We grew up together. We were friends. We dated. We fell in love. We got engaged in NYC on a snowy night. We got married. We traveled. We lived in a shoebox. We bought a house. We fixed a house. We sold a house. We bought a house. We fixed a house. We laid down roots. We worked long hours. We lost connection. We reconnected. We lost a baby. We couldn’t get pregnant. We got pregnant. We lost a baby. We got pregnant. We had a boy. We changed our lives so I could be at home. We tried to adjust to parenthood. We struggled. We came through it. We only tried once. We got pregnant again. We went through a tough time. We had a girl. We found each other again. At the core is friendship. At the core is humor. We covered a lot of territory in 10 short years. Lots of ups and downs. But most importantly, lots and lots of date nights. And I still completely love the guy.
Author Archives: kristinasvenkerud
It Takes a Village
My husband’s job can be kind of demanding and he has always worked pretty long hours. So my role, in our home and with our kids, includes all household operations. I’m the COO around here. Basically everything but the garbage cans to the street. When I have an appointment or I fall ill or I have conflicting commitments, he usually can’t bail me out. Which is why I have never understood how people (especially people with kids) live in another state, away from family and friends. If I had to do this without family and friends, I probably would’ve stopped with one. But by some miracle, long before kids were on our radar, we were planted in a community that would come to be my saving grace. My village. My family nearby and a network of women that would come to mean a lot to me.
Recently, I watched a documentary about contentment and what makes us truly happy. The front running commonality from country to country was people who live in self-sustaining communities are the happiest, working and living and sharing in responsibilities together and I know (mostly) what they’re talking about. It may be a jillion miles away, with huts and no running water, it may be a compound outside Salt Lake City (wink-wink) or a beehive, I understand it now, you need your own little community to survive, to thrive and especially to raise kids.
Last week, I was sick and without having to ask, one-by-one, offers to pick up, drop off, take for play dates came flooding in. Never having to even ask for help. Picking up my slack and entertaining my kid. And almost a year ago, when we were robbed two freaking days before Christmas and our gifts unwrapped and stolen: baskets of goodies, toys for the kids, gift cards left on our front step. It’s so good to know that if God forbid, something really bad happens, I have a village of people that will jump to the aid of my family. I sometimes cringe that though I live just miles from the city, I’ve localized and have become so removed from city life but I’d gladly sacrifice my familiarity with new restaurants and hot happenings to be part of something that enriches my kids’ lives and mine like this neighborhood.
To my village, my family and my ladies of the 98177, I salute you, I thank you, I bake you dozens and dozens of imaginary cookies but more importantly, when you have jury duty or you’re sick or you have conflicting soccer games, I have your back. I may not be schlepping your well water to your hut but I’ll drive your kids to a Pump it Up birthday party. And that’s kinda the same thing, right??
There goes your dignity…
The more I grow into my role as a mom, the further and further I get from my pride, my dignity, and my shame. Putting your family first means so many things. It means doing what’s right for them before what’s right for you, it means making sure that they have what they need, it means making their feelings a priority and giving them the guidance and the attention that they deserve. But of all the sacrifices you will make, the toughest to swallow is making a fool of yourself, for them. Take this from someone who wasn’t even cool to begin with, you’ll be lamer still when you have kids. These little people who have you by the pride, want to see you dance, (literally and figuratively), in public, on a whim, at their bidding. You’re a trained monkey now, casting aside self-esteem for humiliating Halloween costumes. Singing aloud in the car to Sound of Music, Mary Poppins or heaven forbid, the Frozen soundtrack. Singing bad cockney with the windows rolled down as you play Dick Van Dyke to their Julie Andrews.
And yet such a huge sacrifice is so easy to make. It’s freeing and liberating to turn your care of the world’s perception of you, into an exclusive interest in their perception of you. And what comes along with it is beneficial for anyone, being dropped down a notch, being reminded of your station in life. You’re here for them and any selfish drive to save face or be cool just completely melts away in the face of a freckled nose who wants to engage in a public medley, who wants me to run in circles and fall down on the ground in public.
The other day, I saw a bumper sticker on a minivan that said, “I used to be cool”, and I laughed aloud, almost to tears, then I thanked God that I don’t have a minivan yet and then I thanked God that coolness, pride, shame and dignity are all a thing of the past.
My Daughter
She’s loud. She’s mouthy. She’s spirited. She’s willful. She’s sassy. She’s too much. She’s my daughter. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Now, no two people are exactly alike, but I always feared (and now I know, rightfully so) that I wouldn’t be able to escape the tough time I had given my Mom, over the years. And that I would probably experience retribution through my own children. Soren is soft and sweet and gentle like his Dad…and so the idea of having this girl, a girl like me in any way, freaked me out.
