tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36870209276989943882024-02-07T06:25:46.015-08:00How I Got HereKristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-23541706920267185382020-12-31T21:39:00.002-08:002020-12-31T21:43:49.022-08:00Out With the Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Many are looking forward to putting the dumpster fire that was 2020 behind us, but I can't help but wonder if 2021 will really be any better. I mean, "New Year, New Me" is hard to fathom after how some people have acted through all of this. While a vaccine is now available, it's unlikely we'll be seeing an end to Covid-19 anytime soon. We will still dealing with all this social distancing, contact tracing, new normal well into 2021.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6emsGhSxGD3dU8_voT7zwbinfUhxI7Gd0u7W94I1GcAMNE87RlqkBUdMmDZg6Pacoz_inkANNa38qliCfHER5yxlbN3KfS8-acc7nXprboh8Egwg20s7MIYy3gnGJguGKMEqhioju_Up/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6emsGhSxGD3dU8_voT7zwbinfUhxI7Gd0u7W94I1GcAMNE87RlqkBUdMmDZg6Pacoz_inkANNa38qliCfHER5yxlbN3KfS8-acc7nXprboh8Egwg20s7MIYy3gnGJguGKMEqhioju_Up/w200-h200/dumpster+fire.jpg" width="200" /></a><p></p><p>So what can we do to make the new year better than the last? Unplug and reboot? Move to a commune and live off the grid? Maybe New Zealand will take us in...</p><p><br />I started thinking about how, in the past, when we've done any home remodeling, all furniture, knick-<br />knacks, tools, storage boxes have to be moved out of the way. Then when it's over, before we start putting things back, I do a major purge: the instruction manual for a mixer we don't own anymore, Barbie wrapping paper remnants, and 53 keys that unlock nothing in our house <i>all must go</i>. Getting rid of junk you don't need is almost as good as the remodel. (And it's cheaper.)</p><p>What if we took all the "stuff" from 2020--the presidential campaign, the pandemic, the discovery of space aliens (and how they didn't even stop to say hi)--and laid it all out on the lawn, dug through the piles, and only kept what we really want/need? (Unfortunately with the exception of Global Pandemic, that toxic second cousin that no one wants sleeping on their couch, but who we can't quite get rid of until we get him sorted out.)</p><p>Think of it as a kind of Marie Kondo method. Does it spark joy? If not, kick it to the curb. If so, maybe buy it a nice new frame or a cute storage basket and put it on your mantle so everyone can see and remember: "It wasn't <i>all</i> bad."</p><p>One thing I would definitely keep from 2020 is all three of our kids graduating --two from college and one from high school. Our "Great Graf Graduation" party was not as big as I'd hoped (social distancing!), but we celebrated the best we could. The fact that they were able to finish their schooling virtually and then move on with their lives (new jobs, new homes, new plans) during a shut down tells me they will be able to succeed at most anything. Also, with two kids out of college and supporting themselves, it's like my husband and I have received a substantial raise. Win and win.<br /></p><p>I would also keep all the family time we've had over the last year--whether we wanted it or not. Sometimes by just hanging out with people--not going anywhere, not celebrating anything--you find out just how interesting they are. On the other hand, we may have occasionally had a little <i>too</i> much family time (and will perhaps need a nice long break from each...or possibly therapy). But we will definitely never forget it!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I will proudly keep all the projects I completed in 2020 (that I had been putting off for the last decade). Painting the kitchen walls and cabinets, new counter tops and sink; planting (and weeding!) a vegetable garden; cleaning out my bookshelf and starting a neighborhood Free Little Library; lots and lots of reading; turning our son's old room into a craft room; completing two quilts and countless face masks; and updating the front office of my husband's company. (Phew!) I have been so productive that I hardly recognize myself--I'm afraid all this has permanently damaged my "easy going/I'll get around to it someday/I should think about doing that" personality. Is there's a support group for this? Maybe a 12-step program (that you only graduate from if you complete less than seven steps...and then talk about how you'll do the rest when you have more time).<br /><p></p><p><br />Things I will NOT be taking with me into 2021: trying to figure out people who don't believe in science (or really, trying to figure out people in general); wearing uncomfortable clothing (I have officially accepted leggings as pants and will be taking no further questions); or the idea that I should give up bread.</p><p>Once this pandemic is over I will find just the right place for whatever I'm keeping and leave everything else at the end of the driveway with a free sign. And, like after the 1918 influenza pandemic, will look forward to the "Roaring 20's"...but I will probably still keep my hand sanitizer nearby, just in case. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="1300" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwAdcJ_nU4qfClh1tPjMfWIODqiITMNyJ5Zc7v7QuEdek9SUH1OD3JK87myTsDaPtzB6cG5SIa82ssHj73-5n2USQcGrby700dbMMazwnIy1H4WsQZd2e7niXRnPwrTRHhRJ6VUhOIk5mQ/w271-h172/2021.jpg" width="271" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><p></p><p> </p>Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-4026398168593186282019-11-27T23:01:00.000-08:002019-11-27T23:01:53.848-08:00Grateful Thankful Blessed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQlSZnkU9BuVD0sq6gg16kj8hFXZVtI1uhuTPkzlkWA_sza3GMGTIdt13vs2qrhNf0btR56ePTAP9PIX-5jjWaVAtI6lvp7t8rM_W78TnYURI6sgbgrOWo4-gymZZBxkMc1CppKD7lCpA/s1600/thankful.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="1300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQlSZnkU9BuVD0sq6gg16kj8hFXZVtI1uhuTPkzlkWA_sza3GMGTIdt13vs2qrhNf0btR56ePTAP9PIX-5jjWaVAtI6lvp7t8rM_W78TnYURI6sgbgrOWo4-gymZZBxkMc1CppKD7lCpA/s200/thankful.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
This time of year some people like to post on social media daily reasons they have to be thankful. I've tried this, really I have, but I quickly lapse into "Thankful the dog didn't poop on the new throw rug" or "Grateful for cheese." I am not naturally the sentimental type (sarcasm and snark are more my style) and I don't have one of those signs<i> </i>that say "<b><i>Grateful</i></b> <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Thankful</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Blessed.</i></span>" Yet I do have one or two (or 30) things for which I'm thankful:<br />
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1. Dogs (even if they poop on the new throw rugs)--live-in crumb cleaners and unconditional love.<br />
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2. Cold, clear mornings of fall--because we know what wet, dark days are like.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARlxqKMY9m2pJPwolWJK6gCIvBcy-7YEfvfQcitp3yX8VD2cQArmG_lo3BfUpbCa49JA-DU4NsfbcLmZmIC2pHS1ICfep1MiLQMVyty2hYx1d7Lx0qMAbsRKBYBto7Amaa3HDysHOj988/s1600/lindt_lindor_dark_chocolate_truffles.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="307" data-original-width="445" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARlxqKMY9m2pJPwolWJK6gCIvBcy-7YEfvfQcitp3yX8VD2cQArmG_lo3BfUpbCa49JA-DU4NsfbcLmZmIC2pHS1ICfep1MiLQMVyty2hYx1d7Lx0qMAbsRKBYBto7Amaa3HDysHOj988/s200/lindt_lindor_dark_chocolate_truffles.png" width="200" /></a>3. Coffee, coffee, coffee--enough said.<br />
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4. Lindt Lindor Dark Chocolate Truffles--dark chocolaty creaminess at only 75 calories and 7.5 g fat per<br />
truffle.<br />
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5. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/WeRateDogs/">We Rate Dogs</a>--sometimes the only bright spot on Twitter/Instagram/Facebook (They're ALL good dogs.)<br />
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6. Husband who doesn't expect me to be "normal"--because why be average?<br />
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7. Kids who aren't "normal" (well, one of them is, but we make allowances for him).<br />
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8. Sno-Isle Public Library (even the teeny-weeny Lakewood/Smokey Point location)--books that I can read for free? Yes, please.<br />
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9. A free press--journalists may be the only thing that saves us from our current political "situation."<br />
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10. Netflix--binge watching an entire season of a show in a weekend is the only way to go (unless it's "The Walking Dead"--that I do not recommend).<br />
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11. SNL--because sometimes you need to laugh at it all or you'll (rage) cry.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGAYP-ZXiBUBcaLfpEsswtbOOpLh7Blngnysa6jQ7ErA_7ZgPp20BtlLQs5TG_iK1PrKCcfyPobE_uigyMmAUzxTEXdyyxvbj77hayXegAR-p7TWvNNidTWG4siOiCvBHdElL6diUr1heo/s1600/IMG_3966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGAYP-ZXiBUBcaLfpEsswtbOOpLh7Blngnysa6jQ7ErA_7ZgPp20BtlLQs5TG_iK1PrKCcfyPobE_uigyMmAUzxTEXdyyxvbj77hayXegAR-p7TWvNNidTWG4siOiCvBHdElL6diUr1heo/s200/IMG_3966.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mirage Hotel pool, Las Vegas</td></tr>
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12. Garlic--good for you, adds deliciousness to most any dish, keeps vampires at bay.<br />
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13. Las Vegas--the Disneyland for grownups (<i>please don't bring your kids</i>); sunshine and cocktails.<br />
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14. Preschool teachers--they teach your kids <i>how </i>to learn before they <i>have</i> to learn; and they deal with a lot of fingers in noses.<br />
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15. The internet--what did we even do before the Worldwide Web? Just not know stuff?<br />
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16. Elections (and the <a href="https://ishouldhavetakenthatleft.blogspot.com/2014/07/the-funny-papers-snohomish-countys.html">voter's pamphlet</a>)--if you don't vote, you don't get to complain; it's a thing. (We voted on it a couple years ago; Referendum 86934-09-218B, aka "Show Up or Shut Your Pie Hole.")<br />
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17. Target--because who doesn't love a good deal on toilet paper AND a pair of cute boots?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoHlF1KXmuOFTg2Gc2LXFdXCrY2t-AF2N__yVaMNMbSDVQZ-0TiRxBBMP58mZ3nX26BLU0k2AvP_aDZLjDYJrX2hYV2a2c4ZEfBCYo1MY9O4ut1br54Sp1kyCoHi33fH9Pf0ukFd49_xzv/s1600/IMG_3839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoHlF1KXmuOFTg2Gc2LXFdXCrY2t-AF2N__yVaMNMbSDVQZ-0TiRxBBMP58mZ3nX26BLU0k2AvP_aDZLjDYJrX2hYV2a2c4ZEfBCYo1MY9O4ut1br54Sp1kyCoHi33fH9Pf0ukFd49_xzv/s200/IMG_3839.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diablo Lake, North Cascades</td></tr>
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18. North Cascades National Park--beautiful campgrounds, hiking trails, and stunning scenery. (Don't tell anyone; it'll be our little secret.)<br />
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19. School Bus drivers--they are the unsung heroes of the public school system, true story.<br />
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20. Our neighborhood/community/school district--we live in a small community where even if you don't know someone, your kid is probably in class with their kid, or their cousin is you hairstylist. And they'll probably let you borrow a cup of sugar, or fill you in about the recent car prowler (but please don't ask them to participate in your kid's fundraiser--nobody needs more wrapping paper).</div>
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<br /></div>
21. Our house--the back deck is rotting, the carpet needs to be replaced, and there is approximately 10,000 tons of dog hair in every nook and cranny. But it's cozy and ours and home.<br />
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22. Texting/FaceTime/Snapchat--do people actually call each other on phones anymore (like it's the 1950's)? If my daughter didn't insist she FaceTime the dogs, I might never hear from her.<br />
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23. The diversity of political candidates--love 'em or hate 'em, maybe it's time to think outside the "old white man" box (no disrespect, Joe and Bernie)<br />
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24. Elected officials who really care about their constituency--if you hide from your voters and side with the big business, maybe "public representative" is not your calling.<br />
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25. Cyber Monday--because who even goes Black Friday shopping anymore? (Unless it's online, then "Hooray Black Friday!")<br />
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26. Pie, mashed potatoes, and all the Thanksgiving fixings--bring on the fat pants.<br />
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27. US Post Office--I'm continually amazed that anything I drop in the mail box actually gets to its destination (and getting personal mail is the best).<br />
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28. Smart phones--<i>Computers. In. Your. Pocket.</i><br />
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29. Soup--chicken noodle, potato, or bean, nothing's better on a dark, cold day.<br />
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30. Finally, that there aren't 31 days in November (PHEW!)<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-90531545626966970252019-05-12T10:58:00.001-07:002019-05-12T17:14:22.062-07:00Happy (Non)Mother's Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyS2ICWwvu4DRB6JSRct-jwMtlMbxDO9RAoi8gkZwEM04IwqWcoiOspxalJmJK4e3fMhw1ICTdR7D_7OksdV0wQqvk8GQp67ha5vB-6PO4ocIAU2cHvgFVZxwuot7QpQykRAyPiWVNz_t/s1600/mothersday.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="600" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyS2ICWwvu4DRB6JSRct-jwMtlMbxDO9RAoi8gkZwEM04IwqWcoiOspxalJmJK4e3fMhw1ICTdR7D_7OksdV0wQqvk8GQp67ha5vB-6PO4ocIAU2cHvgFVZxwuot7QpQykRAyPiWVNz_t/s200/mothersday.png" width="200" /></a>It's Mother's Day, a time set aside to thank the mothers in our lives (and spend too much time and money looking for the right card/flowers--and if you're like me, remember that the US Postal service will take TWO days to get a card to my mom in Vancouver).<br />
