Author: Jessica Van Bommel

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10 Things You Won’t Regret in Life

Post author By Jessica Van Bommel
Post date October 19, 2018
6 Comments on 10 Things You Won’t Regret in Life

I am so grateful for you guys, the people who read this little blog. You indulge my compulsion to string words together. You read the random thoughts I might otherwise keep to myself. And I think it’s really, really cool that you do that. So I thought I’d give you a little gift. On my journey so far, I have found 10 practices that I believe are inherently good ideas. I hope to add to my list as I continue on in life, but I think it already includes some pretty useful tidbits. For what it’s worth, here you go.

10 Things You Will Never Regret:

(Caveat: Never say never, right? Even though I just did. There is always an exception to the rule. For example, should you happen to be hit by a bus while engaging in one of the activities listed below, you would likely experience some regret. But these are my basic tenets, and I think they are generally good ones.)

1. Stop to appreciate the sunrise and sunset.

I stole this one from my husband (much like I stole his high school baseball sweatshirt). Dan has made a habit of being grateful for each sunrise and sunset since long before I met him. Pausing to practice gratitude, whether for the view or for your spouse or for your life overall, is a good idea. Folks who know about these things say gratitude is good for your health. And the sky conveniently provides us with a reminder to slow down and reflect on this twice each day.

2. Turn down the wrong opportunity.

It’s okay to say no. Yes, many less-than-desirable offers are actually stepping stones to the place you want to be. And sometimes you need to try something to know it isn’t what you want. But some paths are just plain wrong for you. Don’t take the first thing that comes your way, just because someone else thinks you should, or because it sounds impressive, or because you are scared. Saying yes to one thing means saying no to something else. And that “something else” might be the opportunity you have been looking for. I’m NOT saying you should sit on your butt waiting for the right thing to fall in your lap. It won’t. You need to hustle and get out there and work hard. But you don’t need to settle.

3. Read your children one more book. And then another.

Do you ever look at old photos of your kids and kinda want to cry? Not because you want those babies back. Not exactly. My kids are awesome as they are now, and they are turning into cooler humans by the day. I don’t really want the baby years back. It’s all the days in between that I mourn. All those lost days when they were crabby, or I was crabby. The days when I could’ve taken them to the children’s museum one more time. Or just read them one more book. My advice to new mamas is to always, always, always read them one more book. You’ll still want to cry when you look at the baby photos, but your tears may be fewer.

My babies don’t look like this any longer.

4. Given the option, always sit at the bar.

The most interesting people sit at the bar, not at the booth in the corner. The bar is where you hear the funniest jokes, where life-changing agreements are scrawled on napkins, where the people-watching is best. You might also meet a celebrity, if you and your friends happen to eat lunch at the bar. (Or at least meet someone that you think was maybe-probably a celebrity, and then muse on it for years afterwards with your friends.) Trust me. Bar trumps table. Every time.

5. Visit your family.

This isn’t always easy. It’s not always convenient. It may entail a long car ride. It may cause some stress. But it’s usually worthwhile, and it’s always better than regretting the visit you didn’t make. Just go.

6. Be kind.

There is a little bit of magic in kindness. Being kind doesn’t cost a thing, but its benefits are priceless. It truly takes so little to make someone feel special. (1) Smile. (2) Ask questions about a person and really listen to their answers. And…that’s pretty much it. Here’s an old story for you: Once upon a time, my friends and I met a possibly famous person while sitting at a bar. Remember how I told you about that (two paragraphs ago)? Well, to this day, we can’t confirm if the person we met was the person we suspected it to be. We enjoyed their company too much to ruin it by asking. And we have realized that it doesn’t really matter.

The saying is true. What was most important about this individual was that they were unbelievably kind, magically kind, not that they were famous. We each came away from the luncheon encounter feeling special. And that had everything to do with a nice person taking an active interest in us, and nothing to do with their status or identity. (Plus, we have totally convinced ourselves we met a rock star, anyway.)

7. Spend time with your friends.

Hang out with your friends as much as you can. Life will get in the way. And your true friends will understand and still be there when you manage to come up for air. But do your best to try. Even when your job is nuts. Even when your kids are little. That’s when you need your friends the most. Being with friends is a great way to practice kindness and gather kindness. If anyone is bound to be kind to you, it’s your friends, right? Of course, they may also heckle and harass you. Because that’s friendship, too. 🙂 Also, seeing that your partner is (hopefully) your best friend, this means you should make time for date night. Dan and I are pretty good at this one. We have noticed that when we make an effort to spend quality time together, everything in our life runs more smoothly. Plus, it’s just plain fun.

