Author: Jessica Van Bommel

A few weekends ago, I was cleaning out my daughter’s closet. (I know – how exciting.  But please read on anyway.)  

In a Rubbermaid bin, under a pile of ancient art projects, I found her baby book. I picked up the book, bracing myself for a flood of memories and emotions.  Her first steps, her first footprints, her first words. I gently opened it. And..the book was empty.  That’s right, Mom of the Year, right here. Cue the applause. 

In all fairness, she is my second child.  It’s pretty amazing I bought a baby book for her at all.  I mean, I certainly didn’t sterilize her binkies every time they hit the floor. I certainly didn’t make people sanitize their hands before they could come in the same room as her. I most certainly didn’t use a wipe warmer for her baby wipes. In any event, she is too old for me to start a baby book now.  She will be 7 years old in a few months, and though there are many milestones yet before us, I am simply not going to record the flavor of her first solid food at this point. (Was it sweet potato?  Peas?  We’ll never know.) 

The way I look at, traditional baby books set you up to fail.  I mean, forget to write down one doctor’s visit, and you might as well throw in the towel, because you will have to deal with a glaring blank page staring at you, with “Baby’s 6-month Checkup” written accusingly across the top.  And, when you are keeping a little person alive, not to mention laundering the clothes they just spit up all over – again – you don’t have time for that nonsense. I’m not a total slacker, though.  I use three super-flexible and forgiving tools to memorialize our kiddos’ growing-up years.  They are perfect because they can be started at any time and, other than the third tool, you can use them as much or as little as you like (or remember!).

1. When Ryan was born, I bought a blank journal and dedicated it to her.  My intent was to write a line or two every few days to capture whatever cute things she said or did, or just to tell her how much I love her.  I also bought a journal to dedicate to my son at the same time, even though he was already 2 1/2 years old.  (Whatever. I wrote some words in his actual baby book, so he’s not totally deprived.)

Almost 7 years later, I still have those journals.  I keep them on the bookcase in my office and pull them out from time to time to record my thoughts on big moments, such as the first day of kindergarten, or little moments, like subjecting the dog to a game of dress-up, but mostly to express my love for my kiddos. I don’t write in the journals every week, or even every month.  That’s the loveliest thing about these journals – there are no parameters.  I write what I want, when I want. But I have made enough entries that they form a sort of verbal scrapbook of their lives, a series of love notes and observations interspersed with well-meaning parental advice. 

My intent is to give each child their respective journal on some momentous occasion down the road – a graduation, wedding, birthday, etc.  I haven’t nailed down the particulars, probably because I don’t want to think about my babies getting that old.  But my hope is that the journals will serve as a kind of cozy blanket in their adult years.  Something to remind them that their mama loved them and was paying attention to them when they were growing up.

2.  The second thing we do is to record our children’s measurements on wooden oars.  When I was growing up, my parents periodically marked my height on the basement wall.  This worked out great. Until we moved.  

I don’t expect to ever move again, at least until Dan and I can’t manage our own Metamucil and heart meds. But I still like the idea of the kids’ recorded measurements forming a mobile keepsake.  You can find all sorts of cute wooden growth charts to use for the same purpose on Etsy, but I like the simplicity of our medium. We also live on the water, so it’s a little more apropos, I guess.  But I think the paddle is a cute idea regardless of where you live.

Actually, we just measured the kids this week.  For the first time in 13 months.  Oops. See – it’s all about the flexibility, folks.  

3. The third thing we implemented are the birthday binders.  The kids love these, which is great, because that means they usually remind me when it’s time to get them out!  

Sometime during their birthday month, we ask the birthday boy or girl 20 questions about their favorite things (friend, food, game, etc.). The questions are the same every year, and it’s fun to see how the answers evolve.

We started a binder for each child on their third birthday, because it seemed as they would be able to give us mostly non-jibberish answers by then.  But the binders could be started on any birthday, really.  

We don’t do any prompting, and we record their answers exactly as they are given, so previous assorted answers have included  “haki dogs” and the “bunka song.” (And because we also include a photo from each year, I can easily picture 4-year-old Baylor exclaiming that he wants to be a “mower guy” when he grows up.) 