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All the sale ads and Facebook posts got me thinking about all those who may not be mothers themselves, but who also deserved some recognition today.<br />
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To the friends and neighbors who help you coordinate rides and play dates and what the theme is for Wednesday's Spirit Week at school. Who keep an eye on your kid when they're out in the neighborhood and don't judge you when they hear you yelling at them (because they know we all lose it now and then).<br />
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To the teachers and coaches who encourage your kids to try their hardest. Who notice when your kid is having an off day. Who keep in communication with you, but still make the relationship with your kid focused on them.<br />
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To the parents of your kids' friends for mothering them when they're away from home. Who host sleepovers and make that special breakfast you've never made (and introduce them to foods they'd never eat at home). Who hug your kids when they're going through their grumpy teenage phase and will barely talk to you, much less allow physical contact.</div>
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To the strangers in the grocery store who smile at the baby and don't mention they should be wearing shoes. Who give you a reassuring smile as you struggle to try to herd three children past the toy section, negotiate peace between siblings, and still remember to get everything on your list before someone has a melt down. (And who don't give you the judgy look when someone ultimately does have a screaming melt down.)<br />
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To the grandmas who hold the babies so their daughters/daughter-in-laws can have one moment's peace. Who bounce and coo and spoil. Who notice every wonderful trait and love your kids almost as much as you do. (And who also refrain from giving too much unsolicited advice.)<br />
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To the aunts, who remember their nieces' and nephews' birthdays, who ask about your kids' milestones (without comparing them to their own kids' accomplishments), and who will also happily hold a screaming baby for however long it takes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxM2tFZ5H4OAhf1QTxRqe3QkNsrlbYmiv4h5yttgndronDE8rPrHD3cNQREsqvqhWWCB4kXRtSOCJTAe-sPZvpYLMzeBYRjd39qCFFPRT2kIKGlURlnoEfVDUvjpPnarlLJ75nCqPWQ1cC/s1600/mother.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="501" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxM2tFZ5H4OAhf1QTxRqe3QkNsrlbYmiv4h5yttgndronDE8rPrHD3cNQREsqvqhWWCB4kXRtSOCJTAe-sPZvpYLMzeBYRjd39qCFFPRT2kIKGlURlnoEfVDUvjpPnarlLJ75nCqPWQ1cC/s200/mother.jpg" width="146" /></a><br />
Happy Mother's Day to you all! Thank you for being my village--I couldn't have done this parenting thing without you.<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-66110253200417823182018-02-13T22:24:00.001-08:002019-06-08T07:47:41.510-07:00So You Want to Be a Substitute Paraeducator<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2GQ509bhKZTuxhltdW-Fuh9hqENC-zlXnRQzH5HxD25rJm3aibOjy9Y_nJqWwiUspOiTKODk-SLP872ptqCkKnd3wQlN4FAIQfuEk45AV8_jFkrrL4C8EqDwdAC0Pg8KXik1hBISw0tDH/s1600/school+id.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="717" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2GQ509bhKZTuxhltdW-Fuh9hqENC-zlXnRQzH5HxD25rJm3aibOjy9Y_nJqWwiUspOiTKODk-SLP872ptqCkKnd3wQlN4FAIQfuEk45AV8_jFkrrL4C8EqDwdAC0Pg8KXik1hBISw0tDH/s200/school+id.jpg" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My "rookie card"</i></td></tr>
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Have you ever wondered how to add to your financial well being while partaking in your love of the great outdoors? Have you dreamed of nurturing young minds while trying to stave off the flu? Do you want to be personally responsible for the safety of 100 children who are hopped up on too much sugar and not enough sleep?<br />
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Welcome to the exciting and rewarding career of the Substitute Paraeducator!<br />
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Your job as a substitute paraeducator is to fill in as teacher's aid wherever there's a need. From playground to lunchroom to classroom, the substitute paraeducator (or "SPare") is the lifeline of any school district.<br />
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The tools of the SPare are vital to your success with the students. Having been in the position for over four years, I've learned the all-important Honest Essentials for Lunch and Playground (or HELP):<br />
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-You will need a whistle to be heard over the joyful screams/angry yelling of the playground. (Occasionally you may want to break out the bullhorn.) One whistle means "I see you about to throw that ball at Timmy's face," two whistles means "Hey, stop standing on top of the fence," and three whistles means "The recess teachers give up--everyone back to class!"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzf_Jo5DSTZIEoKorF7vWlCEIwQwpc0uONNZt-DyPnHDvElDmx4BDxXiIJhFmte28bPu3EQvS0yoSBvb_TnZCFtjT-k95puDZqIIuQ9gSFpYyN3JKxO1F8-U5VCtgh3URdJxJkFaok5yGM/s1600/recess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="736" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzf_Jo5DSTZIEoKorF7vWlCEIwQwpc0uONNZt-DyPnHDvElDmx4BDxXiIJhFmte28bPu3EQvS0yoSBvb_TnZCFtjT-k95puDZqIIuQ9gSFpYyN3JKxO1F8-U5VCtgh3URdJxJkFaok5yGM/s200/recess.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>*<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Actual playground may appear more chaotic</span>.</i></td></tr>
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-Always wear easily-washable, dark-colored, water-proof clothing. No white, no silk, no Italian leather heels. Recess happens in all sorts of weather; there will be mud, occasionally mucus, and if you're filling in during a stomach flu epidemic, vomit. Luckily the only time I've been barfed on was during the spring and I was wearing flip flops. Wash and Wear is key to your survival!<br />
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-Smell nice and dress for success (SNADFS). Kids will tell you if they think you stink. On days I'm going to be at the school I always use my scented lotion and make sure I don't look like I expect to be vomited on. My hope is if the kids want to be near me (because I smell nice) and present myself as someone deserving respect, they will not scream in my face or vomit on me.<br />
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-Speaking of communicable diseases, you will also want to invest in some hand sanitizer. Keep in mind the reason you got today's job is because another employee finally succumbed to the miasma of germs doing the back stoke through the school. While I generally avoid all the antibacterial hype, I've seen enough fingers in noses to justify a case of that alcohol-laden slime.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Thank you, First Graders!</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It may seem to the uninitiated that the career track of a SPare is fraught with danger (lice, and tantrums, and barf--Oh My!), but the secret perk of this position is what keeps me coming back. You, as someone who has <i>not</i> spent the last three hours trying to get them to sit still and work, walk into that school like it's party time. </span>You are a friendly face and fresh set of ears, <span style="font-family: inherit;">taking </span>them to the playground and letting them run and swing. <span style="font-family: inherit;"> It's like you're the fun parent (though your own kids might think otherwise). And to those hard working teachers, you are much needed reinforcements. The SPare is kind </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">of the rock star of substitutes. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">(But you will never be as cool as the Volunteer Dad. If there is a Volunteer Dad anywhere on school grounds, you are chopped liver.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Call your local school district today so you too can start your exciting journey to the wonderful world of Substitute Paraeducating! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">(No, seriously, we need more subs--it's cold and flu season. A</span><a href="https://www.lwsd.wednet.edu/site/Default.aspx?PageID=86">pply here.</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYmNle5kevtzKLdk-5Yh_Tb1tovovtgX_zW0VGAiejtVLpNsedc5u1IVrBAG2_JpuNhFY5i_-snMYMWrA_mhxdVy0cyV4B2n8MT1yHF38Ias97tr-GlolkvuB9QfoFHStQSzrw9krjWx8/s1600/hazmat+suit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="902" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYmNle5kevtzKLdk-5Yh_Tb1tovovtgX_zW0VGAiejtVLpNsedc5u1IVrBAG2_JpuNhFY5i_-snMYMWrA_mhxdVy0cyV4B2n8MT1yHF38Ias97tr-GlolkvuB9QfoFHStQSzrw9krjWx8/s200/hazmat+suit.jpg" width="175" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Walking into the school during cold and flu season</span></i></td></tr>
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Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-31641379820270326732017-09-21T08:31:00.004-07:002017-09-22T20:29:07.563-07:00Letting Go: 10 Not-So-Easy Steps<div style="text-align: right;">
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My daughter leaves for college tomorrow. She's my second-born so this isn't my first time on the Great Wheel of Emotional Feels--pride, loss, happiness, nostalgia, and grief sometimes all in one day. I know this is what is best for her, I know she needs to leave and experience the world (without her mother reminding her to take out the garbage), but that doesn't make it any easier. So I have to stop and remind myself what I learned from when the first-born left the nest.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcbdjlvZkMM9uPldOKM7ZRZgpT5Bs0DD2ypfjRph-zYIqb8GOcMKmKLN8hDZrUlkyiyg2ZZRKj3EA1hyphenhyphen-v4SAHsIdpL2qturISPm3I4Vfl4-6TiJ1X8Ije4GQw2tQ13cfaAb8fcrUg1Hx/s1600/college.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="983" data-original-width="1350" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcbdjlvZkMM9uPldOKM7ZRZgpT5Bs0DD2ypfjRph-zYIqb8GOcMKmKLN8hDZrUlkyiyg2ZZRKj3EA1hyphenhyphen-v4SAHsIdpL2qturISPm3I4Vfl4-6TiJ1X8Ije4GQw2tQ13cfaAb8fcrUg1Hx/s200/college.jpg" width="200" /></a>1) <b>Let them go</b><i style="font-weight: bold;">. </i>This may seem obvious, but seriously, let them go. Don't try to talk them into a year at the local community college or insist they come home every other weekend. They are ready (well, not <i>ready</i>-ready, but as ready as we were at that age). They don't want your input and they will only resent your interference. Just let them go.<br />
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2) <b>Cry</b>. I once teared up over a coffee mug in a Marshall's (because I thought my daughter would like it, and wouldn't it fit great in a dorm room...Wah! She's leaving me). It will come and go and come again. Try not to sob around them, they don't need your emotional baggage--they need to go.<br />
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3) <b>Shop</b>. Apparently the way I approach any significant time away from my kids is to buy them stuff: food, laundry hamper, just the right coffee mug. For some reason my psyche is convinced that they will be fine if they only have the right bath towel. Whatever, it gives me something to do while I count down till move-out day. And it gets me out of the house where I can sob in peace.<br />
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4) <b>Pray</b>. Pray that you will survive their newly revived adolescent attitude. Something about that sweet smell of college freedom puts their attitude in over drive--everything you do is dumb, or boring, or parent-like compared to their impending campus life. You will survive this. Remind them who will be making those tuition payments, tell them to take the attitude down a notch, then go have a good cry in the department store (because they really need another set of bed sheets if they're going to be successful).<br />
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5) <b>Delegate</b>. Give them something to do. Again, they are restless and moody and need to be out of your face (But not too far--you don't have much time left with them! But definitely in the other room so you can't see them roll their eyes.) My daughter is currently painting our guest room--I'm paying her, mind you, because I really don't want to do it myself (and she's honestly does a better job than me). In the other room (I know where she is and that she's safe), not giving me attitude (because I'm paying her), thereby guaranteeing her safety. Win-win.<br />
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6) <span style="font-weight: bold;">Silence</span><i style="font-weight: bold;">. </i>Once they move out, do not speak unless spoken to (which is also how survived my son's middle school years). Let them have time to spread those wings, fall a little, and try again before you start badgering them with questions. My son's first text message to me was two weeks after he'd moved out--he wanted to know if he really needed to separate his darks and lights when he did laundry. What I read into that? "I miss you, Mom, and I wish I'd paid more attention to you while I was at home." Yeah, he just had a laundry question, but whatever.<br />
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7) <span style="font-weight: bold;">Cry (again)</span><i style="font-weight: bold;">. </i>Once they move out, you don't have to worry about upsetting them anyway.<br />
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8) <span style="font-weight: bold;">Look</span><i style="font-weight: bold;">. </i>Now that you had a good cleansing cry, look around at where else you can put your energy. Without the time spent on senior year activities (which I'm convinced are planned just so we parents will be happy to let them handle college on their own), maybe you could take up a hobby, rediscover your husband, have an adult beverage with dinner. And hey, I still got one more kid at home! Maybe she and I can go for a mani/pedi and then go buy matching outfits at Forever 21. Poor thing, she's going to be ready to move out by spring--too bad she's got 3 more years left of high school.<br />
