Category Archives: Family

Lessons from a woman and her tools

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remodelI’m talking about real tools here. Man tools. There is an immediate rush of authority when you put your hands around a tool and with the push of a button realize that you could literally lose a limb if you slip. Sounds a little sadistic, but it’s actually very empowering for a woman whose previous power tool experience was limited to the dust buster and a steamer vac.

I got an early jump on two New Year’s Resolutions this year — remodel the bathroom and learn something new. Got my money’s worth out of that second one as I actually learned a few things about tools, men and anatomy.

1) Men keep us out of the garage because they don’t want us to know how fun it is to play with tools! The stiff backs and the sore knees are just a ruse to earn sympathy and a cold beer at the day’s end.

2) Don’t tell your Facebook friends that you need an “axe” to start demolition. It’s called a sledgehammer.

3) It’s not cool to get caught washing the crowbar with dish soap and hot water. No matter how sticky and gross it is, let it be.

4) While not very creative, the Sawzall is the most aptly named tool in the shed.

5) There is a muscle in your arm called the flexi carpi ulnaris. After swinging a hammer at wall and floor tile for several hours, this muscle gets very angry.

The bathroom demolition is now complete and the rebuilding has begun. As much as I enjoyed my day letting off steam by busting through old pink tiles, my manicure is a mess. I’ve decided to leave the drywall hanging and plumbing to my husband. I’ll be back when it’s time to choose a paint color and provide direction about where to hang the towel bar. That’s right, I’m a Foreman. On second thought, make that a Forewoman.

The politics of voting

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The White House, as perceived by my childhood self.

When I was in elementary school, we always held “mock elections” on November 6 as a teaching opportunity to learn about democracy and the process by which our country selects its own leader. Every Election Night, we piled into the red Mercury Zephyr and drove out to the Koshkonong Town Hall so that my parents could exercise their right to vote. My brother and I were usually asked to wait in the station wagon for what seemed like hours.  I was fascinated by the volume of people streaming in and out of this tiny building that I was truly convinced was the White House. Then again, I also thought that our Catholic priest, Father Endres, was the Pope…so I may have been a bit out of touch with reality.

The thing that drove me truly insane is that my parents would NEVER tell us how they voted. I didn’t understand it at all. Why wouldn’t they tell me? What was the big deal? Didn’t they trust me? Were they ashamed of their choice?

Then that crazy ironic role reversal happened in my very own home last night when my six-year-old son asked me how I voted in the election. This was shortly after he informed me who he had voted for during mock elections. I inquired about how he made this important decision. His answer was mixed: Sam voted for this guy too; He had an American flag in the photo behind him; and he was the “most handsomest” candidate.

It was at this point that I finally understood why my parents spent so many years torturing me with the mystery of their political affiliation. I explained to Noah that there are two main reasons why I was not going to tell him how I voted:

1) I never want his vote to be influenced by how his mommy and daddy vote. He needs to form his own opinions and choose the candidate he believes can best lead our country.

2) There’s a chance that Noah will tell Sam how we voted and then Sam will tell his parents how the Tiedes voted. Maybe Sam’s parents didn’t vote for the same candidate and now they think less of us because of our decision. I explained to Noah that this is completely unfair and you should never judge somebody based on their voting choices, but unfortunately it happens quite often in today’s society. If Noah were on Facebook, it wouldn’t take 5 minutes for him to learn this lesson for himself. It’s probably even unfair of me to assume that Sam’s parents might judge us based on our vote, but I’ve seen it happen time and time again between friends, neighbors and family members.

Today is November 7, 2012 and the people of this fine country have decided who will lead us for the next four years. You may be crying tears of joy or tears of sorrow. But don’t spit in the face of those who don’t share in either your celebration or your grief. We are Americans and we are free. Be thankful and be kind to each other.

A lesson in Pokémon

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Noah’s homemade Pokémon cards.

My son is six years old and last week he developed a fascination for Pokémon trading cards. It came out of nowhere for us. Since the first day of school, our dinner conversations have revolved around Ninjago and Beyblade®. I know that Pokémon has been around for 15+ years, but I’ve just never understood the appeal. Have you seen these characters?! They look like a science project gone incredibly wrong…disgusting little alien bug monsters with names like Metachomp and Spineboil. Don’t trade your cards, kiddos, just give them away and never look back!

With a little influence from a group of kids at school, Noah decided that Pokémon was the key to recess entertainment. He had no cards to trade, however, and he never asked us to buy him a pack of cards. Instead, he sat down one night and started making his own Pokémon trading cards. He meticulously cut out rectangles of cardstock paper and he drew ugly creatures on each and every card. He gave them all names and assigned them each a super power. He made 37 cards! The next day, Noah came home from school and tearfully told his daddy that nobody wanted to trade with his homemade cards. In fact, the other kids called his cards “fake” and “stupid.” He was crushed, but I was truly annihilated as my heart broke for him.