After the birthday kid answers the questions, we read through their responses from all the previous years as a family. This is everyone’s favorite part.  The kids love seeing that their favorite book was once “Road Work Ahead,” or that blue was always their favorite color.  And it just makes them feel special. The key is to not let them go through the old answers until they have already completed this year’s set of questions, though, so as not to be influenced by the past!

I really like the binders, if only because, when the kids are 15 and not speaking to us, the binders will help us remember that those same children once proudly claimed Mom and Dad as their BFF.

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So, maybe we failed when it came to the baby book.  Maybe I can’t tell you what Ryan ate for her first real meal.  But, I just randomly opened Ryan’s journal, and I can now tell you that Ryan once called zucchini bread “bikini bread.”  And that feels like a win.

Even if you’ve been living under a rock (or maybe even a pile of your own junk), you’ve probably heard of Marie Kondo by now.  She had that annoyingly successful book a few years back.  She’s now starring in her own show on Netflix.  And she is the darling of thrift stores and used book stores the world over – because those shops are making a killing off of our Kondo-inspired collective tidying and the resulting donations. 

Marie has a method – tackle clothes, then books, then basically the rest of your crap.  But I don’t like to play by the rules.  Or at least I like to think I don’t.  So when the tidying bug bit me, I bypassed my closet and turned my eye directly to the pantry. 

It’s not awful.  But it could definitely be better.  

First, I motivated myself by buying bins and labels.  Again, this went against Marie’s code.  She instructs her accolytes not to purchase any organizational materials until they have fully completed the tidying process, because they might find usable boxes and bins already stuffed in a closet somewhere.  But, I reasoned, after making the investment in storage bins, there would be no turning back.  I would be forced to tidy the pantry. Forced to clean by Amazon Prime. 

Next, I pulled everything out (that trick I did get from Kondo) and spread it across the kitchen island.  

Marie’s method is to hold each item and ask yourself whether it sparks joy.  Because quinoa and oatmeal don’t exactly inspire joy in me, I followed a slightly different approach.  I picked up each item, but I asked instead whether it was expired (buh-bye, baking powder that was best before 2015) or unhealthy (see ya, Cocoa Puffs). 

Or sometimes both. I’m looking at you, last year’s Halloween candy.

 The expired food never even made it to the counter.  So that took care of 5 garbage bags of waste right there. I can’t believe I just admitted that.  Moving on.

Once the food landed on the island, I decided if it was something we had any business eating. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not tearing all sugar out of my family’s hands.  I don’t have the stamina to deal with a mutiny (which would be led by my Oreo-loving husband, btw).  But we can make a few changes. So I got rid of the worst offenders and made a mental note to switch a few more items to healthier options.  Then I went and wrote down an actual note to myself, because mental notes in my head are less likely to survive than Justin Bieber’s marriage.

Then I simply divided everything into categories (“Crackers,” “Bread,” and so on.  Turns out, we are definitely not a Keto family!) and placed it back on the shelves.  The things I wanted the kids to easily access went on the lower shelves, while the items I wanted them to ask an adult for help with found homes on higher shelves. So School Snacks went on the bottom, in the hopes that I can shift the immense mental load of remembering to pack a daily snack to my kiddos.  Their young brains are far better suited to that task.  And I placed baking supplies near the top, because I have seen what my kitchen looks like when my kids decide to have an unsupervised dessert-making competition.

My dear hubby says Marie Kondo is making a fortune from pedaling basic common sense.  Maybe so.    

But look at my pantry.  Isn’t it pretty? Didn’t my daughter do a nice job labeling all the bins?  Doesn’t it give you the impression that I’ve got everything under control? Now, whatever you do, don’t look in my closet!