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9) <span style="font-weight: bold;">Enjoy</span><i style="font-weight: bold;">. </i>Yes, you miss them and you worry they're not eating right. But have you noticed there are no longer wet towels on the bathroom floor? And you can go all week on one jug of milk. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE my kids and miss them like crazy when they're gone, but I don't miss their bad habits. Even though I still have one more kid at home, I am now on the Easy Street of parenting--she can't complain that her other siblings don't have to do chores if they're not here. (And I've seen those pics you empty-nesters are posting of your last minute trips out of town, not a care in the world. I'm going to pretend you sigh heavily every time you come home to an empty house.)<br />
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10) <b>Wait.</b> They will come back--sometimes just for Christmas vacation, sometimes because they're broke, but they will be back. And they will be easier to talk to, and may occasionally clean up after themselves, and they might just even appreciate one or two of the millions of things you've done for them. My mother once claimed sending her kids away to college was all worth it because when we came home we put our dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Yes.<br />
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This parenting thing doesn't get any easier, the problems just change. As I watch my daughter pack her stuff I just have to keep reminding myself that this is what we've been working towards for the last 18 years. She is ready.<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-69294999730832364212017-05-18T07:28:00.000-07:002017-05-18T07:28:19.471-07:00Class of 2017<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today our high school seniors will be presenting their best works and lessons learned from their years at Lakewood to staff members and community volunteers. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I will be watching someone else's kid sweat through their 8-15 minutes, while my daughter presents to another group. She doesn't seem overly worried--after all, she's been doing Powerpoint presentations since 2nd grade. She has been preparing for this day since she was seven-years-old . She is ready. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you, Lakewood School District for helping her along on this journey. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I've heard recent grumblings from other parents that the school district isn't what it used to be, that it is somehow failing their kids. From the beginning, my husband and I agreed that when it comes to public school, you get out of it what you put into it. They are one of the many members of your team when it comes to raising your child. Use them as a tool, be involved in your child's education, expect your kids to step up to the plate. A free and quality education may be our birthright as Americans, but you, and especially your kids, decide the outcome. Do not throw away your shot (quoting Lin-Manuel Miranda quoting Alexander Hamilton in his Broadway show "Hamilton").</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Congratulations to the graduating class of 2017. You got this.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">(<i>"Hamilton" reference thrown in there especially for my all-things-Hamilton obsessed, soon-to-be high school graduate. Go get 'em, Abbie</i>.)</span></span></span>Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-12423621399393819842017-01-28T15:19:00.000-08:002017-01-28T15:19:29.934-08:00I Do Not Want a Wall At All<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPlYPY7VJ1q4ttJWj4uQl_znEXRLUuSQIhp1JXkK_DegBbtBGsvA2yKcHpVLFBwUYQKgoxxoHiwZvzS-ZZAQQAwI0sA7NvhiMnzW-fSWd6TMo2pM92PVnB4w9JqRtOLxM2-62Pv2KpFrD/s1600/green+eggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPlYPY7VJ1q4ttJWj4uQl_znEXRLUuSQIhp1JXkK_DegBbtBGsvA2yKcHpVLFBwUYQKgoxxoHiwZvzS-ZZAQQAwI0sA7NvhiMnzW-fSWd6TMo2pM92PVnB4w9JqRtOLxM2-62Pv2KpFrD/s320/green+eggs.jpg" width="320" /></a>You say we need to build a wall, <br />
without it our country will surely fall,<br />
but I do not want a wall at all.<br />
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I don't want it with a tax.<br />
I don't want it with alt-facts.<br />
I don't want it if it's tall.<br />
I don't want it if it's small.<br />
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I do not want a wall at all.<br />
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You tried to pass it off to Mexico--<br />
they told you no and where to go.<br />
I do not think it will even work<br />
and it makes you look like a real big jerk.<br />
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I do not want a wall at all.<br />
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You say to trust you, we will see,<br />
but it's a bad idea even if it's free.<br />
You may think it's all your call,<br />
<i>but I'm not paying for your stupid wall</i>.<br />
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I do not want a wall at all.<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-49420615136591135902017-01-20T11:56:00.001-08:002017-01-20T11:56:30.773-08:002017, So Predictable<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF1g4dALJzoj8rsQXCrKIQBc5g0p0tJ_Q5bND6DoTd2M6BsP0Sc9jCCamRkPmz_LzZX-FzIiE6LqEu3nXYRtWQRSvlQ3uli5K_bZeb3B_wJhVQNTp4q9otEn8GR6VM1YVEJdaxYzWud7U2/s1600/crystal+ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF1g4dALJzoj8rsQXCrKIQBc5g0p0tJ_Q5bND6DoTd2M6BsP0Sc9jCCamRkPmz_LzZX-FzIiE6LqEu3nXYRtWQRSvlQ3uli5K_bZeb3B_wJhVQNTp4q9otEn8GR6VM1YVEJdaxYzWud7U2/s200/crystal+ball.jpg" width="200" /></a>Here we are, three weeks into 2017, first day of a new presidency, half-way through the first season of NBC's new show "This Is Us." You might find yourself asking, "Kristin, what does it all mean? What can expect of 2017?" <br />
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Luckily, Kristin-damus, world-renowned psychic to the stars, has compiled a brief, but important list of what's to come this crazy new year.<br />
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In 2017 my middle child will graduate from high school and go off to college...and her mother will be a mess...<i>my baby</i>! There will be tears, sleepless nights wondering of she's okay, anxious waiting for a call or text. And then...slowly... we will all get used to this new situation. She will gain more independence, I will learn to let go. I will start storing stuff in her bedroom, maybe consider a new office space...But 2017 will be a year of growth.<br />
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At some point in 2017 some sports team will win big in some bigly sports-themed tournament-thingy that everyone will be really excited about...everyone but me. The water cooler talk and Facebook feeds will revolve around that which is completely foreign to me. (But then I will get to go to Costco on a Sunday afternoon and not have to fight the crowds and I'll be like "Yay sports!")<br />
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This year (if I have read the stars and plotted my charts correctly), will see Kellyanne Conway finally have a mental breakdown as she once again tries to put a positive spin on some crazy thing her boss has tweeted/done/claimed to have done or not done despite video footage that claims otherwise. During a live television broadcast, Ms. Conway's eyes will start spinning around in her head, she'll tear off her mic and storm off the stage muttering expletives as she plans her getaway to Tahiti. And she will shave her head, à la Brittney Spears' 2007 tour. (Okay, I just threw that last bit in there--but I think it would be a fitting way to break from the craziness of this political cycle.)<br />
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The character of Toby on "This Is Us" will come back from his major heart attack (where the show left us on a cliff hanger when they took off for the mid season break). <i>BECAUSE NOTHING BAD HAPPENS ON CHRISTMAS EVE! </i><br />
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In 2017 famous people will die. But WHO you ask? Well, an older celebrity, one who's been struggling with addiction, and probably one who's been fighting some up-until-now undisclosed disease. And a bunch of other not famous people will die, people you might know and love. Because that's how life works, it ends whether you're ready for it to or not. But babies will be born, to the famous and not so famous alike. People will beat the odds against cancer, addiction, and the Lottery. <br />
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2017 will be the year that I don't get into swimsuit shape (as opposed to all those <i>other</i> years). But this year it won't be because I forgot/was too lazy/discovered the hidden stash of Halloween candy. No, 2017 will be the year of "If you don't want to see my tummy stop looking" shape. I will wear that two piece if I want to, so nibble on your kale and drink your cleansing smoothie while I sip a cold frosty drink poolside.<br />
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2017 will be a year of great change. A whole generation of young Americans have become swept into the political process and will not sit quietly now. Women have decided that their voices need to be heard. Artists and musician and actors, butchers and bakers and candle stick makers have woken up to an America they don't recognize, one filled with divisiveness and anger and ugly rhetoric. Now all of us who thought things were looking okay--paying our bills, raising out children--are going to have to step up and get involved. Sure it would be nice if our government were looking out for our best interests, but it seems it's time we start speaking up for ourselves.<br />
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Welcome to a new year and a new America. Put on your seat belts--it's going to be a bumpy ride.<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-15863661658345227152016-09-06T20:43:00.004-07:002016-09-06T20:43:59.565-07:00Aunt Kristin's Back to School Survival Guide<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZ6gbkON5iFZ_pef0kCqIYTMCpBvmSgbQZSu9UDhWztwwd6B3r19Y6cHmTXxpfYH277mn9EBdIPd-ylfwPpUtK7cxfke5N2vPMKsSAsvYM7mZt-FzsGpUV8MGa7hAXy_XpkggRJPg3u_d/s1600/bus.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZ6gbkON5iFZ_pef0kCqIYTMCpBvmSgbQZSu9UDhWztwwd6B3r19Y6cHmTXxpfYH277mn9EBdIPd-ylfwPpUtK7cxfke5N2vPMKsSAsvYM7mZt-FzsGpUV8MGa7hAXy_XpkggRJPg3u_d/s1600/bus.png" /></a>The new school year starts this week and many of us are still on vacation mode. Luckily Aunt Kristin, survivor of more back-to-school registration days and open houses than I care to count, is here to help you and even the most resistant offspring ease into the new year.<br />
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Most back-to-school "experts" will advise you to start putting your kids to bed early (and up at the crack of dawn) a week or so before school starts. Do not fall for this trap! Do you know how easy it is to get a child, who has been lying around all day watching cartoons and playing XBox, to sleep before 10 pm? About as easy as getting your teenage son to hug you in public. They won't fall asleep until the wee small hours and when you try to wake them early there will be all sorts of ill-tempered churlishness in your home. Why would you intentionally make your children grumpy while they are still in your care <i>all day long</i>? Let the teachers deal with the difficult transition from night-owl to early-bird--that's what they get paid the big bucks for! (An apology in advance to my kids' teachers...But you have been warned.)<br />
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When doing your new school clothes shopping, do not buy them an entire year's wardrobe. Sure those boots look cute, but they will not fit in two months. I always found that if I bought my kids the new expensive jeans they wanted for the first day, those same pants would be an inch too short come November. I don't know what it is about the first month of school that makes them grow, but it never fails (often in direction proportion to what you just spent on clothes). Everyone gets one pair of jeans, a few new tops, and the cheapest pair of shoes they'll agree to be seen wearing in public. Oh, and don't forget to bring your valium and your credit card, because if they're anything like my kids they'll push every single one of your buttons until you would pay any price for the shopping trip to be over.<br />
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The school supply lists seem to get longer and more detailed every year. Do your best. If there really is no such thing as a "3 5/8' X 8 3/4" matriculated ruler, standard size ONLY" you very kindly, using your best grammar and punctuation, email the teacher. Explain, to the best of your abilities, there is no such thing in this hemisphere. You will look like a leader, while the other parents are still frantically calling every office supply store in the tri-state area (afraid they are failing the very first test of School Parent). Little do they know the way to a teacher's heart is not by following every little rule listed in the syllabus, but by sending little Mabel or Oswald, Jr. with chocolate. Oh, and volunteering--a lot.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0xW5i2m5muNTDR1tupNdbbtO8n-14UbC3Zd7COBqpF0GANdfZnznwKF3r2p-_P8v2HIHTTpyCGMxGr-CqeDYeY_3tAFnJHwgtepEukzvbsjMc2Y7XizAdZIqmEk6rNdmUNK9FiTfepAzx/s1600/backpack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0xW5i2m5muNTDR1tupNdbbtO8n-14UbC3Zd7COBqpF0GANdfZnznwKF3r2p-_P8v2HIHTTpyCGMxGr-CqeDYeY_3tAFnJHwgtepEukzvbsjMc2Y7XizAdZIqmEk6rNdmUNK9FiTfepAzx/s200/backpack.jpg" width="176" /></a><br />
On the subject of school supplies, when you see them on sale <i>stock up</i>. In our cupboard there is currently about 20 college-ruled spiral note books, 10 packs of filler paper, four packs of pencils, two packs of pens, and both lined and unlined index cards. My kids, being in high school, do not receive a supply list--each teacher lets them know what they'll need once classes start. It never fails that someone, about the third week of school, needs something akin to the above mentioned non-available school supply...Tomorrow. Somehow my mothering abilities are so legendary that both my child and their teachers assume I can magically produce any office supply at 9 pm on a school night. (Well if it's a spiral notebook or a box of #2 pencils, yes I can.)<br />
