped a day and just basked in the glow of having written one post. Don’t you need to do something 30 days in a row to form a new habit? Oh honey, you got a ways to go.

At any rate, allow me to describe my morning. It might make you feel better about yours. Just be aware that this will involve a lengthy toilet scene.

I wake up early, intending to get out for a much-needed run before my husband leaves. Realizing I am out of socks, I head downstairs to paw through my unfolded, clean laundry piles (they’re mounting; I make a note to scale and conquer them today). No socks. Before trying the laundry room, I make a pit stop in the bathroom. Ick. Toilet has been recently used (by an unnamed party) and clogged. I decide to roll the dice and flush it… bad risk. The bowl is filling up and not draining.

Being an eternal optimist (or maybe just dim-witted), I trust that the toilet will stop filling well before it reaches the top — after all, it always does. (Usually leaving you laughing with relief after plunging like there’s no tomorrow.) So because I really have to go now, I spring painfully back up the stairs, careful not to wake my sleeping girls and spoil my chance for a run.

(One last frantic check for socks upstairs. No luck.)

I come back downstairs and notice with growing horror that the toilet is STILL running. And I think I hear some ominous splashing.

Sure enough. The water is now cascading prettily over the edge of the rim, and the floor is a lake. My very own indoor water feature.

So, after some mopping, sanitizing, cursing and throwing the bathroom rug in the “wash machiner” (as my 3-year-old calls it), the house is starting to wake. Matt is back from his run, ready for the shower. Ruby has descended the stairs and begun her call for gummy vitamins, and my window of opportunity is lost.

But unlike days past, instead of pouting in my jog bra and turning to my beloved espressomaker… I sit down and write. It’s like I’m compelled to tell someone about what has just happened to my perfect morning.

I think I feel better already.

Image credit: MarsW

Lately I’ve been wondering why, if I think I’m some kind of writer, I don’t write on a very regular basis. As in, sitting down every day to practice, like I used to practice the piano.

I know why. I get bogged down mentally by the Should Do List:

I should clean my house. I should design my daughters’ new bedrooms. I should visit my sick father-in-law. I should write a business plan. I should go find some client work. I should write in my blog. I should document my family’s lives in a more permanent, beautiful way. I should sign the girls up for as many enriching activities as possible. I should inspire my children to create, explore, love. I should probably/maybe find a church we like. I should blog some more. I should print some business cards. I should attend a bloggers’ conference for inspiration. I should feed the fish. I should get out on my bike. I should train for another triathlon. I should keep in better touch. I should do some weeding.

I should write, but only if it’s perfect.

Huh? What’s with all this mental flogging of myself? Why can’t I just let me be, imperfections and all?

And who says a blog post has to be perfect? What IS perfect, anyway?

As I sit and ponder this, I get my answer when my 3-year-old climbs on my back, plucks the earphones from my ears and drops them neatly into my nearly-empty coffee cup:

This. This life is perfect. Because it’s mine, and it’s so burstingly full of love and distractions.

My tiniest distraction.

My techy big girl, commandeering my iPhone.

You might know that we recently sold our house and bought a new one in record time. Sure, we did some things right: purging our home of clutter, staging it and even getting creative by attempting to sell it on Twitter (which got us on local TV, a real hoot!). Many other things just fell into place, seemingly like magic: we found our (gorgeously restored, 100-year-old) dream house quickly, the sellers were motivated and ready to deal, and my husband’s company even let him transfer territories and generously supported the move.

Amazingly, we conquered the most-dreaded parts of moving quite easily. Maybe even with a little pinch of style.

Unfortunately, that’s when Style left the building, leaving us to muddle through the rest of the process as best we could.

Here’s a helpful little guide on how to anticipate the pain of moving, add some salt to the wound, and really rub it in.

1. First, ensure that there is a good length of time between real estate closings during which you’ll be completely homeless. A couple of weeks, minimum. That way, you can either live in a hotel and make daily trips to the laundromat (I’d suggest washing your delicates in the bathtub), or move in with family or friends. It’s a toss-up on which is more stressful, but at least with the former you might emerge with familial relationships still intact.
2. 

   The containers are delivered.

   Because you’ll have to store all your worldly possessions while homeless, you’ll conclude that using a container-based shipping and storage solution (such as U-Haul’s U-Box) is best. And it is. Just remember to forget to measure your furniture. This way, you’ll have the fun of discovering that the containers are too small for several important pieces of furniture, right there in your driveway. From there, you can become proficient at selling furniture to neighbors, friends and mildly weird strangers on craigslist and Facebook. I love learning new things on the fly!