8. Spend time alone.

Don’t be afraid to spend chunks of time alone. If you are an introvert, you will relish this and gain energy from doing so. If you are an extrovert, you will hate every moment and feel uncomfortable. But, either way, you will come away with a sharper focus and renewed purpose.

9. Listen to your gut.

Your gut doesn’t steer you wrong. I learned this one from my own mistakes. I can count several pivotal points in life where I ignored the feeling in my gut and lived to regret it. If something doesn’t feel right, it isn’t. If someone seems like a slime ball, it’s because they are. Don’t be afraid to walk away without a “valid” reason. Your gut is enough.

10. Invest in yourself.

This is a tough one, especially for folks in certain seasons of life. When you are trying to do all of the things for all of the people, spending time or money on yourself can seem ludicrous. Nonetheless, I believe this is the investment with the biggest return. You truly do need to give to yourself so that you can better give to others. Whether you carve out time to go running or you invest in some educational books, I promise you it will be worth it.

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That’s what I’ve got for you so far. How about you guys? Do you have any tried-and-true life principles?

Oh the Places I'll Go (Or Already Went) Summer of Fun II

i(Phone) Hate Myself For Loving You

Post author By Jessica Van Bommel
Post date October 11, 2018
1 Comment on i(Phone) Hate Myself For Loving You

(I bet you have Joan Jett in your head right about now, don’t you? Sorry, friend. Sort of. 🙂 )

So Dan and I went on a date a couple of weeks ago. We try to make this a semi-regular occurrence. After all, it would be good if my husband and I still recognize each other when the kids are grown, right? It had been awhile since we had snuck a date night in, though, because the back-to-school time of year is busy for us all.

I put on heels. Dan put on the shirt I laid out for him. We climbed into his truck and headed off to dinner. Burgers were on the agenda. I dug in my purse as he took off in the direction of town, and then disaster struck.

I couldn’t find my phone. No smooth teal case met my fingers as I plunged the mysterious recesses of my “mom purse.” How was I supposed to send a text? Or check the weather? Or Instagram? So I panicked. You all know that moment of panic when you can’t find your phone, right? Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you are mentally healthier than I am, and you and your phone are not virtual Siamese twins.

Dan’s parents were watching the kids at our house, so we called them to see if they could find the missing phone. They could. Apparently, I had left it sitting on the kitchen table as I rushed out of the house before my 6-year-old’s guilt trip could derail our date night. “Oh no,” my mother-in-law said sympathetically, after she located the phone for me. “Forgetting your phone. That’s the worst.” But, I realized, it actually wasn’t.

Turns out, forgetting my phone on date night is something to be thankful for. Dan and I often make fun of the groups or couples who are sitting around a table together, each separately engaged in their own phone world. They look ridiculous. The only problem is, more often than not, we are them. We are guilty, too.

But that night, because I wasn’t on my phone, Dan didn’t use his, either. This forced us to speak to each other. (Well, when we weren’t watching the Brewers game, anyway.)

And I was reminded that we can survive without our devices. After all, our family just proved this for nearly two device-free weeks before the school year started. (More on that here.) Sure, my kids staged a near-revolt, but we made it through. And it was even enjoyable. We played games, got outside, went to ball games, waterskied, visited museums, built giant towers out of plastic cups…

Hey, whatever it takes. We emerged on the other side closer as a family, and without that lovely claw hand that comes from permanently grasping your phone. The one that Dan thinks humans may soon be born with. Gotta love evolution.

Insert phone here.

Next up is girls weekend. Every year, we head up north for a girlfriend getaway at my friend Peg’s family cottage. It is one of the most anticipated weekends of the year. Even for me, a self-declared introvert (Read about my introversion here.), it is a can’t-miss event. We pack our cars full of warm (yet cute, of course) clothes, drinks and ridiculous amounts of food, and we invade the Northwoods, leaving our husbands to hold down our respective forts.

Last year, though, I looked around the cottage as we all sat in a big circle in the living room. The fire was roaring in the fireplace. Ten of us were cozied up in front of it. All. On. Our. Phones. Online shopping, reading the news, posting photos of all the fun we were having to Facebook. Whatever. It was pathetic.

So this year, I am bringing a little gift to girls’ weekend. Ladies and gentlemen, the Phone Bed. The very one pictured at the top of this post. We can set the basket by the front door for folks to deposit their phones into upon entering the cottage. And then, every time you remove your phone from the bed, you have to put an extra dollar in the “kitty,” so that your friends might profit off your addiction in the form of cheese curds and beer from the local establishments. I don’t know if I will be invited back next year. Heck, if the girls read this before I get there, I might not be allowed in this year. But I’m going to give it a shot anyway. Wish me luck.