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Good luck to all students and parents--have a great year and learn lots! And if your kids don't do well in school this year, no worries. They can always live at home a little longer, eating your food and using your wifi, you know, just until they find their real calling...<br />
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No, no, no, no! Hand them their spiral notebooks and their #2 pencils and push them out the door, quick!<br />
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<i>*Disclaimer: Teachers do not make "big bucks," nor do they want to deal with your sleep-deprived children. I am not a child behavior expert, nor do I play one on TV. Follow this advice at your own discretion.</i><br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-38462692227558152442016-07-12T22:12:00.001-07:002016-07-12T22:12:15.448-07:00Kristin's Summer Reading Extravaganza! (So Far)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Z91PGTEif0C2BNcjZ-R92qXFM-wUXnYm3NXS2NKul_NCmCJvFn7vu0S87Q9Ios8NI4mcINepmMyhLlG7pwh_BS5SZ0DGOV-9a3uKQKMbew7Pc7OUrN96iiDFxdY3Vs3q4u8EzYKFdwMX/s1600/librarybooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Z91PGTEif0C2BNcjZ-R92qXFM-wUXnYm3NXS2NKul_NCmCJvFn7vu0S87Q9Ios8NI4mcINepmMyhLlG7pwh_BS5SZ0DGOV-9a3uKQKMbew7Pc7OUrN96iiDFxdY3Vs3q4u8EzYKFdwMX/s200/librarybooks.jpg" width="200" /></a>I was perusing the aisles of my local library the other day--no particular title in mind, just hoping the right book would find me--when I came across a whole shelf of color coordinated dust jackets with matchy-matchy titles like <i>Morning Mist</i>, <i>Afternoon Clouds</i>, <i>Red Skies at Night. </i>Please don't read these kind of books. (Okay, maybe just one--to get it our of your system). I don't mean to judge--some well meaning author put her heart and soul into writing these books (of the same story over and over again with a slightly different title)--but honestly, I think you deserve better. You deserve variety, new ideas, complicated story lines that make you want to stay up late reading to find out what happens. You deserve dust jackets that don't match!!!<br />
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I'm not saying I'm a summer reading list expert; I will not attempt to give you a list of "Must Read Summer Books That Will Change Your Life and Make You Happy with Our Current Political Situation." All those lists are readily available on Pinterest (and are in my opinion a load of hooey).<br />
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What I can do is tell you what I've read so far this summer, what I liked, and why.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjn4Vtwm6aKsUuR8WXV9S835PGz29Uf87vhBwzIMr8eO21L0MCEUOOX7X7_sd_Sy9kYJfslRKE-COcKKTTUFhQi7yRlxHmJbgmRziKZMRRpLU89Opl6rbLE5bnCsxc-35Qc03ha7DhY1S/s1600/kept.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjn4Vtwm6aKsUuR8WXV9S835PGz29Uf87vhBwzIMr8eO21L0MCEUOOX7X7_sd_Sy9kYJfslRKE-COcKKTTUFhQi7yRlxHmJbgmRziKZMRRpLU89Opl6rbLE5bnCsxc-35Qc03ha7DhY1S/s200/kept.jpg" width="136" /></a>"The Kept" by James Scott which I picked up from our local thrift store. (An excellent place to stock up on summer reads, by the way--if I only paid $2.99, who cares if it gets sand in it?) It was kind of mystery meets Larry McMurtry's "Lonesome Dove." With a whole lot of dead people. The characters I loved (complicated, multi-layered, yet relatable) and the plot line started out promising. But then all those dead people got in the way (darn dead people). And while it was enough to keep me reading late into the night, I was a little disappointed with the ending. I give it a solid 3.5 out of 5 stars.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkpMUB_tEBFOKto_4Wu08oh9mbHK6uEfI7h-FiLqcmQpnbllehURgVqXHU7-i9E8NdpoHoXY3Wq9z1LPkcNfZOQmvQrj9ZcEWRTF1s4UeQOuyU1lT8GwYnjUvZY4TAnAtgJKgryK8grdIb/s1600/shadowonthecrown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkpMUB_tEBFOKto_4Wu08oh9mbHK6uEfI7h-FiLqcmQpnbllehURgVqXHU7-i9E8NdpoHoXY3Wq9z1LPkcNfZOQmvQrj9ZcEWRTF1s4UeQOuyU1lT8GwYnjUvZY4TAnAtgJKgryK8grdIb/s200/shadowonthecrown.jpg" width="131" /></a>Patricia Bracewells' "Shadow on the Crown" was recommended on our library's website as a historical fiction title. Let's just say the history of the English monarchy makes our current political situation look like a walk in the park, holding hands and singing "Kumbaya". Intrigue, poisonings, murder, and strategic pregnancies all to get one step closer to the crown. Throw in a heaving bosom and some throbbing loins (because how are you going to get the King of England to knock you up without a heaving bosom?) make history come alive. This book was a 4.5 stars in "Kristin's Summer Book List to Make You Forget It's Not Really Summer-like Anymore".<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4A0j3pgFIY98u70cgH-Cur9LXe9oytCw5fsMOSwjOXOXPQ7DTWd2gP7LlZ4G49oDcApYu9rqk3ap1IFYs5PtGPj4B0fVYkkW9d7lo-yXmJEfY3DfbY5bicDHiwc0am-Tskr4lE67FQODS/s1600/nightingale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4A0j3pgFIY98u70cgH-Cur9LXe9oytCw5fsMOSwjOXOXPQ7DTWd2gP7LlZ4G49oDcApYu9rqk3ap1IFYs5PtGPj4B0fVYkkW9d7lo-yXmJEfY3DfbY5bicDHiwc0am-Tskr4lE67FQODS/s200/nightingale.jpg" width="129" /></a>"The Nightingale" by Kristin Hannah--oh, I so didn't want to like this book. The author generally writes romance-ish titles (ala Nicholas Sparks of "The Notebook" fame) and it had been on the best seller list for weeks and weeks. (I generally shy away from titles that EVERYONE raves about because I don't trust the hype--I still haven't gotten over my disappointment in Nicholas Evans' "The Horse Whisperer.") But as far as summer reading goes, this was easily a 4.5 stars. (It probably didn't hurt that I read most of it while camping in the rain--in the warmth of our camper, of course.) Set in France during WWII, it follows two sisters as they try to survive Nazi occupation. Fabulous characters, interesting back story, and a little mystery thrown in. Oui, oui! Vive la France! (Okay, maybe 4.75 stars.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhOyDh_Qx3bSj-PW_8921IDB5iVUyBaEM8RoBrwMZSZryqhmt1UY_iRixxfh-0xosmQITRPu0r2TnT3f95-4LjrcsUaXivu_lGySnMM6PecR9lD4fkWW69tcwJcol8HOQUNz0RaSbe9Z9/s1600/Brooklyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhOyDh_Qx3bSj-PW_8921IDB5iVUyBaEM8RoBrwMZSZryqhmt1UY_iRixxfh-0xosmQITRPu0r2TnT3f95-4LjrcsUaXivu_lGySnMM6PecR9lD4fkWW69tcwJcol8HOQUNz0RaSbe9Z9/s200/Brooklyn.jpg" width="131" /></a>"Brooklyn," by Colm Toibin, I heard about because they were making it into a movie and I wanted to read it beforehand. Have you ever come across a book character you get so mad at you just want to shake them? Yeah, me either, but maybe I had some issues with the main character of this book. Ellis Lacey seems like a smart, motivated young woman who is looking for a better life than she has in Ireland after WWII. She moves to America and looks to be working toward her goals and then does something so stupid I almost didn't finish the book. I did, but I'm still mad at her. Only because I liked everything until that point, I'm giving it 3 stars. (And if I ever meet Colm Toibin, we will be having a serious talk.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuiKeSjVnqZZvOq67zQDqWEiw07ruDhQnrk08HW2TXNxkoyHI_9FXqYxgtHoolscRfcrqQM0VIM6G7penI3n5XzLiGAFl66-IAxQ_K2T52RvvJRLkPpZAvjmBiKZCORuql5XKsCrO9RBtL/s1600/thegirlonthetrain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuiKeSjVnqZZvOq67zQDqWEiw07ruDhQnrk08HW2TXNxkoyHI_9FXqYxgtHoolscRfcrqQM0VIM6G7penI3n5XzLiGAFl66-IAxQ_K2T52RvvJRLkPpZAvjmBiKZCORuql5XKsCrO9RBtL/s200/thegirlonthetrain.jpg" width="135" /></a>"The Girl on the Train" by Paula Hawkins--another a book I'd been dancing around (tango anyone?) because it was on the best seller list with talk of a movie in the works. "You'll like this if you liked 'Gone Girl'." Well, I didn't like "Gone Girl", but I gave it a try anyway. I loved the main character, Rachel, whose life is one hot mess--but she's also smart and funny. Then she witnesses something; a crime of passion, a runaway bride, or just her inebriated brain making things up? This is touted as a "psychological thriller"--ugh, sometimes publishing marketing departments make me tired. It's a good story line (what <i>really</i> happened that night?), with complex, flawed characters who seem like total losers one moment and like they could be you the next. Okay, okay, 5 stars. Summer Reading Extravaganza winner!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJIlLk_lNMqTWCLlqH19WbDErH0E_bhkMYeVYhac_kaH7hZ2wkFWWlo6nK8UVwQVoU4iX0qQDBL_gToP87m1X_a3CtMBjWFvr8jNuRE8VWTb-jCiV6qS7sH_4cycluUhNETo6GfElsrwc/s1600/summer+reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJIlLk_lNMqTWCLlqH19WbDErH0E_bhkMYeVYhac_kaH7hZ2wkFWWlo6nK8UVwQVoU4iX0qQDBL_gToP87m1X_a3CtMBjWFvr8jNuRE8VWTb-jCiV6qS7sH_4cycluUhNETo6GfElsrwc/s200/summer+reading.jpg" width="200" /></a>Coming soon in Kristin's Summer Reading Extravaganza are these titles I just picked up from the library: Terry McMillan's "I Almost Forgot About You" (I almost forgot about Terry McMillan!), Susan King's "Lady McBeth" (historical fiction which is sure to have all sorts of back stabbing and conniving--fingers crossed for throbbing loins), and a young adult title that keeps coming to my attention, "Six of Crows" by Leigh Bardugo--the cover art is fabulously dark and fascinating.<br />
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Now if you'll excuse me, I have some reading to do.<br />
<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-66872286222402197122016-05-18T17:15:00.000-07:002016-05-18T19:25:13.365-07:00To the Class of 2016Tomorrow I'll be attending Lakewood High School's Senior Presentations, where the graduating class of 2016 will present a portfolio of accomplishments to a board of community members and school staff. I went last year for the first time and really enjoyed seeing what these kids in our community had done and what they had planned for their futures.<br />
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I was thinking what I'd say to these kids if I were the one doing the presenting. What advice would I give them? Luckily for me I won't be the one in the hot seat (needing to pass in order to graduate), but if I was it'd go something like this:<br />
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First of all, I'm totally going to pass you. That is a given, so no worries there. Unless you spend your time ranting about how Donald Trump will make America great again. Okay, I'll probably still pass you, but you'd better have a solid argument. And chocolate wouldn't hurt.<br />
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Next, even though I've probably never met most of you, I am proud of your accomplishments and look forward to what you'll do in the future. When my son graduated a couple years ago, the school district superintendent in his speech told them "Lakewood loves you." And I thought how true that is. We are a community that is centered around our small school district (three elementary schools, one middle school, and one high school all within walking distance of each other). These are <i>our</i> kids. Even if I don't personally know them or their parents or their siblings. If you tell me you went to Lakewood, I will consider you to be one of ours. (So behave accordingly.)<br />
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I'd also tell you that while your parents (and other adults of my generation) may seem totally uncool and completely un-tech savvy, keep in mind we were the ones who taught you how to use the toilet. And eat with utensils. And tie your shoes, and read, and...One day all the stuff you know now will be obsolete and your kids will roll your eyes at you, too. And us grandmas and grandpas will laugh and laugh.<br />
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Lastly, I'd tell them that while graduating from high school is an important step, this is just one of the many important steps you'll take. Travel the world, go to college, learn a trade, but keep going. You are already moving in the right direction--why stop now?<br />
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Wait! Always separate your darks from your lights when doing laundry, never open an email claiming to be from a Nigerian prince who wants to give you money, and be nice to your little sister!<br />
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I think that's it.<br />
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I am ready to be amazed by all the presentations tomorrow. (And remember kids, Mrs. Graf likes dark chocolate.)<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-80267789365440109582016-03-22T21:19:00.000-07:002016-03-22T21:19:30.773-07:00Picking Presidents<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTFfnxBJG6nK014XV74sj2fmdcv3baNZfe0mF0U5Lmj02UUNM-O6WwI4Vit_dZh2cnzwvOQweIU_TBHPJMgvLooSpnOJsvTClMFkI6RAbPXr1Fz8XtXXX6fgoNt9b0JPnt9Tw-a9Q1sb5/s1600/check.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTFfnxBJG6nK014XV74sj2fmdcv3baNZfe0mF0U5Lmj02UUNM-O6WwI4Vit_dZh2cnzwvOQweIU_TBHPJMgvLooSpnOJsvTClMFkI6RAbPXr1Fz8XtXXX6fgoNt9b0JPnt9Tw-a9Q1sb5/s1600/check.jpg" /></a>Has the presidential primaries got you down? Tired of hearing all the empty promises of the candidates? I found myself wishing we had an easier, more reliable method for choosing our next president, so I came up with some guidelines to help the process along. Simply mark off the following qualities necessary in a presidential candidate and the path to the White House will be clear.<br />
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__Must have read "Jane Eyre". This is non-negotiable. If you cannot appreciate the plot intricacies of the greatest novel of <u>all time</u> (<i>he loves her for her mind!</i>), you are dead to me. And it clearly states in the constitution that dead people cannot be president.<br />
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__Must understand calculus. I realize this puts me out of the running--I will bow out gracefully--but I think the leader of the free world should be smarter than me. And if you can understand calculus, maybe that whole national debt thing will make sense to you.<br />
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__Must be able to identify all the Disney princesses. Being able to connect to the common man--or in this case, the common 5-year-old--is essential in a leader. This bank of knowledge will undoubtedly draw in that youth demographic.<br />