From the time she was growing inside me, she was kicking, flipping, never-ending, throwing jarring power punches. It never stopped. On the outside, she tests everyone, she pushes the limits, she kicks down my boundaries, she’s full of joy and piss and vinegar. And as she starts preschool this week, I find myself wondering what tools will she need that only I can give her? Why she was given to me? How can I encourage in her all of her strengths, not diminish any of her passion but help her learn to filter herself when appropriate? How do I lead by example?
I wonder, will she say exactly what she’s thinking, exactly when she’s thinking it?
I have A LOT of experience with this one. I have cringed more times than I’d like to count, reflecting on something I said without thinking. It’s a fine line to be genuine and true to yourself while considering the impact of what you say. It’s taken me 38 years and I still screw it up. All the time. But while I can look back and say I wish I’d refrained from verbal diarrhea, I also have to admit it’s liberating to be able to just say what’s in your head, what’s on your heart. I just want her to think about what she’s going to say for one second before it flies.
Will she be a hugger?
I watch her overwhelm other toddlers with physical affection. I can teach her (earlier than I learned) about social cues. Who doesn’t need a hug? Some people actually don’t. It’s a shame really, and it’s their loss but I’ve learned don’t hug the unhuggable.
Will she have a hot head?
Believe in what she believes in so fiercely that she’ll go down swinging? Overprotect the ones she loves to a fault? Maybe she’ll exert that energy on only worthy causes. From experience, I can help her discern who and what’s a worthwhile use of that energy.
Will she be soft and sensitive underneath her tough exterior?
Really fragile sometimes. Maybe I won’t try to guide her with that one at all. It’s our most redeeming quality.
I just hope I have wisdom and the right words to impart, to never change a thing about her but to help guide what’s there, in the raw. So strong, so sure, so free to be herself. So as she grows, so will I. Every day since I had her, I’ve grown more and more tolerant of myself. Less and less critical. Seeing so much of who I am in someone I love so much has helped me see “our” traits differently. I will celebrate our similarities so that she will too. And if the idea is for me to accept my idiosyncrasies more, and beat myself up less. If the idea is that I love the things I’ve always found less lovable about myself, because they’re reflected in someone so precious to me, then God has an awesome sense of humor. And I’ve certainly met my match.
Just one thing.
If you’re a mother, please do one thing…around your house every day? Nope. For your husband? Nah. To make the world a better place? Maybe, but that’s not what I mean.
So many things can go by the wayside in motherhood: hygiene, a clean house, a sense of control in a world that no longer belongs to you but for all you Moms out there, I implore you, do one thing, just one thing…FOR yourself.
Get up really early and read. Or to watch that DVR’d tv show that your kid should never see. Sit down to eat a meal. Read People Magazine. Carve out time to get a pedicure. Take a bath. Scrapbook. Girl’s Night. Get ready for the day. Ignore them. Turn on a show for them. Give them a pile of snacks. Just make the time.
For me, that thing is running.
I have become the reason they make sport and athletic shoe ads, in slow motion, to the theme song for Chariots of Fire. I’m why they make up cute and inspiring quotes for t-shirts and social media about women who run. I fall for it hook, line and sinker. Because with so much of my identity wrapped up in other people at this time in my life, I need to be inspired to remember myself. I need to have one little thing that’s just about Krissy. I’m not even that good at it and in my pre-kid life, the most I ever ran was, like, 3 miles. When I go for a run now, I exceed what I once believed I was capable of. Running (some) distance, without incontinence. Setting an example for my kids to be well, to put themselves first in some small area. Besides, who are we kidding, it gets my head straight to prepare me for the battle ahead. Against laundry, against sibling contention, against the crowds at Costco.
Whatever it is, make it a priority to do something for yourself. It’s ok. It’s important. It’s essential. You will be better for your family. Do just one thing for yourself. Oh, and I don’t mean drink a bottle of wine. Although, no judgement.
The SAHM’s Art of Doing Nothing
No matter how you cut it, a Mom’s work is hard, plain and simple. I respect every mom for her chosen path. Some have to work; some choose to work to be better moms when they’re at home; some stay at home; some stay at home and homeschool; some stay at home, homeschool and bake their own bread (and for the record, I’m no pioneer. I am (most days) just barely a SAHM). It’s all challenging. All versions of the gig have their pitfalls. There was a time before Soren when I think I might have been under the assumption that this wasn’t a job. That if I could just stay at home with my kids, I would, you know, do nothing but eat bon-bons, put my feet up, have more time to do laundry and on the side, raise my kids. As it turns out, not the job description.