About Me Oh the Places I'll Go (Or Already Went)

There’s No Place Like Home

Post author By Jessica Van Bommel
Post date September 28, 2018
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This week I am thankful for the ground. Or, more specifically, I am thankful to be on the ground. And for home. I am so, so thankful to be home.

I am a homebody, that much is true. And, as I learned from the personality assessment I completed at the work retreat from which I just returned, I am a solid introvert. Actually, that’s not true. Well, I am an introvert. But I didn’t just discover that. I was already well aware of that tidbit about myself. The fact that I find an excuse to turn down 99% of the invitations I receive was a pretty good clue.

I mean, people are exhausting. I love them, I do, but I can only handle so much of them. I can deal with them one-on-one. Or I can deal with them in short bursts. Or I can barely/almost/hardly/sort of/maybe handle 188 of my colleagues for two days, after which I must rush home and immediately bury my head.

When you couple all of the people-ness with air travel, you basically have my worst nightmare. I am not a good flyer. In fact, I am always slightly shocked to be alive when the plane lands. I have thought about asking for a Valium prescription for use when flying. But I hesitate. We all travel for a purpose, right? For me, I am usually taking my kids on vacation or heading to a professional conference. Either way, I can’t exactly show up in a drug-induced haze, and I just don’t know how the sedative would affect me. So I guess irrational fear is preferable. Of course, I try to camouflage this fear from my colleagues, and certainly from my kids. I don’t want to pass on my peccadilloes. Even though I doubt my fellow lawyers would be susceptible to my phobia, I know my kids would be.

I haven’t always been this way. I remember flying as an unaccompanied minor back when I was 9, on my merry way to visit a friend. Flying didn’t bother me at all back then. Heck, skydiving wouldn’t have bothered me back then. But I think, as we get older, we understand that the stakes are higher. And so we harbor more fears. It’s only because we recognize what we have to lose. Or, more accurately, we recognize those who would be lost without us.

I think my fear stems from something else, though. I noticed that I became a far more tense flier after 9/11/01.

We all have a personal September 11 story. I had just moved to NYC to attend law school three weeks previously. I was a newbie. And for me, that date is forever tied to black ash accumulating on the wall of my dorm room until I came to my senses enough to close the window. Wearing a disposable face mask on my walk to the bodega to stock up on water. Standing on the roof of my building and watching the towers fall to the ground. I never knew what normal was for Manhattan. Really, it never had a chance for me. My new home was an ashy ghost town until they reopened Manhattan below 14th Street and classes resumed. I think it was over a week later, maybe two.

Like I said, anyone could tell you where they were on the morning of September 11. Just as anyone from my generation could pinpoint their location when the Challenger exploded. For others, it’s the assassination of JFK. Pick your tragedy. I don’t mean to sound callous at all, but I wonder: Why don’t we remember where we were when the good things happen? Our minds always fixate on the horrific.

But this. This was the worst terror attack in American history. And it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to those nearly 3,000 people who lost their lives. The workers. The first responders. I remember when the city was wallpapered with photographs of the people missing in the wake of September 11. And I remember the dawning of absolute horror as we came to understand that we had stood in line to give blood for no reason. Because none of those people were missing. They weren’t going to show up in need of blood. They were gone. Just…gone.

I have friends who can’t look at the footage from that day. And I have friends who couldn’t look away. Either way, we were all affected.

I, apparently, came away with a brand new fear of flying. And it sucks. It sucks to want to go on spring break with your kids but to dread the vacation as it approaches. It sucks to grip the armrests in terror at the first sign of turbulence. Especially when your sweet hubby can’t be there to distract you with a calming squeeze of his hand.

But (of course there is a “but,” because this is where I come to be grateful, after all), I came home to said husband. And to my two sweet babies. And our two darling pups. Plus two borderline-neglected goldfish who have still managed to hang on, against all odds. I love them all, perhaps even more so after I have been gone, if that is possible.

And, for a super-extra-special bonus, no one beyond that is around. Ahhh. Be still, my little introverted heart.

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It’s Not How You Start, It’s How You Finish

Post author By Jessica Van Bommel
Post date September 20, 2018
1 Comment on It’s Not How You Start, It’s How You Finish

I never considered myself a runner. Yet I run.

That probably doesn’t make much sense to you. I suppose if I run, I am, in fact, a runner. Of sorts.

The sort that gets stopped by an older couple the third time I lap them in the park. “Honey, look at you!” the older lady exclaims. “You just keep passing us. That’s so impressive.”

“Well, to be fair, you are using a cane, but thank you nonetheless,” I think to myself. But I smile and nod politely and continue on my way. Clearly, I don’t resemble your typical runner. The nice lady’s surprised enthusiasm reinforces it. So be it.