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__Must not be a douche bag. (Argh, I know. Pretty much disqualifies a large portion of the candidates, but we're trying to narrow the field, remember.) Having a president that no one ever invites to all those state dinners would be a real downer. ("Do we have to invite him along?" "Well, he is President." "Ugh, okay.")<br />
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__Must be able to belt out, with feeling, Otis Redding's "The Dock of the Bay" whenever requested. A president must exhibit passion and soul. And if you can't sing Otis Redding, you ain't got soul.<br />
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__Must prefer dark chocolate to any dessert with fruit in it. Fruit is a health food, not dessert. A president who doesn't understand this will never fully comprehend the USDA's food pyramid and will try to pass off ketchup as a vegetable. (Uh, Hello--ketchup is made from tomatoes and tomatoes are a <i>fruit</i>.)<br />
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__Must have never publicly uttered the word "bimbo." (Unless referencing baked goods.)<br />
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__Must have at least one embarrassing relative who will surface post-election and make headlines for some stupid stunt. Like being arrested for stealing Queen Elizabeth's wig, or pantsing Vladimir Putin. 'Cause who doesn't enjoy an embarrassing relative (that's not your own)?<br />
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__Must understand how the government works. I know this should go without saying--I mean, we all had to attend that high school civics class (and hey, who can forget "School House Rock"?). But given some of the candidates, I'm beginning to think they don't have to pass any sort of test.<br />
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__Must watch all episodes of "School House Rock".<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8wWJvK4LH_Y39eekZ5DYHxUE-5MuYSw4INLSUqS2kRV5bBx6RgieXfPeLLrIRkD7nhN18TrdA_B5yyY0klG6u3VNFj7dPPQx6z4YjMJ6lzyNGIV23L4TfslEsyMA0CLBMEHc4o9YuLYz/s1600/vote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8wWJvK4LH_Y39eekZ5DYHxUE-5MuYSw4INLSUqS2kRV5bBx6RgieXfPeLLrIRkD7nhN18TrdA_B5yyY0klG6u3VNFj7dPPQx6z4YjMJ6lzyNGIV23L4TfslEsyMA0CLBMEHc4o9YuLYz/s1600/vote.jpg" /></a>There, wasn't that easy? Now any candidates that passed at least 8 out of the the 10 categories can now move on the the next round--something I like to call "Anyone But Him."<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-5792489661692172272016-02-19T22:43:00.000-08:002016-02-19T22:43:54.468-08:00Adulting Is HardIt's that magical time year, when I drag up the last little bit of my Catholic school catechism and observe Lent by giving up Facebook. I know this sounds like a silly and superficial thing to give up, but I love Facebook with all it's time-wasting quizzes, funny posts, and cat pictures. It gives me a quick break from my alter ego as Office Manager/Amazing Wife/Doting Mother. And while it's not going to get me any closer to sainthood, it's hard for me to go the six weeks without it.<br />
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Unfortunately. this Facebook Fast coincides with all sorts of other adult responsibilities that I really don't enjoy and would really like to complain about on social media--but cannot. Because, you know, Catholic guilt. <br />
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My husband has his own business and it was decided that, as I knew how to add and subtract, I could run the business office. And somehow I was also put in charge of choosing a health insurance plan--not just for our family, mind you, but for the whole company. You would think having taken three kids to all those well-child check ups I would have a strong opinion about health insurance. But trying to sort through all the variables of coverage, while trying to keep costs down (but employees happy!) has been like trying to juggle strawberry jello in a china shop on Thursday in the rain. <i> It makes no sense.</i> I considered just closing my eyes and pointing at one. And the paperwork and forms and waivers and applications! Wait, did I just but a house? Okay, well at least I met my deductible.<br />
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Tax Time! Since I have an English degree and only the aforementioned accounting skills, we have a CPA that prepares our personal and corporate tax returns. However, this CPA, not having been blessed with ESP (LOL), wants me to gather all sorts of minutiae and documents and forms that only CPAs and government officials have ever heard of. What is the square root of our home office and how much did we spend on our toast bill last year? Ummm... Form 940 and our W-3? Uh yeah, I have them filed under "WTF". Luckily for me, everyone in our CPA's office understands my little financial-development delay and patiently explains "it's the paper with the numbers on it, Kristin."<br />
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My older daughter is finishing up her junior year of high school and beginning to plan for college. SATs and GPAs and MGC (Mothers Gone Crazy) are all in a swirl at our house. You would think, having been through this a few years ago with my son, this time would be easier. You would be <b>wrong</b>. The idea of my daughter, my <i>baby girl</i>, being practically an adult and moving away freaks me out so much I can only consider it in little snippets. I've gotten to the point where I can hand her the brochures she gets in the mail from potential colleges without having the urge to rip them up and run away. That's all I can promise for now. How can I get through this stage without commiserating with all my Facebook friends who have gone through the same thing? What if I feel the need to post the picture of her on her first day of kindergarten?! Ugh, even if I was promised a spot right up there next to Mother Teresa, this might not be worth it.<br />
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In conclusion, adulting is hard. Complaining in a joking manner on social media is fun.<br />
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Stay in school and don't do drugs.<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-13339113723140302462015-11-09T10:40:00.000-08:002015-11-09T10:40:47.907-08:00Welcome to the PartyIt's that time of the year again--there is a chill in the air and people are looking forward to the winter holidays. You know, New Years, Thanksgiving, and It's-My-Christmas-Not-Your-Happy-Holidays.<br />
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Yes, the "War on Christmas" has begun and I haven't even finished putting away my Halloween decorations, yet.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPD15l_ACO_dHmESpDEHI8Qi1K_o5HLjyhc2STw_p2wywHjkxq-3frU61FQ-adfFnrdqD1FTy_haf9FCWcSWrk_ynmV0PXGdpbKTMYRsi13b5tQZFOWpwYwZ8E8FYBSf70skwkRxTkjkFc/s1600/redcup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPD15l_ACO_dHmESpDEHI8Qi1K_o5HLjyhc2STw_p2wywHjkxq-3frU61FQ-adfFnrdqD1FTy_haf9FCWcSWrk_ynmV0PXGdpbKTMYRsi13b5tQZFOWpwYwZ8E8FYBSf70skwkRxTkjkFc/s200/redcup.jpg" width="200" /></a>Things have already reached a fevered pitch--some people plan on boycotting Starbucks because their traditional red cups do not have a Christmas motif on them this year. Because....? Snowflakes are a secret code for "Christ is born"? (I must have missed that day in parochial school.)<br />
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I understand that people object to their holiest of celebrations being made into something less. (I mean, were are talking about the birth of a savior here.) I agree the whole thing has turned into a over-blown commercial frenzy and often leads to more stress than fellowship. Yes, Christians claim this holiday as their own and want to keep it focused on the "reason for the season" which is a wonderful intention. <br />
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However (you knew it was coming, right?):<br />
1) Not everyone in this country is Christian--<i>and that's okay</i>.<br />
2) Why can't non-Christians celebrate a general holiday season? And why can't governments and retailers and Starbucks invite them to join in the spirit?<br />
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Let's say all your friends are going to a birthday party and suggest you come too. You're not <i>friend-</i>friends with the guest of honor, but your everyone tells you to come anyway. You show up at the house and the birthday boy answers the door, but won't let you in unless you know the secret password. Your friends all tell you it's "New England Patriots Rule" but you just can't manage to utter such a thing. So you are turned away from the party and all your other football-fan friends act smug as you go home alone.<br />
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<b style="font-style: italic;">Or, </b>let's say Jesus is having a birthday party and invites everyone to celebrate with him. You are not yourself a follower, but your friends assure you it's cool. You show up at the house and Jesus answers the door. He might ask you to wipe your feet, but do you suppose he insists you wish him a happy birthday? Does he check for your Christian membership card? Or does he welcome you to the party and tell you where the wine is? (Made fresh today!)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXHd4fv39lcGYTNPa2VO9RgotSwcx3Ba8ooXdwMFtgT872r3oxh8OA4-PyXiyEjZgiD6HwutU93BM-toj2I380ubJCgqFEWHHZIUjXT6nypt-EhOREnZjFvOVkmM7u5ZOOhkP6_9Hijfe/s1600/christmas+party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXHd4fv39lcGYTNPa2VO9RgotSwcx3Ba8ooXdwMFtgT872r3oxh8OA4-PyXiyEjZgiD6HwutU93BM-toj2I380ubJCgqFEWHHZIUjXT6nypt-EhOREnZjFvOVkmM7u5ZOOhkP6_9Hijfe/s200/christmas+party.jpg" width="191" /></a>The point is Jesus was all about including everyone--children, lepers, and tax collectors. No one needed a secret code word, no one needed a membership card, everyone was invited. Why would we insist that Buddhists/atheists/Muslims/People who like to say "Happy Holidays" can't come to our party?<br />
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So you can wish me happy Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, or Festivus. I may reply in kind, or I may wish you a Merry Christmas. I like to think what we are actually saying to each other is "Welcome to the party! (The wine is in the back.)"Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-61184265585948467702015-07-31T21:26:00.001-07:002015-07-31T21:26:25.130-07:00Life at 90Here in Washington state we know rain. We have accepted that the majority of our lawn is actually moss; that gray, cold, and damp are a lifestyle, not a choice; we own plenty of Gor-tex. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qaCJ8RHTE-UY-dRiy22ZEoTHMf5Hg_v8kzQXcrS80ueQqc0bBEUOA8f-40dBDa_tPEujO6unkOxC_MsRI9z8dLzHhySA8XyZ-kfNKZSDHVdO0CaxfRom7ryO_O-CXKpzSM_fDDkiS_lh/s1600/weather.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qaCJ8RHTE-UY-dRiy22ZEoTHMf5Hg_v8kzQXcrS80ueQqc0bBEUOA8f-40dBDa_tPEujO6unkOxC_MsRI9z8dLzHhySA8XyZ-kfNKZSDHVdO0CaxfRom7ryO_O-CXKpzSM_fDDkiS_lh/s200/weather.PNG" width="112" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Weather forecast: HOT</span></i></td></tr>
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What we don't understand is this thing people in other parts of the country call "dry heat." Dry and heat don't even become part of our vocabulary until the first time we vacation outside of the state. Which is why this summer has come as such a surprise for many of us. We've had a record number of sunny days reaching 90°+ with little or no rain. Our lawns are dead (even the moss), wild fires spring up in suburbs, and we are feeling a little loopy from all the heat. Okay, maybe that's just me.<br />
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Summer, as most of the country knows summer, has changed me.<br />
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I have developed a love/hate relationship with air conditioning. When it's been over 90 degrees for the last several days you kind of need it, but something about the recycled, dehumidified, Arctic blasts our window unit puts out causes my sinuses to freeze up. I need air, not processed air-like emissions. Give me some old-fashioned marine influence over a freon-induced gas any day. And while many people like the white noise effect of the air conditioner, having that hum going all night gives me weird dreams. Jets landing on my house, robots taking over the world, and polar bears playing shuffleboard do not make for peaceful dreams. Of course, neither does roasting like a pig in a blanket. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGpepL3eh1FDUprswajn3koUITUZE3wK2QITDaK816w3vprutlopsfP1O1GzPHaTWajYVFmLBMhKuHL9GcJ9qzOudoa8pDvHOASVWdICNc2exGcDQdp_53zGa9wmN2J1P22xy75P1gF6N/s1600/wildwaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGpepL3eh1FDUprswajn3koUITUZE3wK2QITDaK816w3vprutlopsfP1O1GzPHaTWajYVFmLBMhKuHL9GcJ9qzOudoa8pDvHOASVWdICNc2exGcDQdp_53zGa9wmN2J1P22xy75P1gF6N/s200/wildwaves.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At the local water slide park--argh!</i></td></tr>
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At the beginning of the summer I went out in the sunshine every chance I got. I developed what one might call a golden tan (keep in mind my natural color is white--not flesh, or ecru, or peach, but pasty-are-you-sure-you're-not-sick-white). I would put off household chores because "you never know when we'll get a day like this again!" Yeah, I am so over it. Now we hide inside, out of the harmful UV rays, breathing our fake air and becoming increasingly pale. It might as well be winter.<br />
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We used to joke that the stores put their summer clothes on sale right around the time we in the Pacific Northwest could finally start wearing them. We don't usually get consistent sunshine until after the Fourth of July, but this year it started before the kids even got out of school. I have already run through my entire summer wardrobe, which consists of the three pairs of shorts I'm willing to be seen in public in, as well as last year's swim suit (which may or may not fit). I have begun to stare longingly at the fall boots and cute cardigans in the back-to-school ads. Things that, at this rate, we may not get to wear until December. My body is not built for hot weather fashions (except for mumus--I could totally rock a mumu.) I am not now, nor will I be anytime in the next month, "bikini ready". If I'd known we were actually going to have swim suit weather for more than two days, maybe I'd done a few more of those Biggest Loser workouts. Okay, I probably wouldn't have, but at least I'd be mentally prepared to bare my sturdy thighs for three months in a row.<br />
