On the parents of my daughter’s friends

July 29, 2009


Understanding that a birthday party is for the kids (and not for the adults) we have planned Sierra’s birthday party around the kids themselves. No family, no friends-without-kids – just Sierra’s closest playmates and their parents (with one exception).

Thankfully, we’ve been lucky enough to know Sierra’s closest friends since the beginning. Many of our inner circle brought kids in at the same time – four children within five months, to be exact. So when we hung out together, our kids hung out too.

Our kids’ friends’ parents are our friends. It makes things pretty easy.

It won’t always be this way. I realized this yesterday, after wondering whether or not to invite some of Sierra’s daycare friends. Friends whose parents I don’t know. Friends whose parents I have nothing in common with. Which led to another realization:

I am completely unprepared to face the day that I don’t know the parents of Sierra’s friends.

What a silly notion, you might think. Well laugh it up – I’m completely serious. The luxury of knowing the parents of Sierra’s friends – not just knowing, even, but having close connections to – is something I never want to give up. I understand Sierra’s friends through stories from their parents. I have a connection to these kids – I look out for them as if they were nephews or nieces, caring for them like family. After all, our friends are an extended family, and we’ve been here for these kids since the beginning.

I trust them. I trust their parents. I have no qualms about letting Sierra spend the night, or go on a day-trip, or any sort of activity, with these people.

But I imagine a few years from now, once Sierra’s in school, inviting her friends to her 5th birthday party – the ones she’s chosen, from school or daycare or down the block. I imagine these parents showing up in my backyard, meeting me for the first time, struggling to find some connection outside of the pony show of a birthday party, my comfort zone smashed as I scrounge around for an exit strategy.

There’s a time in the future when I won’t want to go out for beers with the parents of Sierra’s friends. And it’s that time I’ll know that she’s growing up, making her own decisions and leaving my ideals in the dust.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be prepared for that.

Tags: Friends, Sierra |

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The conference

July 27, 2009


Seventeen tables line the walls, each numbered, each covered in a blue tablecloth. These seventeen are housed in one room of a large convention center, just a fraction of the total tables.

A conference crowd files by, stopping at the tables with overeager attendants giving away candy, or pencils, or tote bags, halting briefly to watch a looped video on a 12-year-old TV/VCR combo as a middle-aged man in a white short sleeved oxford looks on, waiting for his moment to jump in.

One table, however, attracts no one. Staffed by a harried, graying gentleman, the table looks bare, as if the conference budget was spent on placement. There is no color. A sparse selection of last year’s forms dot the tablecloth.

The gentleman waits for eye contact. A fraying collar highlights an otherwise defeated frame, his features bordering on frantic.

It was a mistake to bring these photocopied brochures, their bare black and whiteness betraying his company’s prospects. Blue suits and red ties stop and listen only for a few minutes before politely taking a business card and moving on. And even the blue suits have dwindled.

An echo of conversations fill the room. Sales are being made. Business cards are being exchanged over a handshake, promises that “I’ll get a hold of you when I get back to the office,” or “I’ll make sure to check your Web site.” Dinner offers are curbed. Flattery ignored.

Still, the open curve of space in front of this booth keeps people away. No one wants to be the first to break the plane.

And so no handshakes are offered. No interest is levied. No sales.

The promises – all of them – are empty. All of them. But at this point, even an empty promise would feel affirming.

Tags: Writing |

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Here comes the sun

July 25, 2009


A week or so ago, after an extended period of grey skies, the sun appeared through the clouds - an event that prompted Kerrie to sing a line or two of The Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun.”

Sierra picked up on this instantly.

“Here come the sun?” she asked later. “Here come the sun?” So we pulled the song up on the iPod and introduced her to the original.

She was thrilled.

Enough that it has quickly become her favorite song. As in, the only song she’ll listen to. As in, the only song she’ll even consider, and only on repeat, and only 15 times in a row.

When she sees the sun. Any sun - in real life or in a book: “Here come the sun?”

When she sees our iPods: “Here come the sun?”

When she sees the computer, where she knows the song has been played: “Here come the sun?”

It’s all quite adorable. But it’s also quite tiring. After all, how many times can a person hear “Here Comes the Sun” without wishing that the sun would just go away, already, we’re doing fine without your light and warmth, thank you very much.

At least we know that, like her dad, she’s totally into the George Harrison songs.

Tags: Music, Sierra |

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Drive-in opportunities

July 22, 2009


A week before Isaac was born, I received an e-mail from The Lutheran.

The Lutheran is a magazine dedicated, naturally, to Lutherans around the country. It’s a national publication that most Lutheran churches subscribe to – I assume, as I’m not Lutheran – and their product line includes The Little Lutheran, a mini-mag that focuses on kids for kids.

It was through The Little Lutheran that I was introduced to the flagship publication. My connection to the Lutheran church is through Kerrie, who works at First Lutheran Church in Sioux Falls as a newsletter designer and communications manager. A photo I had taken at this past year’s First Lutheran Church Bazaar had caught the eye of the magazine’s associate art director, and she asked if it could be purchased for use in the 2009 Holiday issue of The Little Lutheran.

I said yes.

More accurately, I said, “OH WHAT – SOMEONE WANTS TO ACTUALLY PAY ME TO TAKE PICTURES ??? OMG OF COURSE.”

I was flattered. But I chalked it up to chance and moved on.

Then this e-mail comes.

Would I be willing to drive to Okoboji and photograph a drive-in worship for the main magazine?

Oh, and we’ll pay you.