I don’t have designated running shorts or special running headphones. I may need to invest some money in that space as I invest more time in running. But for now, I just run.

I run to challenge myself and to get out of my comfort zone.

I run because I can, and I might not always be able to.

I run because my kids are watching.

I run because maybe I will inspire someone else who doesn’t consider themselves a runner to do the same.

I run because if I can run, maybe I can also do other hard things.

I am going to run a half marathon in January. I never thought I would say that. Well, I never thought I would say it and really mean it. As in, actually-register-and-book-a-hotel-room mean it. (Yes, there are local half marathons that would not necessitate an overnight stay. And that route would probably make more sense for a first timer. But why not get a mini-vacation out of the deal, amiright? Especially in January.)

I had begun training for a marathon a little over 13 years ago, when I met my future husband. I had even bought a book – “Marathon” by Jeff Galloway. Because this was in a world before folks just went on to the interwebs to plan their lives. This was back when people actually drove to book stores and walked around, on their feet, looking for books that might contain useful information.

Long story short, I still have the book, but the training derailed pretty quickly. I became far more interested in making gooey eyes at Dan than in running all the miles. After that, it seemed there was always an excuse. Some were legitimate, and others were less so. Planning a wedding (not especially legit). Mandated bed rest during two pregnancies (you gotta give me that one).

Now, running is my time to regroup and refuel. Which sounds slightly crazy. Shouldn’t running deplete me? Yet it fills me up, and its benefits seep into all the corners of my life. It is freeing and empowering. I find myself going to bed earlier when I plan to run the next morning. Skipping the wine when I know I have a run.

I value community generally, and I think the tight-knit running community in particular seems pretty amazing. But, for me, running is about quiet self-care. Reflection. Time to catch up on those podcasts I love. Or listen to “Ali in the Jungle” so I can spend a little time hanging out with my good buddy Pat who was taken from us too soon.

My distances began climbing as I started to train for the half. I conquered six miles, then seven. I allowed myself some pride, because, a few short months ago, even a mile was a stretch.

Still, I didn’t consider myself a runner. I had run the miles. I had swallowed a bug while running, which is probably a true runner’s rite of passage. I had suffered through a nasty case of shin splints when I tackled a too-ambitious run early in my new running chapter. But it wasn’t until a girl named Mollie died that I actually considered myself a runner.

Various arguments raged around Mollie’s death, and I won’t touch those here. This isn’t where I dive into the politically charged conversation on immigration, nor where I explore the right of all women to feel safe in society. I will just say that it was a heart-breaking tragedy, and it never should have happened. To her or to anyone else.

And it caused me to make my first running-related purchase.

A slick pepper-spray and reinforced-knuckle combo designed for runners. Five stars on Amazon. I had previously carried a bell during some remote runs, because bears have been spotted nearby. But I realized a bell wasn’t going to cut it.

How sad that my first running purchase stated on its packaging that it had to be shipped via ground only, due to its hazardous nature? How sad that I am constantly aware of my surroundings and vary my routes often? How sad that when I see a youngish man lingering in the park alone and staring at his phone, my first inclination is that he is a predator, rather than a Pokémon Go player?

That’s nothing, though. I’m still here to write this blog. And that alone is reason enough to be grateful. So I run. I run for myself, but also for Mollie, for Pat, for my family, maybe for you. (Jeez, that’s a lot of people to carry with me on my runs. At least that explains my pace. 🙂 )

Food My Favorite Things Summer of Fun II

Please Silence Your Cell Phones…

Post author By Jessica Van Bommel
Post date September 7, 2018
No Comments on Please Silence Your Cell Phones…

Our family loves a movie night. We probably have one at least once a week. Sometimes we all curl up on the giant chair in the living room, and sometimes we venture out to the back porch to watch a flick al fresco. Sometimes my husband sleeps through the whole thing.

I usually pop a big batch of popcorn the old-fashioned way (on the stovetop!) before the show. I like to use coconut oil to pop the kernels in our giant stock pot. It feels somewhat more virtuous than microwave popcorn, and it’s freaking delicious. Plus it pairs great with Sauvingon Blanc. Bonus.

One of the most beautiful things about movie night is that, once everyone is settled with their respective bowls of popcorn and the movie selection has been negotiated, you are virtually guaranteed two blissful hours without sibling squabbles.

Our method of choosing a movie could best be described as a limited democracy. I am the official movie-picker-outer. I put together a selection of 3-5 choices, based on what is available on Netflix and/or Amazon (which is basically everything these days), but also based on what won’t make Dan and me want to bang our heads against the wall. Then the options are debated and voted upon until we reach a familial consensus.

