It all began yesterday when I drove Ethan to school and the “check engine light” was on in my Ford mini-van. Ethan named my vehicle “Franklin.” I have absolutely no idea why, but I call it “Franklin Ford.” Since it was driving fine, I didn’t think too much of it. I did call the dealer/garage we use and make an appointment for later in the week just to get it checked. When I left work later that afternoon Franklin wouldn’t start. Go figure. My husband came by and thought he’d try and jump it to see if by chance it was just the battery and not a really expensive issue. Thank goodness it was the battery. He went and put a new one in and parked it back in our garage that night. Problem solved. Except with me things never go that easy.

So this morning I began to back out of our garage turning slowly to the right, as I do every morning to turn around in our driveway. Apparently I cut it a little too close. The next thing I heard was that awful crunch that signals you’ve really done something bad to your car. I’d hit the front left corner/bumper against the door opening of our garage wall. When I got out of the car to check the damage I just cried. At this point I would have been thankful with a scratch, some paint missing, even a little dent. I had all that and more.

The entire headlight had somehow popped out and was laying on the ground, totally disconnected from Franklin. Pieces lay scattered about our drive. A large crater now graces the front of my van and the color we painted our brick garage several years ago that I liked so much, now can follow me everywhere. After I pulled it together and had given what was left of the headlight a good kick into our garage, I noticed the door wouldn’t go down. This isn’t unusual in cold weather, so I ignored it. After all, in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t a big deal.

Ethan asked me the entire way to school what had happened. Once he got out of Franklin he took one look at the damage and while shaking his finger at me said, “Dad is not going to be happy about this.” No kidding.

To my surprise Nate didn’t react the way I had planned. In my head I had excuses ready (i.e. he had pulled the van in crooked the night before). I had guilt covered (i.e. ability to cry). I even had a back-up rebuttal (i.e. last summer when he ran into our fence). But I didn’t need any of them.

There must be something he’s done lately that I haven’t found out about yet, because his initial words after seeing it in person were, “It’s not that bad.” Was he looking at the same van I was?

Ethan was convinced that they could get super glue and put all the pieces back together for me. I’m surprised Nate didn’t try to use nail glue. Many things around our house are held up with nail glue - including our shutters. Some men think duct tape will fix anything, my husband uses nail glue.

All day today the dashboard on my car has had this orange light bulb warning symbol with an explanation point in the middle flashing at me. Anytime the car is running. Every time the car is on. Flashing. It is to serve as a warning if you have a light out. As if I need a reminder to the fact that I have a headlight out! Pretty obvious I think.

By the way, the damage wasn’t isolated to my car. I also managed to mess up the garage door track. I’m unsure as to when and how we’ll get all this fixed. I think I’ll wait to make sure something else doesn’t go wrong first. My grandma always said things happen in 3’s…I’m at 2 and counting.

Every Sunday night for as long as we’ve been married my father-in-law will call us. The phone rings at either 7:24 p.m. OR 8:13 p.m. I haven’t figured out the reason behind that, but you can almost bet money on it. My theory is that it’s a commercial break.

One of the best inventions we invested in was caller id. At least if I know who it is I can throw the phone to Nate. I admit there are some Sunday’s when neither of us feels like talking and we let the machine get it. Although the conversation is typically short, it will include these topics in this exact order:

1) Weather - My father-in-law watches our weather online. He compares their weather with ours. Gives us a breakdown of the past week and the forecast for the upcoming week.

2) News - He has learned how to watch video clips of online news channels in our area and frequently keeps up with things that happen here. Then, he tells us what has been going on where we live.

3) Projects - Usually about something he’s doing around their house, in the barn or restoring one of his tractor’s.

4) Do you remember…? - This portion of the phone call consists of asking Nate if he remembers so & so OR so & so’s brother’s neighbor’s uncle.

5) Weather - Yes, again. A recap.

6) Have a good week, love you’s, etc….

We have no reason to watch the news. Our personal newscaster lives 6 hours away, but can tell us the record high for the day.

My husband and I met on my 21st birthday at college through a mutual friend. It’s surprising I remember the night. We hit every bar on campus in a parade sort of fashion. I honestly didn’t drink in high school - ever. I was one of those teens who hung out with the good group. We weren’t nerds, but we obviously weren’t standing on the football field during homecoming either. However, we had a lot of fun as a group. I didn’t smoke or do drugs either. And no sex. Our parents should be thankful. If they only knew what went on in the other social circles they might have locked us in our rooms.

College came and it was difficult figuring out who I was and what I wanted to do with my life. I switched schools after one semester at a small close-to-home college, because it reminded me too much of my rural high school and I was looking for a different experience. It still took a year or so to adjust to life on a Big Ten campus, but I eventually loved it! During the summers at home I began to experience parties and drinking on an occasional basis, but nothing extreme. Still no smoking or drugs. And no sex.

At this point any parent would consider themselves lucky for a job well done. You see all the public service announcements about the importance of speaking to your children. We all know that parents who use drugs have children who use drugs. I was always hoping for an egg demo on a skillet. How many Sunday mornings did we have eggs for breakfast? How many missed opportunities they had? My divorced parents neither one spoke about drugs or alcohol with me. Except the conversation my mother and I had when I was a sophomore in high school about why my parents divorced years before. Turns out my father had some drug problems. When it came down to it he choose drugs over his family. During that talk there was never a mention of whether I knew the consequences of doing drugs. Hell, probably because my mother knew I had first-hand experience with the consequences.