P.S. I thought about adding some cushions or throw pillows on the floor, because my daughter recently decided to use the pantry as her refuge when we offend her somehow.  Such as by looking at her wrong. Or giving her a red cup instead of a blue one. Lord help us when she hits 13. And I’m not sure why she prefers the pantry over her comfortable bedroom.  Actually, that’s not true.  I do understand.  Because peanut butter.  🙂

They say you learn something new every day, right? So here’s the new thing you learned today: The oldest currently living houseplant on record is a 243-year-old Eastern Cape cycad.  

And I thought my plant was old.  I say “plant,” singular, because I have only one houseplant.  This is due to the fact that I have killed every other plant that has had the misfortune of coming under my domain.  Seriously, every single one. Well, nearly. One stubborn little aloe plant remains steadfast on my kitchen windowsill. It refuses to wither up and die, but I’m pretty sure it’s on its way out.

I’m obviously no expert, but I don’t think aloe is meant to be a cascading plant.  

Then there is this guy.  My houseplant.

I’m not even sure what kind of plant he is.  But he is obviously a hardy sort.  He is roughly 46 years old.  I know this because my parents received him for a wedding present, and they will be married 46 years come September.

He has been divided and repotted. He has been moved. He has been left without water for weeks at a time. My parents have the original plant. Or maybe I do.  He has been shuffled around so much that it’s hard to say. 

I have had a piece of the plant since college. In college, one of my roommates fed him coffee.  Come to think of it, I’m sure worse liquids fouled his soil when we lived in that old apartment off of Langdon Street.  Yet he survived.  He is a survivor, much like Logan the fish.  Yes, Logan lives on.

I never named my plant.  But I refer to him as a dude – it’s either that or he’s the most low-maintenance female on the planet. Actually, I like “Dude.”  That’s a fantastic plant name if I’ve ever heard one.  Done.

In any event, my parents’ incarnation of the plant looks a little, well, let’s be honest, healthier than Dude. They probably even water theirs.

They recently left me in charge of it when they migrated to Florida for the winter. Arguably not their smartest move.  (Leaving me in charge, I mean.  Going to Florida was quite intelligent.) But their plant probably won’t die on my watch.  This is good, because the standing joke was that my parents’ marriage would end the day the plant died.  At least, I think it was a joke. If not, talk about pressure! “Here, water my plant, and while you’re at it, keep my marriage alive.” Let’s hope that their plant is as hardy as Dude.

Dude reminds me that some things just continue on.  They persevere. He’s a good role model in that way.  And there is something comforting about him. I mean, if Dude can survive me, surely I can survive anything!

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Do you have an older-than-average houseplant? And how do you take care of it?  Do you talk to it?  Fertilize it?  At least water it semi-regularly? If so, you probably have some tips for me.

Happy 2019, everyone!  I took a bit of an extended holiday hiatus from my little blog. We did some traveling…

And we have a few other new projects up our idiomatic sleeve. But I am back, and I am ready to take on 2019.  

I love new beginnings.  I love the start of a new school year, but I love the start of a new calendar year even more.  Yes, maybe it’s an arbitrary new beginning, but still. There is just something so delicious about blank planner pages. Something so exciting about the opportunity to regroup.  Something refreshing about not having already screwed up the year royally. 🙂

January feels like the time to make things happen.  The world is your oyster right now, albeit a rather cold and bleak oyster, at least if you live in the Upper Midwest.  (To be fair, though, warm oysters don’t sound very appetizing, anyway.)

This could very well be your year. Or maybe 2018 was your year. If so, congrats.  But don’t sit back.  Make 2019 even better.

Set a couple of goals. They don’t have to be earth-shaking.  Maybe you want to run a marathon.  Maybe you want to walk around the block after dinner. Maybe you want to pay off your credit card.  Or your mortgage (or mine!). Maybe you want to drink more water, or maybe just better beer. Maybe you want to read to your kids more.  Maybe you want to watch all 5 seasons of Schitt’s Creek. I don’t know.  And I don’t really care.  No judgment here. You do you.

But I think it is important to have a road map.  There is great power in identifying and articulating your dreams.  There is even greater power in recording them.  Writing them down.

Even if you scribble your goals on a sticky note and then stuff the paper in a drawer and forget about it for a year, the simple fact that your goals exist out there, in the universe and in your junk drawer, makes them more likely to come into being. But you do need to physically write them, pen to paper.  Typing doesn’t work the same magic.