Our movie choices are eclectic, and they are seldom critical smashes. Gene Siskel I am not. For instance, last weekend, we enjoyed a viewing of “The Game Plan,” starring none other than Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Our first-grade daughter loves The Rock. I don’t claim to understand her stance, but hearing no objections, we went with it. Turns out, everyone liked the movie. It may have received only 29% on Rotten Tomatoes, but it was a hit with the Van Bommels.

We try to keep things family-friendly and non-traumatic, of course. But we have experienced a few missteps. So, take it from me, if you have dog lovers in your house, avoid Benji like the plague. Actually, avoid any films containing even a hint of dog-related peril. No Lassie. No Homeward Bound. None of the above. Just. Don’t. Do. It. There will be tears. Lots and lots of tears.

We have made some forays into ’80s cinema. Back to the Future proved to be a major win for us. Not only was it a fun flashback for the adults in the family, but the kids really got into it. (“So where is he now?” “Wait, that’s his mom?”) And the best part of Back to the Future is that it’s part of a trilogy. That means, once you overcome the hurdle of achieving an initial consensus, you have at least 3 argument-free movie nights in your future. Sequels are great, but trilogies are gold.

However, just a friendly heads up that the movie rating system was a tad more liberal back in the 1980s. For instance, although Top Gun is rated PG, it probably wasn’t suitable for our 7-year-old son. But back when we drank out of garden hoses and rode in cars without those pesky seatbelts, it was also okay for children to watch someone flipping the bird (“You know…the finger?” “Yes, I know the finger, Goose.”) and joke about having relations on a bathroom counter (“A long cruise, was it, Sailor?”). Now, that is good stuff. Classic stuff, even, but probably not totally appropriate for family viewing. So pretend I didn’t tell you that Top Gun still ranks up there as one of Baylor’s faves. Come to think of it, Back to the Future might have been a bit dicey too. (Remember the bedroom scene between Marty and his 1955 mom? “Why do you keep calling me Calvin?”)

Part of me looks forward to a time when we need not be so careful with our movie choices. A larger, wiser part of me does not. So when in doubt, we usually go for a Disney movie. It’s safe. I’m not talking Snow White or any of its animated cohorts (Although our daughter did go through a significant Frozen period. Shudder.). We gravitate towards Disney’s much more sophisticated live-action teeny-bopper genre, e.g., Zombies, Descendants, High School Musical (another trilogy for the win!), The Princess Diaries. School of Rock and The Sandlot aren’t Disney movies, but they are awesome. Enchanted makes my list. That may or may not have something to do with its inclusion of Patrick Dempsey.

Now, I am not a Lindsay Lohan fan, but I have to admit that girl can crush a family movie. In fact, she stars in two of my favorites – Freaky Friday and The Parent Trap. Freaky Friday has been redone over and over again, most recently this summer. I have seen them all, but Lindsay’s incarnation is my favorite. Similarly, LLo’s reboot of The Parent Trap surpasses the originals. In fact, it’s probably one of my top five movies of all time. Don’t judge.

Even though we don’t usually watch animated films, The Bee Movie is a exception, and a perennial favorite in our house. Who knew Jerry Seinfeld would make such a likeable bee? More than that, though, I think this movie reminds us of a simpler time that (some of us) look back on fondly for the togetherness it engendered. Back when we were building our house and lived in our cabin for six months, we didn’t have Netflix or Amazon. Heck, we didn’t have a washing machine or an oven. Or bedrooms with doors. But we did have a DVD player, and we had The Bee Movie on DVD. So we watched it. A lot.

Now, remember, I’m not claiming to be a movie guru. In fact, when I looked up most of these films on Rotten Tomatoes, there weren’t more than a couple in the bunch that exceeded a 50% rating. This week, though, we are going to go with a critical darling. Baylor’s first football game of the season is coming up on Saturday. So on tap for Friday night is Remember the Titans (…assuming I can get everyone on board. I think I’ll offer up some particularly unattractive choices for Options 2 and 3. Remember – I said this was a limited democracy.).

What works for your family? Do you have any movies we should add to our rotation?

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A Frank Discussion

I love my daily planner. I call him Frank. Not out loud, mind you. I don’t need (more) people thinking I am nuts. But he is a Franklin Planner, so it only makes sense to call him Frank. Are you with me?