Turning 21 was an unforgettable experience for me. I was tired of having the “holier than thou” image of always doing the right thing. I had no interest in drugs, but for me drinking seemed like a harmless way to have fun with friends and now it would be legal. The life changing event I found wasn’t in the form of a glass with an umbrella, but rather in love.

I’m not a sappy or foo-foo person. I’m not mushy either. That’s probably why I knew the first time I saw him that he was the one. Maybe because those who puke together, stay together! We spent quite a few months in a drunken state from Thursday evening - Sunday afternoon when we sobered up. (By the way the sex came later.) They were the typical college memories that most people experience. I’m thankful I took a chance and risked my “good girl” image to have some fun. It turned out to be a good choice for me in a lot of ways. I can count two examples in my house alone.

As a working mother of a VERY active 4.5 year old, we occasionally eat out. I say occasionally, because it’s too expensive to do it a lot, otherwise we probably would. I am not a good cook. Actually, I can cook some things, but I don’t enjoy it very much. I think I would enjoy it more if I didn’t have to do dishes after making a mess in the kitchen! We don’t have a dishwasher in our house (it’s a small kitchen with no space for one & it must have been built before they were invented, because what woman in her right mind would not include one in the plans?).

We do fix meals and feed our son a balanced assortment of meat, fruits & vegetables. Lucky for us he likes the last two, but he is a little weird about his meats. He prefers chicken nuggets for every meal. He’ll eat things like fish sticks and hot dogs, but it’s hard to get him to eat a hamburger or grilled chicken breast. If he’s really hungry and has a bottle of ketchup he might. Just within the past 6 months he finally started eating sandwiches! Peanut butter & jelly being his favorite with toasted cheese a close runner up. So that broadened our options. He’s also started eating spaghetti and a few other meals that have meat included in them, but chicken nuggets lead the race.

I credit his pre-k school for the constantly expanding meal menu. When he stays for lunch they eat in the cafeteria with the K-8 students and just today he informed me that he had chili and really liked it. My husband makes chili several times a month during the winter and Ethan has always refused to even try it. But I guess when you add in the influence of your peers it adds a new element of pressure. More than our attempts at getting Ethan to try new foods.

Overheard in our dining room: “Take one bite of your lasagna or Buzz Lightyear gets it.”

On the occasional hectic day or just for fun, we may enjoy McDonald’s. Who doesn’t? I’ve heard of some families with older kids who have so many sports and activities that they often eat meals in their mini-vans after hitting the drive-thru night after night. Ethan obviously LOVES a chicken nugget Happy Meal. He sometimes gets apples and sometimes fries. I’m fine either way. (The apples actually have some preservative to keep them fresh that breaks his mouth out around his lips - he has sensitive skin.) And a juice box or milk.

No matter how much I enjoy the convenience and taste of my own meal (let alone the lack of dish washing afterwards), I sometimes feel guilty. My mom worked and took care of my brother and I. We didn’t eat out much & we were involved in activities. If she knew we had something going on in the evening, she planned ahead and used the crock pot. Not only that, but our meals weren’t the freezer-to-oven kind (like I usually make). They were homemade and absolutely delicious!

I was googling something today and accidentally came across this link. It peaked my interest. Turns out I’m not ruining Ethan’s health by feeding him a Happy Meal. In fact, it may very well be healthier in some instances than the quick convenience meal I could fix him at home (more so when he chooses apples over fries of course). Clicking below will take you to a chart on a site run by McDonald’s.

I was particularly surprised that some of his favorite foods (by themselves) like a hot dog, grilled cheese & pizza are higher in fat and calories than 4 chicken nuggets! Good news! Good news for me and other parents who have that guilty feeling as they leave the drive thru.

Most people would start off an introduction with hello, but I’m not most people. When I send out e-mails (to family or friends - not work) I start off with “Word-up G!” I can’t explain that, so don’t ask. Aside from what I write in this first “official” post, you’re probably trying to remember high school French class. Racking your brain over what Fenicle really means. The suspense must be killing you!

Middle school is hell. Whether you are the bubbly, pretty blonde in Guess jeans, an ESPRIT shirt and Tretorn shoes or well…me. Imagine the monotone history teacher doing roll-call on the first day of school. In a class of 20 or so kids, you’d think first names would be sufficient. (Chances are there might be 2 Jennifer’s?) This man felt it was necessary to read more, but butchering the last names wasn’t enough for him. He felt compelled to read first, middle and last names. Out loud. Realizing what he was doing, I sat as he went through A-G, feeling my skin turn hot. My turn.

You’d have to ask my mom what drugs she was on when they let her sign my birth certificate. Granted, her intentions and sentimental determination to humiliate her only daughter on the first day of 6th grade were out of love. (She was obviously thinking way ahead.) First of all, the man couldn’t pronounce this 3 syllable name. Second, he read it, looked at it, looked at me, and attempted repeating it louder. {Rhymes with pinnacle} Then, the question that echoes repeatedly in my dreams….“What does Fenicle mean?”

This is where my creativity was born. Up until this point I was a virgin liar. My sassy nature was born. My reply was simple and left no need for further explanation. “It’s French for Nicole.” Thus began my alter ego.

I have to admit, I’ve grown to love my middle name. It happened to be my grandmother’s maiden name. She was one of 6 girls, so her parents had no one to carry on the family name. It’s unique, it’s different, it’s odd, and it’s one-in-a-million. It’s me. Enjoy!