I don’t know exactly why this is.  Maybe it’s some sort of cosmic hocus pocus. More likely, writing your goals down might lodge them into your subconscious so that you are always working toward them, without even realizing it.  Perhaps there is another reason entirely. I don’t know.  I didn’t feel the need to study the science here.

The experts who do study these things will tell you that folks who write down their goals are more likely to achieve them by some percentage or another (These experts absolutely will not agree on the exact amount, however.  Have you noticed that the experts never seem to agree? Sometimes 3 out of 4 will agree, sometimes even 9 out of 10 will agree, but they just can’t all get on the same darn page.). The experts will probably also tell you to revisit your goals often and write them down repeatedly to achieve maximum benefit.  I won’t push that hard. Let’s be reasonable here.  I have laundry to do.

But there’s no good reason not to do it once, assuming you can find a pen and five minutes. I can tell you that the technique has worked for me in the past, even when I doubted its power. It really has helped me accomplish multiple things I never expected I would.

Some folks say that writing your goals down as if they have already happened makes them even more likely to come to fruition than just writing them down (e.g.,  “I am a marathoner” as opposed to “I am going to run a marathon” or “I only drink hoity-toity IPAs” instead of “I am going to drink better beer.”).  I don’t know if that holds true or not, as I personally haven’t tried it yet.  But, again, it can’t hurt.

So, I am off to write down “I am skinny and independently wealthy” 100 times.   🙂  Not really.  But wish me luck.

I didn’t know I could be so grateful for a tree. I mean, I love trees overall.  I appreciate their contributions to our environment.  We plant scores of them every year. I’ve seen The Lorax, after all, which I highly recommend.

  

But our entire family is just completely enamored of our Christmas tree this year.  It is ginormous.  Ridiculously ginormous.  Not “Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree” ginormous, but enough so that my son recently saw a perfectly normal-sized tree at my folks’ house and asked where the rest of it was.

Some people use fishing line to tie the tops of their giant trees to their living room walls.  My husband, being my husband, had another idea.  He built a 4′ by 3′ wooden platform, to which he then screwed the store-bought tree stand.  So far, so good.  The tree has remained upright.  The only problem is that they don’t make tree skirts big enough to cover our souped-up stand.  Fortunately, my husband and children refuse to use top sheets on their beds (I don’t understand their aversion, but pick your battles), so I have plenty of those lying around to do the job.

Now, as they say, size doesn’t matter.  And I’m pretty sure we would still be smitten with our tree if it were a fraction of its size.  I think it’s appeal has something to do with the fact that it is “unsheared,” which I didn’t know was a thing.  Nor did I know how much of a difference this made.  Our tree looks far more natural than trees of Christmases past, and the nonuniform branches make trimming the tree infinitely easier.  As in, we can actually hang the ornaments from the branches, rather than basically stuffing them into the tree.

       

Let me clear up a little something.  Ours is by no means a designer tree. It is a hodge-podge of popsicle-stick manger scenes and pretty glass balls, with the occasional salt-dough snowman thrown in for good measure.  There is a Precious Moments ornament from the year I was born – 1978 (Yes, this year I celebrate my 40th Christmas on this Earth).  But we have even older ornaments on our tree.  Some of my favorites are the wooden cut-outs my parents painted themselves back when they were first together and too broke to buy ready-made ornaments.

   

Then there are the shiny, silly ornaments that Dan and I purchased at Target for our first Christmas together (That was the infamous year that I supposedly abandoned him while he was lying in the mud sawing down our tree, by wandering off to the tree hut to claim my free hot cider.  I don’t remember this alleged event, but Dan still talks about it.  Every. Year.   Bless his muddy, hard-working heart.). There are a handful of lovely, fancy-schmancy ornaments from Christopher Radko, Swarovski or Old World Christmas.  We did not purchase these – they were gifts from folks who probably have trees much more pristine than our own.  Because, of course, we also have the kids’ ornaments.  They are made of the aforementioned salt dough and popsicle sticks, but also of construction paper, Legos, sequins and plastic beads.  And I love each and every one.  They all co-exist merrily in some miracle of holiday magic.