Frank runs my life. He is the keeper of my schedule, my 12 billion running lists, my weekly meal plan and basically all the things. Losing Frank would be worse than losing my wallet. It would be like losing my mind. I am convinced I would just wander the planet aimlessly were it not for Frank. I mean, how would I know I need to buy Goldfish crackers or call the orthodontist for my 6-year-old (just ugh on that one)? Answer: I would not. Because I can’t remember anything for longer than 15 seconds. Which means Frank can never be more than 15 seconds away from me. If I don’t write it down in Frank when it first pops in my head, it will disappear from my tired brain forever. This is why my family often witnesses me tearing across the house in a towel, dripping water in my wake, only to record something in Frank. I mean, why do our most brilliant ideas always have to come to us in the shower?

Frank is not especially pretty. He is a little battered, a little rough around the edges. But, like many things in life, that only makes him more dear.

While folding laundry the other day, a question popped into my head. In a fire, other than my people and my pets, what would I grab if I had 30 seconds to do so? (Because what else would one think about whilst pairing socks, right?) At first, I thought about collecting some family photos off the wall. Then I realized that most of them are in the Cloud. Somewhere. And I’m sure someone smarter than me could access them. So what was truly irreplaceable? The answer was obvious. And three-fold. It was Paw Paw (my son’s stuffed dog), my daughter’s well-loved baby blankies, and Frank. Hmmm, I guess that means Frank is kind of like my security blanket, or my comfort object. Well. Yeah, I guess he is. So be it.

Even as a kid, I loved planners. I didn’t have Frank back then, of course, but I had someone, errr, I mean, something. And I derived intense satisfaction from marking a task complete. It was almost better than actually accomplishing the task itself. Sometimes I would even write chores down after I finished them, just so I could cross them off my list. Of course, as a fully-grown human, I don’t do that any longer. Of course.

I have tried over and over to go digital with my planner. Back in the ’90s, I was the proud owner of a Palm Pilot. Yes, seriously. I think that qualifies me as some sort of digital-organizer pioneer. I also used a Blackberry, and, most recently, the Cozi app. Plus a healthy handful of other technological innovations meant to straighten out my schedule and/or my life. But they all just ended up serving as backup to my handwritten notes. Turns out, I just can’t let Frank go. And, turns out, I’m okay with that.

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Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes you get deplaned.

Post author By Jessica Van Bommel
Post date August 24, 2018
No Comments on Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes you get deplaned.

If you are from the northern half of our country, you probably already know what a cribbage board looks like. But even if you’re not from these parts, you might be familiar with it. I used to consider cribbage a rather old-school game enjoyed exclusively by Midwesterners. Apparently, however, cribbage is experiencing a surge in popularity. I’m thinking it has something to do with all the spare time those lazy Millennials have on their hands (I am kidding. Please calm down. Plus, depending on what survey you look at, I may actually be a Millennial. So there.).

Dan taught me to play cribbage back when we first started dating, and it has remained one of our favorite pastimes. It’s more than that, really. It’s a part of our story.

We purchased a fold-up cribbage board at Walmart for $6 during our first year together, and we have put some serious miles on that thing. Our pegs must have traveled around that board a gazillion and a half times. (Mine have traveled a little further than Dan’s, though!) And the cribbage board itself has traveled to Mexico, the Caribbean, Alaska, Florida, Hawaii, Baltimore, and a host of forgotten destinations over the past 13 years. Specifically, it has visited lots of beaches and lots of bars. It is truly a well-traveled cribbage board, as far as traveling cribbage boards go.

Pulling out the cribbage board is a signal to our brains that it is time to relax. Time to sit down and enjoy each other’s company. Cribbage even has the power to keep us off of our phones, so that we actually speak words to each other!

The cribbage board always makes it into my carry-on bag. I am a nervous flyer, so playing cribbage is an excellent distraction on a plane. You have to be careful if you start playing before take-off, though. If you are unlucky, you might have a once-in-a-lifetime hand and take an early and commanding lead, only to be deplaned due to mechanical issues, at which point the game must be packed up. Sometimes, if you’re Dan, you whine about that injustice for years. Years.

We have lost countless pegs along the way, so we have been forced to “borrow” new pegs from our other, less-favored cribbage boards and sometimes from my dad’s cribbage board (Sorry, Dad!). In desperate times, we have even resorted to using toothpicks as pegs. We finally broke down and ordered extras from Amazon when all other sources were exhausted. But the board itself has survived.

On our last vacation, Dan had the idea to start documenting the cribbage board’s travels on its back in Sharpie. This was a great idea, if just a tad late. I’m surprised it took us so long to get to the idea, because it actually reminds me of the wooden oars that we use to measure our kids. We periodically pull the oars out of the closet and stand them up against the wall to see how much the kids have grown in the past few months (…or in the past 11 months, but who’s counting. At least it didn’t take us 13 years to come up with the idea in the first place!) I’m thinking maybe we should get the oars out and just take care of that right now.

Damn. They are still growing. We really need to stop feeding them.

