And noise. Lots and lots of noise.

All of which leads me to wonder . . .

When do we stop running to get from one end of the room to the other? When do we stop giggling for hours on end? When do we stop recovering from hurts — real, imagined, emotional, physical — within moments? When do we stop embracing and saying *I love you* just because the spirit moves us?

These activities seem to be the things that keep our kids fit and happy (and often us parents exhausted and drained!), but I wonder when they stop? At age 6? 10? 15? When do daily life and / or child development meet and level these activities? Grade school? Junior High?

When?

We say that alot around our house.

Milk spills. “Accidents happen!”

Elbows knock something (or someone) over. “Accidents happen!”

Sometimes we say it multiple times on the same day. Heck . . . on the same morning.

The three year old doesn’t make it in time to the bathroom and wets his pants. “Accidents happen!”

The parents forget to put the sleepy diapers on the three year old and he wets the bed. “Accidents happen!”

Mommy doesn’t watch where she’s going and rear-ends (thus totaling) daddy’s minivan. “Accidents happen!”

Daddy forgets to watch the calendar and misses the once-a-month meeting for renovation approval and thus will need to postpone work on the fence, walkway, or whatever, for yet another month. “Accidents happen!”

Someone neglected to put the milk back into the refrigerator and the milk spoils. “Accidents happen!”

At the Kramer/Poehlmanns, “accidents happen” is appropriate for events both big and small. It’s been the household phrase for all things readily forgivable, often unavoidable, and ridiculously frequent.

It seems, though, that the wee Kramer/Poehlmanns have a domestic appreciation for accidents that does not extend to foreign lands. On Saturday night, while we sat around the dining room table, my friend Jesse received a text message from her neighbor: did Jesse know anything about the dent in the neighbor’s garage door? We assembled the children and began to investigate: who drove the snowmobile in the neighbor’s yard and, more to the point, who drove the snowmobile into the garage door?

You see, Charlotte (6), Theo (3), and I were spending the weekend in the Wisconsin winter wonderland of Door County with Jesse, her husband Mark, and their four children (ranging in age from 11 to 6 1/2, or is it 12 to 6 1/2? ) . Jesse & Mark’s house is on Lake Michigan Bay on an acre or so of property and my kids love to visit and to play there during any season. The family has a fleet of snowmobiles that range in size and ability (read: speed) for kids of all ages, so I wasn’t too worried about Charlotte driving a smaller and slower one.

As our investigation continued, we learned that Charlotte committed the hit and run on the house. Her voice was barely above a whisper and her eyes were huge when she owned up to the crash. Jesse and I explained, again, about how “accidents happen” and about how important it is to let an adult know about accidents when they happen, not well after the fact. I gave Charlotte a “get out of jail free” card for this accident, explaining that she’ll face consequences if she fails to acknowledge accidents in the future.

It turns out “accidents happen” alot at Jesse & Mark’s house, too. They’ve had to replace other garage doors due to bicycle and snowmobile crashes. Her contractor, Pete, was incredulous when she called him about the neighbor’s garage panel and the need to replace it. Good to know that Jesse & Mark are helping the 2010 contracting economy in Door County.

Accidents do happen, and we’re always grateful when no one is hurt. My friends are no exception. On Sunday night, a girlfriend returning from our kitchen to our living room took a long, almost slow motion, crash down the four steps onto the tropical plants, the back of the couch, and the ceramic tile floor. It was like watching a giant bird slowly swoop down, crying “Oh! Oh! Oh no-o-o-o-o-o!” Miraculously, the kids slept through the whole thing and Cammy girlfriend  didn’t break anything on her body or on the trees. We laughed so hard we cried.

“Accidents happen!”

1. The back of the bird character.
2. The bird looking to the left.
3. The bird looking to the right.
4. The bird flapping its wings wildly.
5. The back of the bird character.

The caption: There are those who live for quiet moments of wild abandon.

Just thinking about it still makes me giggle.

When I was single, my quiet moments of wild abandon would occur in my solitary flat. Ah, the luxury of solitude.