And, just like that, I went from a professional writer to a professional writer/photographer. (That is, if your definition of professional is that I actually got paid to do something.)

The shoot was officially four days past Isaac’s due date. Kerrie sent me along anyway, assuming that the second I left town, she’d go into labor. (She didn’t. She waited another three days, actually.)

It was a thrill, for sure. I’m very proud of how things turned out. My favorite pictures weren’t the ones chosen for the print version, but I still like the ones they chose.

More than that, though, it proved to me that, again, as life as always proved, the only way you can do what you want in life is to barge in with the weight of your convictions jarring you forward.

Take the bull by the horns and all of that, you know.

Because opportunities show up when you least expect them.

Tags: Journalism, Photography |

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Soul mates still exist

July 21, 2009


Eighteen months ago, my co-worker was single. As was Kerrie’s best friend. And though Kerrie had suggested we get the two together long before, it wasn’t until eighteen months ago that I was comfortable with the idea of fixing them up.

This past weekend, they were married in one of the most beautiful and genuine weddings I’ve ever had the privilege to attend.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want them to find happiness, or that I was a grouchy non-believe in the ways of matchmaking – it was the prospect of disaster, of knowing both parties and bracing for what I assumed was inevitable. As I got to know him – and as I understood more about her – it began to seem like a no-brainer.

A no-brainer, but still a risk.

So I waited. I held my breath. I ducked, expecting the dishes to come flying. Two opposites, two strong personalities, two lives already finely honed over nearly 30 years of movement and life.

I’ll admit. It was almost sickening to see them join so easily, melding together like sugar in water (and nearly as unnaturally sweet, damn it) taking on each others habits and enjoying each other’s company even during arguments. It was the thing you never think you’ll see – two soul mates discovering each other through the random chance of a mutual acquaintance.

Each person we meet takes something away from us. Sometimes it’s just a look, or a memory. But other times, it’s something a lot bigger – it’s an opportunity. A chance at happiness.

A new life, created through a little creative networking. Lightning striking in the perfect spot, fusing two people together – two people who had no idea what they were getting into just eighteen months ago.

To which I say, “Congrats.”

And, “You’re Welcome.”

Tags: Friends, Vilhauer |

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Giving up life for parenthood

July 20, 2009


I’ve developed a new routine. It’s easy, actually - and it took no time to develop. It’s called “Don’t Do Anything Creative,” and it’s become a specialty of mine thanks to the sleeping patterns of our two kids.

For the past ten days, each night has ended in a similar fashion.

I get home from work. We eat. We compare notes from our day. We tell Sierra to stop climbing on things.
Isaac sleeps until about 7.
Sierra gets in the bath at 8. (It’s about this time I think of something I’d like to write about, or a book I’d like to read, or a good idea for a photo.)
Isaac wakes and eats around 8:15.
Sierra finally gets out of the bath at 8:20.
Isaac develops a gas bubble at 8:30. Meanwhile, Sierra has begun her new trick: not sleeping.
Isaac fusses. Kerrie or I rock him. Sierra cries in her room. Kerrie or I ignore her.

Eventually, around 9:45, everyone has nodded off. Sometimes its earlier than others, often a little later. Kerrie heads off to bed while I continue rocking Isaac to the glow of the television. By the time I’m ready to call it a night, I can’t remember any of the ideas that popped into my mind earlier. And it wouldn’t matter - I can’t dare perform any of the promises I made for myself. I can only go to bed, aching from the loss of productivity, stuck between sleep and awake as I desperately try to make things right.

For some people, it’s a lack of sleep. Others feel like they’ve lost their ability to reason like an adult, especially after spending days with children under 2. Maybe every meal is ruined, or maybe you can’t bother to take a shower every day.

But though I love both Isaac and Sierra more than anything, and though the only thing I can think of when I’m at work is coming home to spend time with my family, I still find myself in a selfish slump, mourning my lack of time and energy.

And I realize that the sacrifice we make for our kids doesn’t consist of just time and money. It’s ambition, too. Which makes developing a stronger drive one of the most important things we can do as parents.

To remember that, before these kids were around, we were our own people. We were the people we wish we could still be. Once we lose sight of that, we’ve given up.

Because as long as we keep pushing forward, we’ll never have to say we gave up our lives for parenthood. Instead, we can proudly say we simply added it to our list of passions.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra |

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Getting stuff done

July 10, 2009


To the right, it says I’m currently reading The Cheese Monkeys by Chip Kidd.

I’m not.

That’s simply the book I’m planning on reading, when I finally start reading books again.

Instead, I’ve been catching up on the last two issues of Atlantic Magazine, wondering what happened to Paste’s print issues, and generally lamenting the slow death of my reading habits.

It happened with Sierra, too. It’s just that, this time, it seems even more drastic. And, what’s more, I don’t give it a passing thought.

So it’s probably more healthy, actually. Instead of obsessing about not reading (and, therefore, not writing a monthly What I’ve Been Reading column) I can simply get things done.

Which is what I do now. I pick up houses. I play around with pictures. I watch network television. I read magazines.

I admire my oldest daughter’s ability to take major changes in stride, accepting a new house and a new brother without a passing thought, embracing both of them with gusto. I respect my wife’s drive to keep working on house projects while I’m at work, despite having two children at her feet. And I marvel at the prospect of my newborn son, wondering all along what kind of person he’ll grow up to be, discovering a new piece of his personality every day.

But I don’t read books. Not anymore. At least, not for a little while. And I’m okay with that.

Just cut me some slack if you still see that same book listed a few months from now.

Tags: Books, Isaac, Literature, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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