This summer we purchased a cribbage table for our back porch. I am grateful for it, as well. It is beautiful, and it gives our friends a place to gather on the porch to get their rear ends kicked. It also gives our crazy puppy a perch. You might call it an upgrade, but I still prefer the traveling cribbage board.

I think this weekend might be an opportune time to teach our son the game of cribbage. See, we (meaning “I”) recently decided our family should go device-free until school starts. So two weeks without video games, iPads, or smart phones. We are all still alive, but I’m not very popular at home. I’ll let you know how it goes, but please keep us in your thoughts and prayers! 🙂

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T.G.I.August!

Well, friends, here we are. Smack dab in the middle of August. Everywhere we turn, the cries of “Where did summer go?” echo in our ears. Folks are taking off for final vacations and squeezing the last bit of fun from summer, much like squirting that last dab of sunscreen from the tube. Moms are scurrying through the aisles of Target, scrounging for a pack of skinny black Expo dry erase markers. (Amateurs! You gotta Amazon Prime those babies.)

Summer 2018 will undoubtedly be remembered as the summer of Fortnite and flossing. Sigh. But it was more than that. For us, it was baseball. Swimming. Ice cream. Waterskiing. Monkey bars. Sunsets. Boating. Botanical gardens. A new puppy. Karate camp and s’mores and get-togethers. I didn’t do all the things I hoped to do, of course. My summer bucket list wasn’t fully realized. And my giant garden didn’t exactly take off, either. Oh well. I tried, right? And we will salvage some fall veggies. Or if you want some zucchini right now, I have about 5000 to spare. But you have probably been offered over-abundant zucchini at least 10 times already this week. What is it with those things?

My failures aside, summer can be magical. But let’s not get too precious about it. After all, mosquitos. And summer can be a lot of pressure, especially when you live in place known for its brutal winters. There is immense pressure to pack in the fun, especially as you can see everyone else is doing so if you just scroll through your Facebook feed. Plus there is the pressure to handle the additional logistics that come with the school break. Like cobbling together a child care schedule with a hodge-podge of providers. Or serving as a 24-7 taxi service.

So let’s be grateful for August. It can serve as a needed wake-up call to enjoy the remainder of our summer. To savor the moments with our sweet babies. But then. There are other days. On those days, when the kids are at each other’s throats and I am at my wit’s end, August is a welcome reminder that this, too, shall pass. Thank the heavens above.

August goes by many names. The dog days of summer. The dregs of summer. Recently, I have been seeing August characterized as the “Sunday of Summer.” Sounds about right. Those folks hitting the lake and splashing their photos all over Instagram would say August is like a month-long Sunday Funday. And the harried souls trying to schedule kids’ haircuts while filling out endless school registration forms would probably tell you that August feels like a really long case of Sunday night jitters. Our family falls somewhere in between.

We are more of a “Slow Down Sunday family” than a “Sunday Funday family.” Slowing down is always a good thing, in my book. Our family typically uses Sunday as a buffer between the weekend and the new week. We still like to have fun on Sunday, but we do so a little more quietly. We recharge and prepare for the week, and we enjoy family time. This often looks like a movie on the back porch or an intense game of Connect Four.

So, for us, August is a time to reflect on the summer fun we have had. It’s a time to sneak off to the beach one more time, but also to look forward to what’s next. Because what’s next is pretty awesome. It’s fresh notebooks and new beginnings. Clean backpacks and sharpened pencils. Unopened boxes of crayons and unsullied school shoes. (Sorry, I’ve always gotten a little excited about back-to-school shopping. 🙂 ) The excitement of a brand-new school year. A blank slate. A chance to do things up right. Our kids get that chance, but there’s no reason we can’t seize it, too. We can resolve to say that the rest of 2018 is going to be amazing.

I am already looking forward to apple-picking, Dan’s homemade chili and cardigan sweaters. And you are nuts if you think there is anyplace prettier than Wisconsin in autumn. Wisconsin is the king of fall. Its winters may drag on in gray bleakness. Its springs are soggy and unsatisfying, when they bother to show up at all. But fall. Wisconsin knows how to do fall.

Plus, fall in Wisconsin brings Packers football. (Go Pack!) So really, the only thing that can ruin a Wisconsin autumn is the looming specter of a Wisconsin winter.

Now sure, I may have a hard time falling asleep the night before school starts, for fear of having forgotten to fill out a registration form or purchase a blue pocket folder. But the blow will be softened by the moms’ support group that will convene at everyone’s favorite local establishment for Bloody Mary’s after dropping the kids off at school. Yes, truly. Is that even a real thing? Or just a Winneconne thing? I am thinking the latter. Regardless, I need to find out more. I feel I have an obligation to find out more. So I will have to check it out. Don’t worry, I will report back!