People on the street or in the grocery store now bear witness to my not-so-quiet moments of wild abandon. You see, I tend to be “alone” just a few minutes a day, either when I’m driving to work or running an errand on the way back home to meet the six-year-old’s school bus. As I wind my way through car or people traffic, I tend to speed like a demon and curse like a pirate.

And, apparently, I’m not even alone in these endeavors! Our friend John, during one of his visits in Milwaukee, once commented upon the mommy-van onslaught in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. He spoke in jest, but I believe he was quite shaken by the whole experience. I, of course, had a maniacal guffaw: women might still make $0.76 to every $1.00 that a man makes, but mommies and their vans rule grocery store parking lots.

My car needs a bumper sticker: Beware of wives and mothers behind the wheels of six-cylinder minivans. Beware!

Or maybe I can dig up that DOONESBURY comic strip, laminate it, and afix it to my rear bumper.

Theo (b. 09/15/2006) reaches 3’3.25″ and weighs in at 37# 12 oz.

Charlotte is  perfectly average for height, but her lower percentile for weight makes her look wonderfully lean and long. Theo, on the other hand, is off the charts for height and weight. He’s super solid and “read-ee to ro-ll!”

They are both going to overtake me (b. 10/03/1964) shortly. And, NO!, I’m not going to share my stats.

Key: Charlotte / Theo

Favorite Colors: purple / blue

Favorite Food: noodles / french fries; both: chocolate milk (ovaltine style)

Favorite Instrument: piano / guitar

Favorite Music: whatever Daddy is playing

Favorite Friends: Winter & Samantha & cousin Julien & honorary cousin Ben / Johnny & Ivan & anyone who smiles at him

Favorite Babysitters (both): Toya, Whitney, and Miss Jill

Latest Discoveries: Santa is really mommies & daddies (thanks Winter!) ; cactus hurt if you touch them /  kitties can be your friends, too

Bedtime (both): 8 pm

Rising time: 8 am / 6-7 am

Nap time: only if Mommy & Daddy are really, really lucky

Favorite Sport: jump rope / bicycle

Sports at which they excel: mini-golf / ball (or anything else) throwing

Favorite Mode of Transportation (both): the Michael Davidson John Deere TRUCK

Favorite Activities, solo: anything art, reading, playing, singing / destroying–also masquerades as playing; singing

Favorite Activities, shared: playing puppy, visiting Nana & Papa’s house/s

Our Favorite Phrases

Charlotte: “Since we love all of the friends who came to our birthday bbq, they are part of our family, right?”

Theo: “You’re FIRED!”–to Whitney (see favorite babysitters, above) while resisting nap time on vacation in Colorado.

As the great majority of our friends and family know, Christopher and I were both dedicated DINKS (double-income, no kids) from the time we met in 1990 until the events of 9/11/2001. Well, I take full responsibility for my dramatic shift of perspective that occurred that morning. I informed Christopher the evening of September 11th that  we needed to become a family — by having our own, adopting, or providing foster care for children. That to refrain from doing so would be too selfish. I know. It still doesn’t make much sense.

In fact, Christopher was as traumatized by my announcement as by the lives ruined by the attacks on the World Trade Centers. “It’s a deal breaker!” he cried. “We have a contract!” he insisted: “NO KIDS!” By December of 2001, though, he was singing my tune, thinking that our children would benefit from knowing our family and friends, people who worked in all kinds of fields, lived all over the world, and enjoyed all sorts of circumstances.

Neither of us could have anticipated the force of Christopher as a kid-magnet. Honestly: they cling to him. Boys and girls alike. Teen-aged boys, in particular, find Christopher’s appeal irresistible. At times, CP races away from them, screaming, “Get away from me! I need some space!” These boys, giggling, trail eagerly after him, mimicking his walk and talk. It’s a riot.

With our own children, Christopher is a pied piper. Last week, I stayed in bed most mornings due to a severe head cold and thus overheard Charlotte (6) and Theo’s (3) weekday morning ritual chez Christopher (45).

a. music by Thao, the clapping song

b. clapping by Christopher

c. clapping and singing by Christopher and the kids

d. breakfast machinations by all

e. crying by Theo

f. singing by Charlotte

g. brushing of hair by Charlotte

h. remonstrations by Christopher

i. giggling by all

j. running to catch bus by Charlotte

k. announcing / sing-songing “I’m read-ee to roll, Dadd-ee!” by Theo (and “I want to see my friends . . . !)

l. door slamming by Theo

I thought: this is what happens every morning while I’m at work.