We add to our ornament collection every year.  I buy one ornament for each family member, something symbolizing their current interests or achievements.  This means we have everything from an Elsa figurine to a karate kid to a big ole buck hanging from our tree.  (If you have met my crew, you can probably pair the ornament to the family member.) On top of that, each of us gets to pick out one ornament when we visit the tree farm.  For the past 8 or 9 years, we have gone to Wild Rose Choose and Cut.  Honestly, to begin with, this was mostly because they mailed us a postcard with their address on it every year, so it was easy to find them.  We’re lazy like that. But we also love it there.  We love the hayride out to the fields and the hunt for the perfect tree.  We (especially poor Dan) love the hot apple cider. We love that everyone is just so happy to be there.  The holiday spirit virtually sparkles in the air.  Secret: It almost makes a person want to own a Christmas tree farm.  If said person didn’t already have their hands full.  Maybe someday…

The trees of the same variety are all the same price, whether your tree is over 14 feet tall, like ours, or a more reasonable 7 feet.  This means that a giant tree is a true bargain.  It also means that we end up spending more money on our new ornaments than we do on the tree itself.  Oh well.  Christmas memories are priceless, right?

And we are making memories.  Baylor, at 9 years old, came up and hugged me as we were decorating the tree and told me it was his favorite night of the year.  And, that, my friends, truly is priceless. Never mind that tree decorating was more of week-long endeavor than a single night this year.  Carving out time between the kids’ activities and our work schedules, a good seven days elapsed between choosing the tree and hanging the star.  That’s okay, though. It only extended the fun.

Thanks to all these individuals, families across America will come together today to celebrate each other, watch a parade and/or a football game…and probably bicker a little.  Or at least throw around some good old-fashioned passive aggression. Nearly 88 percent of them will eat turkey, according to (naturally) the National Turkey Federation. They will hold strong opinions regarding which version of green bean casserole is superior (I straddle the culinary fence between the fresh beans folks and the canned-soup slop camp.  They each have their place on my table.). And they will take a collective deep breath before the holiday madness really ensues.

Growing up, Thanksgiving was a thirty-some-person affair at my Aunt Debbie’s house.  Well, it was Uncle Larry’s house, too, and he probably even did the bulk of the cooking, but it was still Aunt Debbie’s holiday. She had an open door and a huge heart, and Thanksgiving was her jam. Before the meal, she insisted that all the guests stand in a circle and share what they were thankful for.  We were all mostly grateful for the same things – health, family, time spent together, a few days off from work or school.  And pie.  Always pie.  Seeing as there were so many guests, this gratitude practice could have led to cold mashed potatoes.  However, the potatoes stayed warm (a Thanksgiving miracle!) and this “circle of thankfulness” remains a cherished memory.

My Thanksgivings have changed a lot in the past 5 years.  But some things will always be the same. I still believe that the idea of coming together and sharing a day of thankfulness is a good one, no matter its basis.  In fact, I try to practice gratitude all the time these days, for everything from my work boots to my adopted hometown to our invincible goldfish.

And, this Thanksgiving, I am particularly thankful for (in no particular order):

• All the police officers, medical professionals, military personnel and everyone else working today, allowing me the luxury of celebrating safely with my family.

• The roof over my head and the fire in my fireplace.

• My thoughtful and creative partner/best friend.

• Thanksgivings past, the memories of which remind me that life can quickly change in both magical and heart-breaking ways.

• Coffee.

• Inspiration, which often goes with coffee.

• Target, where I scored my lovely Thanksgiving table runner…along with lots of other things I don’t need.

  

• Two amazing kiddos, and every small moment I get to spend with them.  Whether I am playing Barbies with Ryan, or reading to Baylor each morning when I wake him up for school (Right now, we are halfway through “Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing.” Gotta love Fudge. I am not sure if Baylor feels the same. I think he is probably happy for a few more sleepy minutes under the covers and is too tired to protest the book aspect.  I’ll take it anyway.).