About Me My Favorite Things The Happy Jar

One is Silver and the Other is Gold

Post author By Jessica Van Bommel
Post date August 2, 2018
No Comments on One is Silver and the Other is Gold

There are many different kinds of friends out there. There are friends who stick around for the long haul, and those who are only with you for a certain season. Those you talk to all the time, and those you only catch up with once in a blue moon. But they are all important, and I am grateful for them all.

I am grateful for the friends who are in the same phase of life that I am. The ones whose babies are starting to turn into big kids. The ones who understand and don’t judge. For a mom who sometimes struggles to keep it all together, you are the best kinds of friends.

I am also grateful for the friends who have already been there and done that. The ones who can show me how this is all going to play out. Seeing that they have survived and thrived lets me know that I will, too.

I am grateful for the friends who come over and bring wine. Because wine.

I am grateful for the friends who understand when I disappear for a few weeks (or months), because life can get crazy. I am especially grateful that these friends will still be there when I poke my head back up again.

I am grateful for the friends who were brought to me via my husband or my kids. If my family loves you, surely I do, too.

I am grateful for the friends whose impending visit doesn’t cause a flurry of vacuuming and stuff-stashing. You have seen me at my worst and did not run away. So now you get what you get. Which is dog hair and dirty dishes. You are the absolute best kind of friend.

I am also grateful for the friends whose visit does cause a cleaning frenzy. Because now my house is clean. So thank you very much. And take your shoes off please.

I am grateful for the friends who understand when I sneak out of their party early without saying goodnight. Because sometimes I am just done. Sometimes I have no more words left to say.

I am grateful for the friends who hang strong in our kitchen until the bitter end of our own impromptu party, and for those who run out to get more wine to keep the party going. Because sometimes I don’t want to sneak out early.

I am grateful for the friends who love my kids. There are no better friends.

I am grateful for the friends who were with me in the trenches of my tumultuous 20s. Who cried with me over things that made no sense at all. Who witnessed escapades and breakups. The ones who climbed over the fence with me (both figuratively and sometimes literally – don’t ask) and made it through the madness of young adulthood.

I am also grateful for the friends who knew me as a kid. Those folks who remember an earlier version of myself. Somehow the fact that there are still people out there that remember these prior versions of me helps preserve all those old selves. Many of these friends had faded from my life, only to be brought back by social media. I love keeping up with their big events and dinner plates via my Facebook feed. Honestly, I don’t talk to many of them in real life, but sometimes, for an introvert, those are the best kinds of friends.

So, whether you fit into one or six of these categories, thank you for being a friend. (And if you are now singing the theme song from The Golden Girls, you are definitely my kind of friend.) Cheers.

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What I Know

I get the feeling my husband isn’t entirely comfortable with me mentioning him in these blog posts. I probably get that feeling because he has told me so. But how could I not write about him? After all, they say to write what you know. And what I know is him.

I know what he will order off of any menu, anywhere. And I know that if a buffalo chicken wrap is an option, it’s not even worth reading the rest of the menu.

I know that we can have fun together anywhere. From a dive bar to a beach resort to our own back porch, as long as we have each other, and maybe a cribbage board, we are good to go.

I know that if the right song (or sometimes the wrong song) comes on, he will dance around our kitchen like a fool. Neither of us was particularly blessed with rhythm, but, trust me, that only makes his dancing more entertaining.

I know he will not be satisfied until every single light in our house is turned off. Because, obviously, eating dinner in the dark is preferable to wasting electricity.

I know that if I bend over to load the dishwasher, he will slap my rear end. Every. Single. Time.

I know that he will take the garbage to the curb each Friday.

I know he will always be here.

I know that if I even suggest that something, anything, cannot be done, he will find a way to make it happen.

I know he is right 9 times out of 10. Okay, 99 times out of 100. Please don’t tell him I admitted that.

I know we were meant to be together. We had several near-misses, but the universe clearly saw fit to pair us up.

I know his basic preferences: dogs over cats, tea over coffee, talking over texting, eggs over easy. You know, the important stuff.

I know I will never convince him to put his damn clothes in the hamper.

I know we agree on the big things, and usually the little ones (For instance, we agree that I have excellent taste in movies.).

I know that if I get a cold, he will make homemade chicken noodle soup with magical healing properties.

I know that if he gets a cold, he will regress into a 7-year-old and curl up in the fetal position on our bed. The world may also end.

I know he’s a good guy. In fact, he’s the kind of guy about whom people say, “Oh, that Dan, he’s such a nice guy.” It’s one of his most infuriating qualities.