Then, on Saturday morning, Christopher and Theo announced they were going to the park. I happened to catch them on their way around the corner of our block: Theo on his trike; Christopher on his skateboard (yes, skateboard). Later that morning, the boys were dancing in the dining room. This behavior, on the part of Christopher, is beyond his known and practiced reluctance to shake his booty in public. Our friend and orthopedic surgeon John Fenning, concerned that something was wrong with the immobile Christopher during a rockin’ event in Fort Myers FL, once took Christopher’s faux pulse while the rest of us brought the house down.

The Accidental Parent. My husband. A super partner and my best friend, is also the most amazing father.

“He” is René, a sixty-six-year-old retired geologist who lives, with his wife Martine, in the Provence region of France. After spending decades working for the French oil corporation Total, René now works as a consultant whenever he chooses for whomever he chooses wherever he chooses. It was my good fortune, as well as that of my “meilleurs amie” Cami, that René was not off on a consulting gig somewhere else in the world like Mexico, Angola, Thailand, Africa, or who knows where.

The “good deal” was five dried sausages for 10 euros. Or was it five for 20? In either event, we couldn’t believe our good fortune. This was charcuterie at its finest: duck, pork, donkey, boar, and something else with the occasional spice or cracked pepper covering. It was a true meat eaters delight. René encouraged us to explore the rest of the market at Lourmarin, perhaps even have lunch, before making our purchase. And so we did. We walked the vendor stalls snacking on samples of cheese and sausage, sampling wine from vineyards in the region, trying on hats, caressing the linens, and ooo-ing and ah-ing over the abundant fresh fruits and vegetables, spices, soaps, cheeses (the cheeses!) and all varieties of delicacies. It was like experiencing Whole Foods for the first time, but en plein aire. If you have an image of Provence in your mind that includes fields of lavender and sun flowers, olive farms, and vineyards, you won’t be disappointed by the unbelievably picturesque qualities of Provence. Ultimately, we met Martine at one of their favorite restaurants, Restaurant La Recreation / Salon de The, for a traditional French lunch, complete with a carafe of rosé. OK: two carafes.

When we returned to the market, René found a better deal: purchase five sausages for 10 euros and get an additional one free. Cami and I hesitated, preferring the larger, plumper sausages we discovered earlier over these nugget sausages. “As you like,” René said, shrugging his shoulders, and off we went to purchase our first pick.

Let’s pause right here before I get lost in our adventures with René in Luberon to describe some of the French colloquialisms and customs our hosts taught us. “Bonne amie,” explained René, “does not mean ‘best friend,’ but ‘close friend’ as in a lover.” Here, René laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “If she (Cami) is your bonne amie, that’s ‘OK’ with me,” he winked. “Whatever you like! It takes all kinds! But if you mean ‘best friend,’ we say ‘meilleurs amie.’” Trust me, this is not something I ever learned in college French.

One glorious morning at their home in St. Cannat, with the intent to be complimentary and enthusiastic, I exclaimed “Je suis heureuse!” But René and Martine shook their collective heads and said, “No, you are not ‘heureuse.’ That’s nothing! It just means everything’s OK. You mean something more.” Later that day, I learned the phrase that truly described my mental state: J’ai un coeur qui battre chamade. Although I still don’t know an exact translation, it seems to mean that my heart is so full that it rocks with joy, “chamade.” I love this phrase. It might not be appropriate for my tombstone, but perhaps I could have it engraved somewhere else. A tattoo?

It turns out that our table manners were cause for consternation. We were admonished for resting our hands under the table on our laps rather than keeping them (and our elbows!) up on the table at mealtime. We were also encouraged to use our fingers, not toothpicks or forks, while sharing plates of olives, nuts, and the like. This practice, flying in the face of our cocktail manners 101, was weirdly liberating. Heaven forbid, however, that we used our bare hands to tear off a piece of baguette. The French have knives and cutting boards for such things, after all. As you might imagine, there was much shaking of heads and blowing of raspberries — yet another custom otherwise foreign and typically avoided by we Americans — throughout our visit in Provence.