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I am physically and emotionally done with summer and heat and all that it entails. If next year is anything like this year, I'm moving to Iceland. Do you know how warm it is in Iceland right now? Forty-six degrees. I bet they had to put on a sweater when they went outside. And it's supposed to rain there tomorrow.<br />
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Sigh.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAbSaGSwPEaE_lApoHm-cw8EbHr6wa7WmN23yU4mWBTIj2Rk5zvQyDugDClGRmpl5R10zY1j_iDBcY5QrOYFerQI-of7dHHJ9g-hiki15T3T8XBUb_KOOay9cgtkMrrBykM6JKU7gX9Lv/s1600/popcorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAbSaGSwPEaE_lApoHm-cw8EbHr6wa7WmN23yU4mWBTIj2Rk5zvQyDugDClGRmpl5R10zY1j_iDBcY5QrOYFerQI-of7dHHJ9g-hiki15T3T8XBUb_KOOay9cgtkMrrBykM6JKU7gX9Lv/s200/popcorn.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's important to keep a sense of humor</i></td></tr>
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-82847359263635741042015-05-09T21:02:00.000-07:002015-05-09T21:28:20.814-07:00Kristin Alvick Graf's Manual on Motherhood: Winging ItRecently I put out a query to my Facebook friends: should I let my daughter give up on drum lessons after only 2 sessions? Many friends responded by saying she should stick with it, that they wish their parents had made them see though a few more things they had started. <br />
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Well, the month of lessons I had paid for is over and my daughter is no longer a drum student. I figured I was already making her do one thing she didn't really want to do--school track--two such things might be too much. And a school sport is cheaper.<br />
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I thought about making her stick it out for another month, but finally took her word for it when she said she was no longer interested. Would she regret it? Was it the right decision? I honestly don't know.<br />
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Once again it becomes painfully obvious that, when it comes to parenting, I really don't know what I'm doing.<br />
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When I started this gig 19 years ago, I read the books and asked for advice. I weighed input from friends and family, seriously considering each issue carefully. At his point, however, I'm just winging it.<br />
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Did I ruin my kids by not weaning them at 12 months, or letting them have a pacifier? What about not allowing them to spend the night at that one kid's house, or letting them eating peanut butter crackers for dinner? Was I teaching my kids the right things?<br />
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After this last round of "Spin the Wheel to See If I Just Ruined My Kid's Life", I decided that my choices as a parent may or may not lead to my kids having a stint in therapy/never fulfilling their potential as a rock star/knowing what a "normal" mother is like. And I've made peace with that. <br />
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The way I figure it, I taught them to read and to look both ways before crossing the street. Everything else they'll have to figure out on their own. A little intellectual ability and a little common sense should see them through just about anything.<br />
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So if my daughter comes to me in 20 years saying she wishes I'd made her stick with drums, I'll tell her the God's honest truth: it was too expensive.Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-63932822098329410312015-04-08T11:54:00.002-07:002015-04-08T11:54:50.217-07:00Riding in Cars with TeensOur middle child is six weeks away from getting her driver's license. She's been through the driver's ed course, has passed both the written and driving test mandated by the state, and now waits (impatiently) for her 16th birthday to roll around. <br />
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Oh God, how I hate this stage.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkB_shgZkFeGCgjQixmvaOv-qjY4o954LWUs7UnW8OYMSLU3_tX8rg_JEOHnc22vft0I-YltXDcOlWoRLDRoZ4wKEXX9JfiWUPRe7doxQEbxHqivTh17pQLeKFOabK8eMOurLez8ZErens/s1600/teen+driver.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkB_shgZkFeGCgjQixmvaOv-qjY4o954LWUs7UnW8OYMSLU3_tX8rg_JEOHnc22vft0I-YltXDcOlWoRLDRoZ4wKEXX9JfiWUPRe7doxQEbxHqivTh17pQLeKFOabK8eMOurLez8ZErens/s1600/teen+driver.bmp" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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While I support all growth opportunities for my children, I am not a fan of riding with my kids. At the beginning of this little adventure I tried arguing that I had taught all three kids to read so it was my husband's job to teach them to drive. For the most part he has honored this, but since I work from home I am usually the one riding shotgun to sport practices and after school events with the 15-year-old and their brand new learner's permit.</div>
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You'd think having been through this before with our oldest child, it would be no big deal. Teen drivers are by turns overly cautious and frighteningly optimistic about road conditions and their driving skills so they need lots of practice. Two licensed drivers down (well, once my daughter hits magic 16), with only one to go, and no accidents yet (knock on wood).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMMFAUYI4aYbP__1-Iz-L87dS1yNeQn7WKJNerx9w-RkLOF3KHUSAzb_NmmgdpYgOfdRncbWoSaxB47CDhMMaKXyDqamRsUWmdwgMMNp02ZZXOrBJ1bCu7RpkH223LlQTMdl0WyzbtCcc/s1600/drivers-ed-car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMMFAUYI4aYbP__1-Iz-L87dS1yNeQn7WKJNerx9w-RkLOF3KHUSAzb_NmmgdpYgOfdRncbWoSaxB47CDhMMaKXyDqamRsUWmdwgMMNp02ZZXOrBJ1bCu7RpkH223LlQTMdl0WyzbtCcc/s1600/drivers-ed-car.jpg" height="171" width="200" /></a>Yet there is something about putting my life (and insurance rates) in the hands of a child I gave birth to that makes me a little nervous. It's not that either child has ever been a "bad" driver (inexperienced yes, reckless no). It's just that I've always been responsible for them: their health, well-being, manners, everything. So when they get behind that wheel with me in the passenger seat, they may be in control of the car, but if they hit a cat, run a red light, or even dent the bumper, it's partly my fault. Because I am the licensed driver overseeing them, but also because I am their mother. I know, this is my own weird hang-up, but there it is in all it's weirdness. These are my babies, it is my responsibility to keep them safe. But how can I keep them safe if I'm not in control?<br />
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And there it is, the real reason I have such a problem with this whole process. I have to let go and trust that they can do this on their own. Oh poop, being a parent is hard.</div>
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I am actually looking forward to my daughter getting her license because then I will not have to ride with her anymore. I plan on blaming any of her mistakes on the driving school... or her father. </div>
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(For the record, she's an <i>excellent</i> reader.)</div>
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Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-83260054174641327832015-04-04T19:50:00.000-07:002015-04-04T20:00:41.561-07:00Dog's BreakfastMy self-imposed Facebook fast is almost over (6 hours and 45 minutes to go, but who's counting?) and now is the time for me to reflect on what I did during my six weeks in the desert of no social network. <br />
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(I did try out some Instagram-meh-and I attempted a little Twitter but it was too ADHD for me.)<br />
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I watched quite a bit more TV ("Rehab Addict" and "The Rachel Maddow Show" topped the list. I am now well informed about politics, but want to buy old houses.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqnH9Jj0bTJ9rjBSzQM00AuQRoklALLt7AwiqgysX8MZ54vuWesBkPfo64Aina5jTKc8d7Xv4RwmMsI7iOxiA6YKR4M5ml9KNLFqx6TKtkBtQ2-vJ_AEuu2L0V-LjqwuywBYVXHN8GgUh/s1600/longwayhome.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqnH9Jj0bTJ9rjBSzQM00AuQRoklALLt7AwiqgysX8MZ54vuWesBkPfo64Aina5jTKc8d7Xv4RwmMsI7iOxiA6YKR4M5ml9KNLFqx6TKtkBtQ2-vJ_AEuu2L0V-LjqwuywBYVXHN8GgUh/s1600/longwayhome.png" height="200" width="131" /></a>I meant to write more...yeah, did't happen...but I did read some new and interesting books. Normally I don't read many mysteries (I have a hard time warming up to a genre that centers around someone dying) but I picked up a book from my library's "Best Bets" shelf that I found intriguing. Louise Penny's <i>The Long Way Home </i>is part of a series centering around a homicide inspector in Quebec. The story had well developed characters and several other story lines going on besides just a dead body (that doesn't show up until the end). <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj822ek1t6i9ibVOjCMKCkkD43R3V8pLGKCh399bTkFKoaprOfP4BHde2gQk08GTJaaPXeMfZb1lZZ42Ib7NGqOr9IdjAURyeDHq5VnBEo8rUp0S5sRnHfgsKIpGJo3_jPysNLebqmLdPtl/s1600/beneful.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj822ek1t6i9ibVOjCMKCkkD43R3V8pLGKCh399bTkFKoaprOfP4BHde2gQk08GTJaaPXeMfZb1lZZ42Ib7NGqOr9IdjAURyeDHq5VnBEo8rUp0S5sRnHfgsKIpGJo3_jPysNLebqmLdPtl/s1600/beneful.jpg" height="186" width="200" /></a></div>
Two of the main characters are artists and the discussion of how they approach their creations becomes an important turning point for the story. One woman says her first attempts at paining were a mess, like a "dog's breakfast"--a confusing jumble of what she was trying to convey. But the fact that she put it all out there, trying a new approach to art, made it a worthwhile process.<br />
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At this point I realized my writing is sometimes like the dog's breakfast (my dogs eat Beneful for breakfast and dinner, in case you're wondering). My process often involves me just throwing it all out there and seeing what sticks. Sometimes some stuff sticks that really shouldn't and I try to scrape off what I can. But it doesn't have to be perfect--especially at the start--it just has to be started. Because those dogs are hungry. (I really don't know where I'm going with this now, but the fact is that I'm going.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigM3KMPXXYUB0kdwUgAO7Qa0CZKNQczimVyDxeOfDRStJPT9Dsgu8QRBMtqMiETLbt6DW7AamMmG_6PwaQcdL9VIYWLM2f1jyBQkhj8ONnpopjiHPjMMdw7gi0zYbTaLOJPJERKl3-eXLI/s1600/dancelike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigM3KMPXXYUB0kdwUgAO7Qa0CZKNQczimVyDxeOfDRStJPT9Dsgu8QRBMtqMiETLbt6DW7AamMmG_6PwaQcdL9VIYWLM2f1jyBQkhj8ONnpopjiHPjMMdw7gi0zYbTaLOJPJERKl3-eXLI/s1600/dancelike.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a>I also realized that since I wasn't sharing my blog posts on Facebook (since I'm still on my Facebook Fast) very few people are actually reading this anyway (except my mom--Hi Mom!). Dance like no one's watching and write like no one's reading--except the one person who is biologically pre-disposition to think you're special anyway.<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-59320482335483182762015-03-20T15:49:00.000-07:002015-03-20T15:49:23.707-07:00This Dog Won't Hunt<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vxJ0PubT5jt4qH-Z9QaVsKR8MNZkuXgRGNV0i85v8s5XjXow5tarCqAepAgxx3cbNVtMN7bTteIEOtADzkMSRCXxrPIHZ-KZuHQxR0FwpkJbDt-p-EkXDyVq8UeFPjPXnXsZEAFVF9q4/s1600/jackandtucker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vxJ0PubT5jt4qH-Z9QaVsKR8MNZkuXgRGNV0i85v8s5XjXow5tarCqAepAgxx3cbNVtMN7bTteIEOtADzkMSRCXxrPIHZ-KZuHQxR0FwpkJbDt-p-EkXDyVq8UeFPjPXnXsZEAFVF9q4/s1600/jackandtucker.jpg" height="148" width="200" /></a>When I take my dogs for a walk I like to let them loose in the empty field of our neighborhood. There they sniff out the resident bunnies and transient mice, catching a whiff of a few wandering deer. Our dogs are Labrador Retrievers, a breed known for its hunting skills. My husband takes them hunting for pheasant, ducks and geese, so these two are trained to pick up scents, flush prey, and then, well, retrieve. As I watch them do their bird dog-thing, I think about how happy this makes them. This is literally what they were born to do. They lift their noses to the wind, interpreting smells (and sometimes rolling in them) and then twitch their ears around to detect the sound of scurrying feet or flapping wings. At that moment their lives are complete. <br />
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Wouldn't it be great, I think, if humans could have the same experience? If you knew instinctively, through hundreds years of evolution, what you were born to do? And then were able to do it?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_R5J9IzDR6Ryp4NaBr62znT-lHyEWHhdzC0BQVWAq7NE6rA1VGrJYOovhWUW5crwX8THWLF5QR1Fmka8_tAm_4KApR0w9_SvU6_L32NoGPXq8twc8kai2AWlVCHIRBHtcRtU0mN-lutK/s1600/shoe-flowchart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_R5J9IzDR6Ryp4NaBr62znT-lHyEWHhdzC0BQVWAq7NE6rA1VGrJYOovhWUW5crwX8THWLF5QR1Fmka8_tAm_4KApR0w9_SvU6_L32NoGPXq8twc8kai2AWlVCHIRBHtcRtU0mN-lutK/s1600/shoe-flowchart.jpg" height="200" width="190" /></a>I am not a hunting dog (and I would hope that is obvious to all of you). If my ancestors were selectively mating to ensure a certain skill or trait that would lead to a perfect career, they didn't mention it in any will or Ouija board seance. What was I born to do?<br />
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Hunting is definitely out--you have to get up way too early, it's usually dark and cold, and I don't care for wild game. I like my food full of steroids and wrapped in cellophane, thank you very much, just as God intended.<br />
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I love words and books and thesauruses<br />
(or is it thesauri?) . Of course, I also love chocolate. And shoes; I always feel one with the universe when I get a new pair of cute shoes.<br />