• Four grandparents who love those two kiddos.

• Pie. Always pie. Well, not 400 years ago, because they were eating venison and berries, but you know what I mean.

What are you guys thankful for today?

This locket belonged to my grandma. It wasn’t Grandma’s favorite piece of jewelry, nor her most valuable.  I don’t even really remember her wearing it, to tell you the truth.

But it doesn’t matter.  I know it was hers, and it reminds me of her, much the way the smell of my current hand lotion reminds me of her.  The lotion is not especially effective, but I keep using it because of its scent. And, to tell you the whole truth, I don’t even know if it is a scent she actually wore. But every time I get a whiff of it, I smile and think of her.  And that’s all that really matters, right?

The locket was empty when I received it.  So I printed pictures of Baylor and Ryan, and I popped them into the necklace.  Now, I can keep both my grandma and my kiddos close to my heart on a literal level (They were always there figuratively, of course!).

While I try to be aware of what I have in the moment, we all know that it is a very hard trick to pull off. Thus, the cliché – and the awesome ’80s ballad by Cinderella – “Don’t Know What You Got, Till It’s Gone.” When you are a kid, you simply cannot comprehend that your grandparents won’t always be around.  Just like you don’t really believe that you will ever become a grown-up with grey hair and meal plans and credit scores. As a child, every summer feels at least twelve adult years long (Yes, adult years are a thing.  It’s kind of like dog years.  But way shorter.  And more stressful.). Life stretches out before our young selves, seeming nearly infinite in both its length and possibilities.

Except then it’s not.  Someone close to you passes away. Or you get sick.  Or time just plain passes.  And you realize that things won’t always be as they are now.  You will lose people. You will gain experience.  It will all serve to mold and change you.

I’m coming off a little philosophical here, huh?  I’m sorry for that, guys. See, my uncle passed away last week.  Uncle Tom was a pretty amazing man. He was a lot of things to a lot of people.  Dad, husband, grandfather, brother, pastor, teacher, coach, friend, and, in my case, uncle. As his wife, my Aunt Carolyn, said, she loved him for everything he did for her, but even more so for everything he did for everyone else.  And that, my friends, is the best legacy one can ever hope to leave.

Speaking of legacies, Uncle Tom wrote and published a memoir.  He’s even on Amazon. How cool is that? Here’s the synopsis of Living A Dream with Coach Gate from the website: “This is the story of Tom Applegate, a Quaker pastor who decided he could best serve humanity by teaching in the city.  Growing up in Spiceland, a small town in east central Indiana, he developed a Hoosier passion for basketball.  Having very little success as a player in high school did not dampen his enthusiasm for the sport.” And that is very much what Uncle Tom was about – dedicating himself to others and pressing on despite adversity. Luckily, he had a touch of “Applegate stubbornness” to help spur him along.

Uncle Tom seemed to think a lot of me, and for some reason he believed that I was going to do good things in the world.  Note: I never once said he had good judgment.  The fact is, I’m nowhere near his league and never will be (Except when it comes to being stubborn. I have that piece down.).  Maybe I can try to be a little more like him, though. Because the world would be a better place if we were all a little more like Uncle Tom.

Throughout my life, Uncle Tom invariably greeted me with a headlock and a noogie.  He may have been altruistic, but he was darn ornery, too.  And I may have also provoked him just a little bit. Because I am also ornery. I remember believing that he would always welcome me via good-natured violence, and that he would always, always be stronger than me.

I was wrong, of course. I remember when I realized he wasn’t stronger than me any longer. It was a rude awakening.  It was world-shifting. But don’t worry, I didn’t then give him a noogie in retaliation for all those years of assaults. I said I was ornery, not heartless.

During my last phone call with Uncle Tom, he told me how much he loved reading my blog.  Again, I’m not claiming he had great judgment.  In any event, this one is for you, Uncle Tom.

Folks, this week I am especially grateful for time spent with my relatives, and also for cherished memories of them – whether those memories involve lockets or headlocks.