3. When you are finally packed and the U-Boxes have been U-hauled away, you must now fit everything else into your car. (Including your prized, gigantic jade plant and Christmas cactus, which you’ll end up stuffing into a cardboard box and praying they survive the trip.) This will feel a little like Mission: Impossible, but trust me, you will channel your inner geometry whiz and triumph, tucking things into every nook and cranny. Just remember to strap the kids into their seats before they lose them to a box of essentials from your kitchen junk drawer.
4. You’re not quite ready to drive away. First, you’ll belatedly discover that because no one wanted to buy your 24-foot aluminum extension ladder, you must strap it on top of the minivan. Yes, that’s right. You’ll not only be traveling across the country in a dented, sticky minivan — but it will be topped with a huge ladder that makes a whistling sound while the car is in motion. You’ll realize you look just like a pack of nomadic, hillbilly house painters. And that is precisely when you know you won’t be traveling in style. Excellent!
   

   View from the driver's seat. Note ladder placement for optimal whistling.

5. Your first night in a nice hotel should include a quick trial run of the 911 emergency system. Have one of your kids volunteer for this task within ten minutes of your arrival — he or she is unlikely to be arrested or fined, and all she’ll get is a stern warning from the hotel manager. You’ll then enjoy an evening featuring Lost Pool Privileges, with plenty of whining and pouting.

6. The next morning at closing, things will go deceptively well. You will have resigned yourself to the whole ladder-on-the-car look (even perfecting your “Yeah, what about it?” sneer for passersby), and the buyers will be really nice people, fun to talk to while you merrily sign your lives away together. But don’t worry. Afterwards, your husband will discover he’s locked both sets of keys in the car, and he’ll delay your actual departure time by an hour and a half. At lunchtime with two hungry, bored, spazzy kids.

7. After a full day on the road, you’ll arrive quite late for your second night in a hotel, but this one will be unexpectedly crummy. You’ll have to unpack the whole van to access your suitcases, because you didn’t even think of packing a small overnight bag. Then you will drag your luggage and tired children at least a half mile to the hotel’s front entrance because of a lack of parking. Even though the place has obviously been redecorated recently, you know it’s only a surface update because your sink refuses to drain properly, opting instead to leak all over the bathroom floor. Because you are in Omaha during the College World Series, you’ll be forced to stay in the room and brush your teeth in the bathtub.
8. The next few weeks of homelessness will go by in a blur, mostly because you’re intensely paranoid about pissing off your very kind, very generous relations. (Of course, being in Minnesota, any friction is under the surface and expertly denied even when directly questioned, so… I don’t know, that might be even worse.) You’ll become annoyingly chipper in the mornings, unbelievably helpful around the house, and extremely irritable with your small children, who relish opportunities to evenly distribute their toys and belongings throughout every available living space.
9. Your 14th wedding anniversary will slip by, uncelebrated, except for when your husband reminds you that “he” is buying “you” a house, because “he” is a “shit” that way sometimes. Because the bank didn’t even give a hoot about having you co-sign anything at all, you’ll get depressed all over again about your undersized financial contributions to the household in recent years — never mind that you’ve raised two wonderfully smart and delightful little girls, without ever losing your temper, not even once. (Okay, that part was a lie. The girls are not always delightful.)

So there you have it. My smattering of tips for a properly painful, drawn-out move. I’m sure you have some to add to the list, don’t you? Do tell!

My eyes are still seeing palm trees, ocean and sand.

Thing is, we’re back home after a wonderful trip to Florida — and it’s mountains as far as the eye can see. I know that sounds completely bratty — oh, it’s so hard living here next to the majestic Rocky Mountains! I want the ocean, too! And while you’re at it, could you also bring me a Corona? With a lime?

*Sigh.* Maybe the ocean does have a hypnotic effect, after all.

It’s just that these eyes got really, really used to all that blue water. And of course the rest of my senses were digging the scene: the sound of the palm trees in the wind, the waves crashing as they incessantly rearranged the beach, depositing new treasures to discover. (Most of the smells were fine, too.)

But if I’m going to be completely honest, it’s my skin that’s really going to miss the ocean. My overly dry, aging, spotty, wrinkly, still-in-my-thirties-but-barely skin.

If you don’t live in Denver, you may not know it’s considered high desert. (Or “high dessert,” as my dear friend Lynn likes to say, just to get my goat.) At any rate, it’s dry. The kind of dry where if you spill water on yourself on your way to work, you can be pretty sure it’ll dry before you get there. And irritatingly, when you move here from a more humid climate like I did, you have to change all your personal care products — dial them all up to maximum moisture. Your hands and feet, in particular, require ridiculous amounts of A-number-one moisturizer. I’m talking the good stuff. (I knew I hadn’t found “the good stuff” when my two-year-old said my fingers gave her cheeks “owies” when I gently stroked them. The perils of dry skin!)

But in Florida, you don’t even need lotion. Sunscreen, yes, Lotion… not so much. You can gleefully run your fingers over any fabric without fear of snagging it. You can take a night off from the eye cream regimen. You can even squeeze your daughter’s chubby cheeks without drawing blood. I’m telling you, it’s fabulous!

So maybe my vacation re-entry day was a little rough. (About as rough as my hands will soon be, guaranteed.) After all, we just spent a week with some of the people we love most in the world — and had to say goodbye, which we always hate. Plus, who likes doing 17 loads of laundry in one day?

I know that slowly we’ll get back into our routines, and we’ll have our ocean memories to savor.