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I know I was meant to be a mother. (Whether or not I was meant to be a good mother is still up for discussion. My kids remain skeptical.) But I always knew, without being able to give a concrete reason, that I wanted to have kids. They'll wreck my body and spend all my hard earned money? Sign me up!<br />
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I was not bred to have any sort of athletic talent. Or to even particularly enjoy watching any sort of sporting event, unless it involves one of my offspring (see previous entry). This is another reason my siblings are convinced I was adopted.<br />
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I seem to have a sixth sense for sarcasm. It comes very naturally for me and required no special training. How this translates into a life's purpose I have yet to discover, but I remain hopeful.<br />
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Some days I think I was born to write and read and to share the funny and wonderful things I come across in my life. Other days, not so much. But I come from a family of artists and teachers, musicians and poets. I have apparently been bred to be a thinker of thoughts who dabbles in words.<br />
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But I will not hunt.<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-50551514503631804962015-03-17T20:27:00.000-07:002015-03-17T20:27:04.495-07:00Graduation ReadyMy oldest graduates from high school in two days, people, TWO DAYS. And you know what will happen once he has that diploma in his hand? He will be impossible to live with, which is why God created college. Yeah, yeah, higher learning, improved job outlook, blah-blah-blah. Four year universities were created so mothers would not kill their newly independent offspring. And by "independent" I mean thinks he knows it all and can do whatever he wants, but still complains about the selection in the fridge and would like you to wash his favorite shirt. Today.<br />
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I am trying to keep it together. As he likes to remind me, graduating from high school is not that hard, it's no big deal. Except it is. <br />
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When I went to the parent orientation for high school the spring of his 8th grade year, I remember the principal telling us that the most important key to your child's high school success was showing up. That's it? All he has to do make it to class? Wow, they're not setting their standards very high. And honestly, there are days when that's all the effort my my son would put into it. But show up he did and graduate he will.<br />
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So I'm trying not to make a big deal of the whole event. There will be no lavish party (he's going to numerous of his friends parties and doesn't want to hang out with us anyway) and no new car with a bow on it in the driveway.<br />
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Talking to other senior parents about what their kids are doing next year reminds me of the conversations we all had as they were moving out of preschool up into grade school. What school will they be going to, have you met the teacher, yes I've heard they have a good program there. But this time they are all going off to do it on their own. It feels like some crazy parallel universe where your baby is taller than you with more expensive shoes and a better laptop..<br />
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I should note that I missed my son's first couple days of kindergarten because of the arrival of his new baby sister. He could do kindergarten with out me, surely he can make it to college too.<br />
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<i><b>Epilogue</b>: I started writing this post last spring and never finished it. I am happy to report that both my son and I are enjoying his college experience. You'd think I'd miss him like crazy this first year, worrying if he's okay or eating enough. But he's having the time of his life. (and just maybe he's learning a little something in those classes) and when I do see him I get to treat it like it's a special occasion. And I don't have to worry about having just the teenage boy approved food in the fridge all the time. </i>Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-9492228669482972702015-03-11T21:22:00.001-07:002015-04-05T20:22:04.429-07:00OGD: Obsessive Grammar DisorderI've seen a lot on social media lately criticizing people's grammar and, honestly, it's time to cut everyone a little slack. The Your/You're/There/Their/They're thing has been done to death. I understand when to use an apostrophe, when a quotation mark is called for, and who's on first. But typos happen, brain farts happen. Bad grammar happens.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_J3ZlyPv2dN2HZk0FIrL4yYp4dp-xjS-d55yqu7om3ndV_xAp2hOL9jAYZExHH_1Fpo3yoCJB-nzWaGf-vzEsMaJkk3Qjf0Elm1pAXE4l8-24SkVe07o35t_FdThbeCuntAJQ2SzoUxJ/s1600/english+teachers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_J3ZlyPv2dN2HZk0FIrL4yYp4dp-xjS-d55yqu7om3ndV_xAp2hOL9jAYZExHH_1Fpo3yoCJB-nzWaGf-vzEsMaJkk3Qjf0Elm1pAXE4l8-24SkVe07o35t_FdThbeCuntAJQ2SzoUxJ/s1600/english+teachers.jpg" height="200" width="153" /></a>As an English major-turned-blogger, you'd think I would be all about the grammar. But we didn't study dangling participles or dependent clauses in my college classes--I guess they thought we already knew all that. I have a confession to make: I couldn't diagram a sentence to save my life. (Please don't tell the English Department at UW, because they might revoke my diploma.) My 7th grade daughter recently asked for help with language homework that involved predicates and subordinating conjunctions. (Cue chirping crickets.) Not a clue...<br />
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I have probably broken three major grammar rules in this post alone--I couldn't tell you which, of course, since I am not a Grammar Nazi. This is not to say I don't think good grammar is important, but an occasional slip here and there does not doom one to Punctuation Purgatory. I will not think you're stupid if you misuse parts of speech, but it's quite possible that I won't understand you. "They're dog was over their with there cat" would leave me puzzling for days. I know it's a personality flaw of mine--being so literal means I spend way too much time obsessing over such things.<br />
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Hello, my name is Kristin and I suffer from Obsessive Grammar Disorder.<br />
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I love words and how, when combined just right (and with a little pixie dust) they can create magic. While growing up (the youngest in a family of five) I realized that I was never going to best my brothers at anything physical, so I decided to out-vocabulary them. (See, I'm pretty sure that was not the correct way to say that, but I'm going to call it "Poetic License" and move on.) I started looking up words in the dictionary and dropping them casually into conversation. I once told my brother that he was obtuse and he stared at me with such a mixture of such frustration and loathing that I felt a little giddy inside.<br />
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When used correctly, words can exert tremendous power; when used incorrectly, they create confusion. And it drives me insane. <br />
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There was a construction site near our house last summer that posted a sign along the road that read "Truck's Crossing". Every time I drove by there I went a little crazy trying to figure WHAT THEY WERE SAYING. Was there just one truck that somehow owned that part of road? Could I not cross there? Curse you, OGD!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSMDkGsESnuUbkw33_tji-I8kZbp93J6FLdHv8LB8Zcgv1WIihCIIFhaaskwhIT4dTlDUM9ld9iXq0yaZ3wv_n4D8qHdJu9MET9FVoOUFgVmLV484iUcRPlGHVeZNJZ0F9exxhuEIeQK2/s1600/southern+bread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSMDkGsESnuUbkw33_tji-I8kZbp93J6FLdHv8LB8Zcgv1WIihCIIFhaaskwhIT4dTlDUM9ld9iXq0yaZ3wv_n4D8qHdJu9MET9FVoOUFgVmLV484iUcRPlGHVeZNJZ0F9exxhuEIeQK2/s1600/southern+bread.jpg" height="200" width="171" /></a><br />
There are many examples of grammar gone bad on Pinterest. I came across this beauty recently: "Southern Born/ Southern Bread/ and/ Southern Girl/ Til I'm Dead." I got to the "bread" part and was prepared for a clever play on words, but instead was sadly disappointed with plain old bad grammar. She, of course, meant "bred," but there I was trying to figure out what southern bread was (biscuits maybe?) and obsessing over what could made this into something funny. ("Southern Baked/Southern Bread/and/ Southern Girl/ 'Til I'm Fed," maybe?)<br />
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Web MD defines Obsessvie Compulsive Disorder as a "potentially disabling illness that traps people in endless cycles of repetitive thoughts and behaviors." Much like its counterpart, Obsessive Grammar Disorder causes those afflicted to compulsively try to extract meaning from bad grammar. Treatment involves a dictionary, a thesaurus, and spell check. Or you can go with the holistic approach: read three books and call me in the morning.</div>
Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-825615638631008162015-02-17T21:34:00.002-08:002015-02-17T21:37:26.309-08:00Six Weeks in a DesertLent begins tomorrow and so I begin my annual Facebook Fast.<br />
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My second grade teacher at St. Joseph's parochial school, Sister Judith, told us that we were to give something up for Lent so we would understand the suffering of Christ as he was crucified. (She was not known for her warm demeanor, but for the Vulcan death grip she applied to unruly children.)<br />
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Somehow I don't think not being able to see funny cat videos on Facebook or take a quiz to see which Disney princess I would be (Belle) quite equates to being having your hands and feet being nailed to a cross. But giving up Facebook is hard for me. And I don't think a loving God, such as my man Jesus, really wants me to experience the same pain He did. (That and He sometimes laughs at my status updates about grumpy teenagers because he remembers how moody I was.)<br />
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The first year I gave up Facebook for Lent it was mostly to prove I could. I guess my friends and family felt I shared a little too much in my timeline posts and didn't believe I'd last the 40 days. Well, I fasted in that internet desert of no status updates and rose again as a blogger. <br />
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Last year I didn't Facebook fast--I thought I'd try a six week program of exercise and healthy eating instead. That lasted about a week and a half.<br />
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The year before that, however, proved enlightening. I had been Facebook-less for about four weeks and had convinced myself I'd never do it again. What was I getting out of it, anyway, besides being cat-video-free? In a bout of boredom I started perusing Pinterest (another internet time-suck). There I snooped through my teen daughter's boards (which in Pinterest-ese is a grouping of like things, or "pins") titled "bucket list." On that board was a pin about meeting her favorite author. Hmm, that was kind of interesting. I found the website for the current author of choice and saw she was doing a tour to promote her newest title. AND she would be a bookstore in Seattle in a few weeks time. So I took my daughter and friend to see the author she loved and became, for one short moment, not the worst mother ever. All because I'd given up Facebook.<br />
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It may not have been what Sister Judith had in mind, but it was pretty darn cool.<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-65993808331693830272015-02-16T09:12:00.000-08:002015-02-16T09:12:33.941-08:00Writing from the Dark SideThe other night I watched a movie about a woman who was having a hard time being a stay-at-home parent ("Mom's Night Out"--don't waste your time, even if you get it free from the library like I did). She found herself hiding from her kids in the closet, sobbing into her glass of wine, until she learned to deal with her stress by writing a blog. Then her days were filled with sunshine and rainbows.<br />
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If only life was more like the movies...<br />
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This made me realize, however, that most of these so-called "mommy bloggers" are parenting small children, babies to elementary-school-age. You don't see many bloggers waxing poetic about the joys of teenage offspring--why do you suppose that is?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj37lJOPfrT3YwqmjjQDkyAzuU0rJ-JBO1v2tWMQzEuGfTRORmHlQG_e0IDzp1zYPt2WcdPMXb0IMD7ia0TWWmP629eSIfpAJJRjGH6KpdH9p-hh924fBiof3jbK1TFsxEQdJYZMNJpVQa9/s1600/me&sam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj37lJOPfrT3YwqmjjQDkyAzuU0rJ-JBO1v2tWMQzEuGfTRORmHlQG_e0IDzp1zYPt2WcdPMXb0IMD7ia0TWWmP629eSIfpAJJRjGH6KpdH9p-hh924fBiof3jbK1TFsxEQdJYZMNJpVQa9/s1600/me&sam.jpg" height="200" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Mother/Son Bonding</i></span></td></tr>
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I, myself, am up to my eyeballs in teenagers (well, more like several inches over my head, since two of the three are taller than me) so I have a few ideas on the subject.<br />
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1) Teenagers are on the internet. They do not take kindly to their parents broadcasting to the world-wide-web that Johnny just got his first pimple, or that that Suzy is hormonal and is being a major pain in the butt. If you want to live with your offspring for the next several years without WWIII taking place in your living room, you just can't even go there. If you want to write about your kids, your only option is to create decoy titles for your posts, like "Why the 80's Were So Cool" or "Retirement Planning for the Active Mom." Throw them off the scent, as it were.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4BXBydR_TMtq2W3LrHNY7grifXT1cp64mnuchHMOLtsjcTlNJGGmA7kdKXMrVwsfxN7ptZSQDH7jxSYA_ZTKvy8t6WeUd3WeaMjeizOJFhOQX3uPgHjhqIcHWGRviKoeoVSIklkjjoRR/s1600/olivia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4BXBydR_TMtq2W3LrHNY7grifXT1cp64mnuchHMOLtsjcTlNJGGmA7kdKXMrVwsfxN7ptZSQDH7jxSYA_ZTKvy8t6WeUd3WeaMjeizOJFhOQX3uPgHjhqIcHWGRviKoeoVSIklkjjoRR/s1600/olivia.jpg" height="200" width="125" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I don't know you.</i></span></td></tr>