René hurtled us through the landscape in his untopped jeep, but the breathtaking view of the provencal countryside made up for the unrelenting breeze and the hot sun. Periodically, René would point and yell “Roman!” or “Moyen Ages!” to indicate the periods associated with the ruins of arches, stone fences, and bridges. There was also the occasional “Napoleon! Not the first one, the THIRD one!” The grapes and olives in the region, he told us, were also the welcome remains of the Romans.

Periods and rulers and events and places might have been muddled in translation, but the drive west through the Luberon region from its southern edge in Lourmarin. A trip through the southern pass that divides the Grand Luberon from the Petit Luberon ranges and their dramatic rockscapes helped us understand why this area had been fairly remote until the twentieth century. Don’t get me wrong: these are not the Colorado Rockies, or even their foothills, but these ranges with their perched medieval villages were extraordinarily striking for their roads, views, and hospitality. Bonnieux, our destination– now home to the exceptional and renowned Bastide de Capelongue, Restaurant Edouard Loubet and cooking school – proved no exception!

A short detour to a hotel and French immersion school near the Natural Regional Parc of the Luberon, L’Auberge des Seguins, took us to a quiet valley that felt positively medieval. A massive cliff that towered above the valley protects the area from all sorts of invaders – people escaping religious persecution throughout the ages found sanctuary here and we found refuge from the more tourist-populated picturesque villages. Indeed, it seemed like such an excellent place to hide that I vowed to book a room at the auberge and to take the immersion course on my next trip. Who, after all, would travel in and around and through the Luberon ranges or scale the cliffs to reach the area except for those who planned to remain there? It seemed like the perfect hide-out for the return visit of this mother-of-two tots, wife-of-one.

Alors, like all good things, it was time to go home, all the way home to the US. L’eau de charcuterie made it impossible to consider smuggling our contraband through US Customs, even with multiple plastic baggies, so we determined honesty was the best policy and declared our contraband. Our return to the States, aside from our really snotty airline attendants on the Continental Flight #0057, was uneventful. In addition to the meats, we dutifully claimed our olive oil and wine and assorted gifts and the Customs officials dutifully confiscated everything with any pork products. It turns out that René was right: you can bring products back into the States if those products are for your personal conception. But those products need to be canned or freeze dried or otherwise contained. Of course, we could have saved ourselves the euros (and the baggies) had we thought about the threat our *porc* charcuterie posed in the midst of the 2009 pandemic swine flu, but then we wouldn’t have had the experience of racing through the market at Lourmarin and feeling like we were the most fortunate people on earth.

Hi!

It would be a mistake to identify recent weather as spring, so let’s just call it an eventful quarter. One of the dominating factors (aside from chilly weather) has been our concern for Theo’s health:

• He was on a variety of antibiotics to address an ongoing ear infection.
• In April he experienced a frightening (for us) asthmatic episode that has not repeated itself. That night, we made a late-night trip to and he head a breathing treatment at the Children’s Hospital Urgent Center
• Throughout April, we visited an ENT physician to explore tubes in the ears (rejected), a pediatric asthma and allergy specialist twice (helpful), and a few visits to the on-site radiologist for x-rays to boot.

Theo was given a (fairly) clean bill of health by the middle of May: the daily nebulizer causes thrush and the nasal drops cause tears. Ultimately, the twenty-day antibiotic for the sinus infection knocked out his nasal drip and his cough, the cough / infection that led to the asthmatic episode in the first place.

For a day, he was fine.

Then, right after Christopher and I left for a long weekend at the end of May, Theo developed welts. Big welts. All over his body. Nana Penny (Christopher’s mother), who stayed with the children during our weekend away, took him into the pediatrician who diagnosed the welts as a virus. What, you ask, does that mean? That means: nothing to do but wait and watch for the welts to dissipate and to be on the alert for swelling of the eyes, nose, ears, throat, and mouth. Penny helped the little guy out with some Benadryl and watched. Thankfully, the welts did not cause him any discomfort and he was otherwise in good spirits.