One of the scariest parts of this job are long days, trapped inside the house. On these days, I try to amp up the activity. I keep us real, real busy. Working really hard, hauling kids from place to place. But this morning, I took a different approach. Sure, there are no bon-bons and I only put my feet up from 8:30pm (kid’s bedtime) to 9:15pm (my bedtime) but I could embrace some “doing nothing”. Instead of a playdate at the park, I was the human jungle gym. Instead of running errands in the car, we did airplanes on the floor. Instead of teaching them their ABC’s, I taught Soren how to rub my shoulders (for which a grateful daughter-in-law will thank me one day). Didn’t do a stitch of laundry. It will be there tomorrow. It always is.
Some on-the-job injuries were sustained but all in all, I got to enjoy what I do today. I ought to explore the perks of the job more often: my only deadline is dinner, bath, bed. The only important call I need to make is on a Fischer Price telephone. The only spreadsheet in my life these days houses the addresses for our Christmas card mailing list. My uniform is sweats. And when I want to, I can just hang with these kids and do nothing.
It’s not always easy and there are days when I wonder what my career path is. My patience with The Management is tested time and time again. But then I get a Bonus Kiss, or my “bosses” say that they love me or my husband gives me a vacation day. I get to hang out with some fabulous people. Serious perks to this job.
Back to School
My name is Kristina and I think I may have regressed into a want-to-be-popular-aholic. I’m 37…not 13 and it’s been on my mind a lot lately.
My high school experience was less than awesome. I was awkward. I had enormous glasses. I had ENORMOUS hair. When attempts to fit in were thwarted, I found my own group of misfits. It worked for me. I got to stay quirky. I never really had the chance to conform. I think it served me in being pretty ok in my own skin as an adult and I’m grateful it worked out that way. My adult life has been the best time in my life, I’m unapologetic about who I am (though generally apologetic about what I say), and hopefully I’m prepared to guide my kids through those challenges if they have them. If by some miracle my kid’s aren’t awkward, I hope to show them that being friends with everyone is the coolest thing you can do.
But as I embark on the second year of preschool for my son, and the pool of moms and kids gets bigger and more inter-connected, I can feel myself revert into an adolescent desire to be well-liked. It bums me out because ironically, there has never been a more important time to be steadfast and certain of myself. Uncompromising. There are four little eyes on me. Watching how I respond. What I say. Am I true to myself? Am I true to my standards for them? Or am I trying to be liked? And it will only get worse, people. Come on, it’s preschool. And if I allow myself to compromise to be liked, and that desire trumps my convictions now, who will I be when they’re in high school?
I can only pray that I do them the service of seeing “me” be “me” no matter who’s in the room. I hope I’m unwavering in my parenting. I hope I walk the talk and show them that trying to please others is a fruitless path. If you betray yourself, you’ll lose doubly. It won’t earn you respect and then you dilute the awesome of your own uniqueness. The worst thing I could ever teach my kids is to be disingenuous to themselves at the crossroad of acceptance. And of course, the irony is that no other mom cares what I am or am not doing, what I wear, what I say. No mom is spending hours asking herself, “do I like her?”. It’s just a self-imposed fear of being disliked. My Mom has always said, “the most narcissistic mistake you can make is to think that other people are thinking about you” and since she’s always right, I’m sure the application of that statement to this situation is apropos.
So if you’re my friend and you see me pretending I care about Sno-King Soccer or T-ball, acting interested in the Shoreline City Council, pretending I have Soren in Spanish and Dance for enrichment rather than the extra 1/2 hour it buys me to run errands, if you see me doing my hair just for drop-off, trading in my sweats for a sweater set or generally acting like I have ANYTHING all together, please put me in check. I’m a loud, haphazard, crazy-hair-having mama of two. I love them and God and my family. Just a say-too-much train wreck whose probably not destined for the PTA. If you’re my friend, please don’t let me forget it. Don’t let me forget that who I am AS a Mom is infinitely more important than who I am TO a Mom.