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2) Raising teenagers is not for sissies. While writing about young children can involve all sorts of cute and funny stories, it's hard to come up with a delightful anecdote of how your sixteen-year-old slammed the door in your face after yelling he hates you, or a heart warming tale of a teen daughter freaking out because you went into her room after dirty laundry. It's sometimes dark on this side of parenting. You say things you don't mean, you yell, and you make mistakes. There comes a day when you realize you only have a year or two left to turn this swirling mass of hormones and body odor into a functioning adult. And you panic. We are not laughing at these events, and quite honestly we'd rather no one else knew about them.<br />
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3) We are crazy busy. Don't get me wrong, parents of littles are also trying to juggle all sorts of stuff: tying shoes, finding binkies, washing load after load after load of tiny socks and shirts. You'd think parents of teens, with their kids half grown and able to feed themselves, would have all the time in the world to spin tales of their parenting glories. But right now we're just trying to keep it together as we drop off and pick up, drop off and pick up, fending off major teenage attitude all the while. We are coordinating school sports with driver's ed and dinner and the tenth load of laundry filled with stained team uniforms and the oldest's favorite shirt. We are filling out forms for college applications and graduation requirements and the permission for the HIV class at school. And we are reminding (nagging), counseling (bossing), and reminding/nagging again trying to make sure our kids get it all done. The teenage years are crunch time for parents--did I mention they have to be functioning adults in a year or two?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1hSSw1PonKjckbFvmo9lLMOjApJHOksMqr70lkXspMS1_s3fWD1gMp9xXiIbbQByP7IUl6P9-9x76Rax21xkTr1lizOXus0KFW4ykc2cOC7eHuiZV06OTXZ_tRWtKrvn68R9NWicCL7C/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1hSSw1PonKjckbFvmo9lLMOjApJHOksMqr70lkXspMS1_s3fWD1gMp9xXiIbbQByP7IUl6P9-9x76Rax21xkTr1lizOXus0KFW4ykc2cOC7eHuiZV06OTXZ_tRWtKrvn68R9NWicCL7C/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" height="135" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Don't Talk to Me</i></span></td></tr>
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I don't consider myself a mommy blogger because I sometimes write about my kids, anymore than I ever considered myself to be a soccer mom because my kids all played soccer. I did a quick search for <a href="http://understandingteenagers.com.au/blog/2011/06/top-10-blogs-for-parenting-teenagers/">blogs about parenting teens</a> and they all sounded equally serious and dull. These years can be tricky, but if you don't have a sense of humor as a parent, you'll never survive. I once told my son that getting through his teen years was going to require either military school for him or AA for me. Luckily we didn't have to resort to either. Yet.<br />
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<br />Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-58369525390523232802015-01-10T17:12:00.000-08:002015-01-10T17:12:22.215-08:00Cult of the 12th ManBeing a non-football fan while the Seahawks are in the playoffs is kind of like being a Buddhist at Christmas.<br />
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Right now people across the Pacific Northwest are gearing up for the big game (against who I do not know). Whole families dressed in 12th Man gear are flooding the grocery stores to stock up on chips and drinks and anything decorated in blue and green. Faces are painted and flags are flying. Meanwhile, at the Graf house, we are spending a lazy Saturday watching movies and reading. Not a single Seahawk logo to be seen. Why, oh why, does everyone else seem ga-ga over this sports team, but we could care less?<br />
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Last year as the Seahawks played their way to the Super Bowl, I wrote a piece about my ambivalence for the game (<a href="http://ishouldhavetakenthatleft.blogspot.com/2014/01/only-lonely.html">"Only the Lonely"</a>). It's not that I hate it, I just don't get it. And quite honestly, the crowds of people decked out in team gear everywhere I go is starting to creep me out a little. Is this a cult or something?<br />
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Merriam-Webster defines "cult" (in the non-religious sense) as:<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <span class="sn" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px;">a</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><strong style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">:</strong><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> great devotion to a person, idea, object, movement, or work (as a film or book);</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><em style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">especially</em><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><strong style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">:</strong><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> such devotion regarded as a literary or intellectual fad</span></span><br />
<span class="sn" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px;"> b</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><strong style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">:</strong><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> the object of such devotion</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="ssens" style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="sn" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold;"> c</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><strong style="font-size: 13px;">:</strong><span style="font-size: 13px;"> a usually small group of people characterized by such devotion</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So yeah, it's a cult. (Except for the small group part.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>When I googled "why do people like football?" I came across this article at <a href="http://news.discovery.com/human/psychology/why-do-we-love-football-at-any-cost-140914.htm">Discovery.com</a> that claims it's mostly testosterone. All that charging and tackling and manly behavior. Also it gives guys something to bond over. But what about the women? I know plenty of females who love the actual game itself just as much as they love the socializing that goes with it. Who knows what sort of chromosome I am missing that prevents me from bonding with football. (Though my siblings claim it's further proof I was secretly adopted.)<br />
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Sure, I see everyone getting behind the local team who's winning. And, hey, think of all the tax revenue it's bringing to our state (Seahawks win = more money for schools!) And I think many of the team's players are very fine inividuals: from weekly <a href="http://www.nj.com/super-bowl/index.ssf/2014/01/russell_wilson_seattle_childrens_hospital.html">visits to Seattle's Children Hospital</a>, to their time spent with the local <a href="http://www.king5.com/story/news/local/marysville-shooting/2014/11/18/seahawks-visit-marysville-pilchuck-students/19242021/">Marysville Pilchuck </a>team that was devastated by the shooting at their school, these men really have shown how to be a sports hero.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWznIX24kkQZAdL9KENxsge3DOds9cHA_vZBkPQW7DZPOS3v3ZqHqqCwlJFovGbmD1_UdWWKpDp8gamwc34zocoz9y22nsLHPrAPJsGVjT7JRoDcN8CpwreonAM6pxgOPgcWn2saZjIKQY/s1600/141114_seahawks_superfan_660.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWznIX24kkQZAdL9KENxsge3DOds9cHA_vZBkPQW7DZPOS3v3ZqHqqCwlJFovGbmD1_UdWWKpDp8gamwc34zocoz9y22nsLHPrAPJsGVjT7JRoDcN8CpwreonAM6pxgOPgcWn2saZjIKQY/s1600/141114_seahawks_superfan_660.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a>So there's this giant, happy blue and green cult going on and I just don't fit in. I will never a member, I will never drink the kool aid. But somehow I ended up in a place where everyone not only gets it, but LOVES it. Sometimes to the extreme. From the couple named their baby girl "<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/01/29/cydnee-leigh-12th-mann-seattle-parents-seahawks_n_4687902.html">Cydnee Leigh 12th Mann</a>", to the guy who got the <a href="http://www.mtv.com/news/1916076/seahawks-logo-eyeball/">Seahawk logo</a> stamped on his prosthetic eyeball. And yes I know die-hard football fans everywhere do crazy things, but usually I don't have to live among them.<br />
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The bright side of all this for the non-football fan: come game time the grocery store is practically deserted. I can happily trip up and down the produce aisle with nary a sighting of those blue and green jerseys. Just a few stragglers who forgot dip. And to those tardy few 12th Men (and Women) I can shake my head and smile. Yes, you, the 12th Man, just paid for my kids' education.</div>
Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3687020927698994388.post-60345218178994133182014-11-26T16:01:00.000-08:002014-11-26T16:01:58.015-08:00The Meaning of ThanksgivingTomorrow is Thanksgiving, the ignored middle child of holidays. Before Halloween has even come and gone, many stores start displaying their Christmas merchandise without so much as a thought for Turkey Day. As the supply of princess costumes and mini Snickers starts to dwindle, people start looking forward to what's considered the holiest of holidays (from both a religious and a retail perspective). It's possible if you look hard you might find a few Thanksgiving decorations, but how can other holidays compete with Santa Claus, birth of a Savior, <i><b>and</b></i> Hallmark Channel's "Countdown to Christmas" made-for-TV movies?<br />
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Can we all just stop for a moment before the Black Friday sales begin and remember what Thanksgiving is all about?<br />
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Pie. Thanksgiving is about pie. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSQilcpIWj8AR3lVGHkpdOkX2Vi5pDgONXVx9nVmJocBFBrr1JYHbZXmQgmAmPX0F8rcAt7M_LouyDtWnQLv2nAmdmTSirmf02Qgi_rSfqOH7qAoaRo_i-OHaOAbUQtnTotKJ63-eCAgo/s1600/pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSQilcpIWj8AR3lVGHkpdOkX2Vi5pDgONXVx9nVmJocBFBrr1JYHbZXmQgmAmPX0F8rcAt7M_LouyDtWnQLv2nAmdmTSirmf02Qgi_rSfqOH7qAoaRo_i-OHaOAbUQtnTotKJ63-eCAgo/s1600/pie.jpg" /></a>Go back with me for a minute to the very first Thanksgiving, celebrated by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Indians. These natives had just saved the Pilgrims' heinies by not letting them all starve to death. (An act they may have regretted later. "I told you not to feed them--now we'll never get rid of them!") About half of the Pilgrims who set out on the Mayflower didn't live to see this first harvest festival, so those who did must have been very thankful, indeed. Historians seem doubtful that any sort of dessert was served at this meal, but if there had been pie perhaps the relationship between the settlers and the Native Americans would have remained harmonious past the breaking of the wishbone.</div>
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My Grandma Mabel was never known for her cooking skills (a trait I seem to have inherited), but the one dish that all us grandkids loved was her Chocolate Chip Pie. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHeK2trsm1Q_xhf8v3YHeTVaXfK2qi-NiKzAvKvyUEvAk8naTh65cFoyKIuUEcqN-PDFwHSU0LPk-kldhF97fMyEDd53-77hVFew2y_8AsLL2Et3LaaDZBaWMpeHu8sPhC5BfzDS9vI06r/s1600/pie+makings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHeK2trsm1Q_xhf8v3YHeTVaXfK2qi-NiKzAvKvyUEvAk8naTh65cFoyKIuUEcqN-PDFwHSU0LPk-kldhF97fMyEDd53-77hVFew2y_8AsLL2Et3LaaDZBaWMpeHu8sPhC5BfzDS9vI06r/s1600/pie+makings.jpg" height="149" width="200" /></a>This heavenly concoction consists of Cool Whip (not real whip cream, mind you, but Cool Whip, the non-dairy, hydrogenated vegetable oil whipped topping), marshmallows, and chocolate chips in a graham cracker crust. (Grandma Mabel, not surprisingly, later became diabetic.) While we were growing up I always thought this was my grandmother's secret recipe--I even have it on a note card in her old fashioned handwriting. Imagine my surprise when I saw the same recipe on the back of a graham cracker box.</div>
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Grandma Mabel was a first generation Norwegian American who lived through two world wars and the depression. To me, that pie is a symbol of all that is great about our nation: not only was Grandma's family able to thrive in this country, not only were they able to feed themselves, but they had dessert as well. A dessert that required Cool Whip. From the store. You know you've made it as an American when you serve processed food products for dessert. You couldn't do that back in the old country, now could you?</div>
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Pie could also be seen as a metaphor for what our country has become today: a collection of several different ingredients (people from different walks of life) coming together for the greater good (pie). Sometimes involving hydrogenated vegetable oil.</div>
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So as you sit down to your meal on Thursday, there is no need to count your blessings or plan your Black Friday shopping strategy. (And for the love of God, do not finish your turkey and mashed potatoes and head straight to the mall!) Instead, stay home with your family and your dessert--and just be thankful for pie.<br />
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<i style="text-align: center;">Disclaimer: While all types of pie deserve our recognition for its role in shaping our great country, Grandma Mabel's offering remains my favorite. I share her recipe here with you.</i><br />
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Kristin Alvick Grafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10897047125725054635noreply@blogger.com0