Then, just after Nana Penny returned to Woodstock Illinois and our favorite babysitter Whitney moved into our house to care for the wee ones, Charlotte developed pink eye. Whitney, responsible individual that she is, didn’t listen to the nurse practitioner who told her to *wait and see* and promptly took Charlotte to the Children’s Hospital Urgent Care, picked up the eye drops, and began administering same.

By the time we returned from Florida, Theo was just fine and beautiful again while Charlotte was teary about her eye-drops.

We are grateful to our old friends and new in Milwaukee, but who knew we would get to know so many pharmacists and physicians?

Throughout these activities, Christopher built three raised bed gardens (two for vegetables, one for sunflowers), installed two rain barrels, designed a new double-decker shed, designed a new wall for an outdoor gardening station, installed the molding in the master suite, finished dry-walling the new wall and ceiling in the basement, and made dinner most nights—except for the nights he was away at trade shows! I was busy finishing my upholstery projects, getting bids on removing and installing a new concrete patio in the backyard as well as on painting the house, and (oh, yeah!) dreaming about purchasing a John Randall McDonald mid-century modernist masterpiece just north of our own home. We’re still waiting on all the bids and for the sprouts to grow. Of course, summer will actually have to happen.

Finally, last night, Christopher and Charlotte woke up to a Big Bang. I slept right through it. In the morning, we discovered water in the living room and a power outage. The water was due to the flood on the side of the house (thankfully NOT the roof). Clearly, we need to do some grading on the west side of the building. And the power outage? The transformer on the telephone pole in our back yard was struck by lighting (remember the Big Bang?) and knocked out our and our neighbors’ power. I’m under strict orders to keep the refrigerator closed if the power is still off this evening.

Can you say take-out?

Me? I’m running away this weekend to join a group of friends on a rural farm in Southwestern Wisconsin. Our goal? To build a hen house made out of hay bales. Yes: I am bringing first aid kit.

Hi!

As most of you already know, the Kramer Poehlmann Family trip to Colorado to visit the Kristen (Kramer) Brynestads and Eric Kramers in Lafayette, Boulder, and Vail was canceled this week. Here’s a blow by blow of our Wisconsin experience this spring:

Friday, March 21:

• Kate takes a vacation day to pack up the family. That morning, she remains optimistic about the flight. This, in spite of heavy snowfall.
• By 11 am, Kate learns that Milwaukee’s General Mitchell Airport, Chicago O’Hare, and Chicago Midway are all closed.
• Kate spends the next two hours on the telephone with American Airline representatives trying to find a flight conducive to flying with a 4+year old and eighteen month old. She is unsuccessful.
• Ultimately, Kate opts to cancel the trip and receive a refund for the tickets (per American Airlines customer representative Virginia).
• Charlotte comes home from school with a fever.
• Neighbors bring macaroni and cheese and a lovely salad to console the forlorn Kramer Poehlmann.
• FOURTEEN inch snowfall places Winter 2008 the second heaviest snowfall in Milwaukee’s recorded history.

Saturday, March 22:

• Charlotte no longer has a fever.
• Kramer Poehlmanns go sledding on the big hill in neighboring Kleitsch Park with neighbors.
• Theo develops fever.

Sunday, March 23:

• Theo’s fever persists.
• Kate and Charlotte go to Evanston to visit the Rappaport Steins, meet brand new baby Liora, and play with two-year-old Aviva.
• Charlotte sleeps all the way home.