The many, many, many uses for baby wipes
Listen up, Singletons, DINKS, pregnant friends: I often ask myself how I lived without baby wipes. I couldn’t have known what I was missing out on. That’s why this is a public service announcement to all of you. Kids are not required, baby wipes are. Baby wipes have become the peanut butter to my jelly. The cream to my coffee. They complete me. They serve both my husband’s OCD and my germophobia. If they asked me to name three things I would want on a desert island, I’m not sure what the other two would be but I’m sure of baby wipes. If you don’t have babies and have never bought baby wipes, I encourage you to explore them now. Do not waste precious child-free years without including baby wipes in your life. Here is just a few of their uses:
- Dirt booger extractor
- Sponge bather
- Hand washer
- Last minute table duster
- Cold compress
- Eye flusher
- Crack sweat eliminator
- Ear cleaner
- Toe jam remover
- Toilet and sink wiper
- Arm pit freshener
- Car interior detailer
- Cooling face mask
- To block the sun
- To clean the grocery cart handle
- To remove human and/or animal feces
- To calm a hemorrhoid
The list could go on and on and I’m sure some of you have uses that far exceed my wildest dreams. But if you don’t…if before this, you didn’t even know they existed…run, don’t walk to Costco and buy a big, bulk box of baby wipes. You’re welcome.
Longest Days, Shortest Years…
I’m not sure who coined this expression and I’m not far enough down this “mommy road” to speak from a place of wisdom but I’m guessing (based on experience-to-date), this will be the most legit statement ever made about the early parenting years. Perhaps revised to longest, sweetest days.
Every afternoon while my daughter is sleeping, after Soren’s nap time (which has morphed into quiet time), he and I snuggle up for 1 to 2 episodes of Curious George. Today, during this commonplace ritual, I was gripped with reality. This isn’t going to last. Soren is not going to tuck his legs between mine, wrap his arm around my neck, spoon and watch George with me when he’s 40 years old. Well, maybe. If he still lives at home. Because he can’t find a girl that’s good enough. In which case, I’d still probably be cooking for him, cleaning for him and doing his laundry…so never mind.
In all seriousness, it probably won’t last another year. And staring this reality in the face, my heart sinks. Most of the time, too focused on the long grind of the task-of-the-day, I forget that this will be over way too soon. How will I get my Soren snuggles then? Upright, embarrassing (on his end), awkward, regular hugs? We’ve all heard it a million times from old ladies, grandpas, our moms “enjoy this time, it flies”. And then depending on how your day is unraveling, you probably think, “whatever, you old prune. You obviously can’t remember this “precious” time”. But not until you have kids, and honestly not until you apply it to something so precious to your every day life, do you really start to get it. Which, like with most things means, you only kinda get it…until you’re old and looking back on it…probably with regret which makes you said “old prune”. But even I’m not too dumb to realize how awesome these moments with Soren are.
So when impending certainty starts to threaten this ritual, here’s my game plan: when he wants to lay a little further away, I’m going to use rewards. Rewards work in the face of rejection. When rewards starts to fail, I’m going to use slight physical force. When he’s too big for that, probably bribery. That’s all I have so far. Basically, whatever it takes, I’m hanging on for dear life. There are certainly times and things that, in the moment, I may want to fast forward through…tough weeks, tantrums, sleepless nights but I would go through everything in slow “Chinese water torture” motion, if it means I can hang on to cuddles and Curious George just a little longer. It’s weird that when you’re a kid, the countdown to something wonderful like Disneyland or Christmas is agony. So why, if I’m so anxious for a little alone time, is the countdown to more freedom and independence going by way too fast?
Baby Daddy
Let me tell you about the guy I married. I have known him for 24 years. I liked him and respected him long before I loved him. No one can make me laugh like he does. No one knows me like he does. No one accepts me like he does. He’s my Baby Daddy.
My Dad was not a presence in my life and while my Mom (very special) was more than enough and I’ve never felt that I suffered, I think a present and loving Dad is what every kid deserves. My kids got one. And I can see in the eyes of my kids how crucial my husband is to them. And so while I think you can certainly do without a selfish, abusive or emotionally absent Dad, there is no substitution for a good one, not even a Mommy.
I’m here. Every day. Leading. Guiding. Hugging. Kissing. All day long. He walks in and I become secondary. It never bothers me to be back burnered for their Dad. Their devotion to him says to me, loud and clear, we need both of you. His gentle nature, his purest adoration for our kids. I can never compete with what he brings to their lives. They get to have it all. Not perfect. But always trying and completely in love with both of them. Francie will be a lucky girl if she sees how her Dad treats me and picks someone like him. She will need to pick someone tolerant, patient and flexible like her Daddy. She and I have that in common. And Soren is lucky to have inherited his Dad’s sense of humor and softness and I hope, based on the example being set for him, he will treat his wife with as much love as I’m treated with. Marriage, much less marriage with kids is a three ring circus. The question is, who do you want to be in the ring, taming the wild elephants with? My answer? Paul Svenkerud.
The point is, they’re blessed with an awesome Dad. I don’t always say it but I think it all the time…so my bad. I talk incessantly so with all that talking, I could say it more often. Happy Father’s Day, Baby! We are so lucky to have you.
from cheeky to frumpy in 4 years flat 