Monday, March 24:

• Kate takes Theo to doctor; doctor determines Theo’s ear infection persists and prescribes another antibiotic.
• Kate gives Theo first dose of antibiotic.
• Theo naps all afternoon.
• Kate and Charlotte go to the American Airlines desk at the airport to get refund.
• Charlotte naps on the way to the airport
• Burly Guys at ticket counter tell them no refund possible due to the ticket purchase through Orbitz
  Kate insists that American Airlines representative guaranteed refund
• Burly Guys shrug their shoulders
• Kate asks for someone with authority and is instructed to come back in thirty minutes to discuss with AA rep Bridget
• Kate and Charlotte dine at the airport. Charlotte says, “Mommy. You didn’t like those guys.” Mommy says, “No, Mommy was just unhappy with them.”
• Kate and Charlotte return to AA ticketing.
• Bridget unable to be present due to other pressing matters.
• Kate and Charlotte depart.
• As Kate and Charlotte leave parking structure, one of the burly guys calls Kate on her cell phone and announces that Bridget approves a full refund. He meets Kate curbside with all materials.
• Kate and Charlotte go home victorious. Charlotte says, “Mommy, calm down.” Mommy says, “You just saw a strong woman in action. You are going to be a strong woman, too.”
• Chris gives Theo second dose of antibiotic. Theo hurls (gag reflux) up antibiotic and dinner, all over floor and Charlotte’s feet.
• Everyone goes to bed tired.

Tuesday, March 25:

• Chris calls pediatrician to try another antibiotic.
• Kate goes to work.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

xoxo

Kate

—

ADDENDUM: November 2, 2009

I failed to mention that the entire living room ceiling / roof turned into a sieve earlier that March. Christopher was away at a conference or trade show, Charlotte was at her grandparents in Illinois, and I was home alone with baby Theo. Cami came up to the house to mind Theo while I frantically moved furniture, mopped the ceramic tile floor, and placed about 35 vessels in critical areas. It took DAYS before a roofer would even come to the house to look at the roof. Thus, forever more, we will recommend Hugo Terrazas of Quality Seal Roofing to anyone and everyone.

There’s a reason why “family restaurants” exist. They have balloons and crayons and coloring books and games and pop music and changing tables and high chairs and booster seats and plastic cups with straws and children’s menus. If you’re really, really lucky, they might have a liquor license and thus also cater to the parents. Family restaurants happily serve families and we encourage families to support them!

Fine dining establishments might (might!) have high chairs and they might (might!) have children’s meals available. Choose your restaurant to fit your dining needs.

#2 Please Remain Seated

Restaurants are not playgrounds. Period.

Climbing, crawling, jumping, running, stumbling, walking, wandering children are unbalanced obstacles over which patrons and servers can and do fall. Or spill hot soup. Or toss salad. Or break glass. Such children pose a real and present danger to themselves and others in a dining environment.

If children can’t remain seated throughout the dining experience, if they can’t sit still, they aren’t ready for going out to breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

And that’s O.K.. That’s why fast food chains and outdoor parks with play areas exist.

#3 Escort Service

Potty Breaks are NOT recess. To maintain a safe and enjoyable environment (see No. 2) and to safeguard children in a public place, escort children to the restroom/s.

#4 Ban Banquette Bouncing / Limit Lap Seating

Children who bounce on the banquettes – those long upholstered booths – or leap from one diner’s lap to another’s are destructive and disruptive. Respect the restaurant’s furniture and save the lap for dessert. (See Nos. 1 & 2)

#5 Exponential Tipping

The more disorderly, the more undisciplined, the more egregious the behavior, the more the tip should increase. Exponentially. Period. (See Nos. 1, 2, 3 & 4)

Afterword

Years ago, before we became a family, my husband and I would request “No Smoking / No Children” seating at restaurants. We didn’t begrudge a family’s night out, we just didn’t want to have our evening dominated by someone else’s family shenanigans.

Then we became a family and realized that sometimes we just needed to get out of the house at mealtime. We learned that sometimes kids just can’t handle dining out and sometimes kids just lose all control in public. Our appreciation for baby-sitters and for take home containers has grown over the years. We also became eternally grateful to “family restaurants” and those saints who work in them.

We hope that Cami’s Rules to Dine By, guidelines we developed at our friend Cami’s restaurant and that we repeat to our young children (even at the zoo!), increase your family’s dining pleasure and keep you welcome at your favorite restaurants.

Well, I needed a place to put all of my stuff…projects (see Business of Art 101), cv (academic for resume / well, actually, abbreviation of latin, but . . . ), pictures (if I can figure out how to upload them), and general remarks that other folks call blogs but I call rants.

AND

I’d love to hear from any of you who take the time to check out the site!

All best, Kate