Yesterday morning the mailman delivered 50 perfectly branded Pokémon cards, courtesy of my husband and a $7.00 eBay shopping spree. The cards went out to dinner with us last night. They were carefully placed on Noah’s headboard before bed. They almost went to church with us this morning. They’ve been sorted and counted and admired more than my Coach purse. Tomorrow they will make their first-grade recess debut.

What about the 37 homemade cards? Those will be stored away in Noah’s keepsake box and one day I will tell him the story of a little boy with creativity for miles and I hope he will be just as proud of those homemade cards as he was last week. Should we have bought him branded cards to make up for his disappointment? I have no frickin’ idea. Do I care? Not really.

Is this camping?

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I didn’t camp much as a child. My only real memory of camping was a weekend with Uncle Ed and Auntie Rita at a Yogi Bear’s Jellystone campground where my dad accidentally pitched our tent on top of a spider’s nest. In his defense, we arrived in the dark and had just narrowly escaped a group of angry pre-teens who didn’t appreciate our station wagon headlights shining on their outdoor Yogi movie.

I camped in a tent once or twice with my husband and spent one entire evening shaking through a severe lightening storm waiting for a tree to crush my skull. While admittedly not a huge fan of the tent camping, I love all that goes along with the full camping experience…hiking, biking, kayaking, bonfires, s’mores, Toby Keith, and Tanqueray. I wanted it all, and so began our camping evolution.

The tent retired into the basement and we bought a pop-up camper. Had some good times in that old Dutchman and even camped into Month 8 of my first pregnancy. God bless the Luggable Loo. A couple years went by and we splurged on a used hard-sided camper, which we still own today. We’ve blown all four tires, almost lost a side wall on the Interstate, smashed a window and cracked a water pipe. Time for an upgrade?

While a friend might (and does) argue that dining in supper clubs and having a private bathroom is not camping, it suits me just fine. That said, this past weekend when we took our not-so-trusty old camper to northern Wisconsin with the kiddos, I realized that maybe, just maybe, we have evolved a little too far.

What do you think? Too much?!

Dripping with diamonds

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Last weekend the Queen of England celebrated her Diamond Jubilee, celebrating 60 years as Monarch. Last weekend, my Auntie Roma and Uncle Gil celebrated their 60th Diamond Wedding Anniversary and some might say that Queen Roma has enjoyed her reign as well. While they do bear partial resemblance to Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip (see photo), they also have a true partnership that has worked and endured the test of time.

There are few occasions in which I would be willing to sit in the third row of my own minivan while my husband drives to Milwaukee with my mom, dad, brother, and sister-in-law. A party to commemorate 60 years of marriage is one them. As an added bonus, I was literally the third youngest person in the room, beaten in youth only by my second cousins. If I had been feeling a little down about my next milestone birthday, this was the place to make me feel like a teenager again!

On Sunday morning in the afterglow of supper club heaven, I started thinking about what it means to be married for 60 years. How did they do it? What is their secret? I surely wanted to know, so I asked and this is what they told me:

  1. Faith in God
  2. Respect for each other
  3. Common interests like snow skiing, water skiing, traveling, music, enjoying social activities
  4. Keeping marriage vows, including two vow renewals in the Fern Grotto in Hawaii
  5. A good sense of humor

Maybe these five things aren’t actually big secrets. After all, I have watched this duo exhibit these qualities for my entire life. Although, I was never invited to Hawaii. What gives, Auntie Roma?!

Congratulations on your special anniversary and thank you for sharing it with us. ♥

My trash = your treasure, I

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Just one of the many tables filled with toys.

More than two full racks of clothes for kids organized by size and season!

Garage sale season has officially arrived as evidenced by the slew of signs on every corner in my small town. Do you love them or hate them? Do you find them dirty or intriguing? Do you stretch your neck when driving by in hopes of spotting that Blatz Beer sign you’ve been missing since you were 17? Or do you avoid them altogether for fear of finding that creepy plush Ronald McDonald doll that your mom taunted you with for years?

This very weekend I am playing hostess to the most epic of all Tiede garage sales. I have teetered down the attic steps with arms full of boxes, I have climbed up from the basement dragging comforters, luggage and home decor galore. But mostly, I have shed tears sorting through toys and clothes that my children have outgrown. As I mentioned in a previous blog, I welcome the maturing of my kids. I am not crying because they’ve outgrown the beautiful dresses and coolest toys ever. I’m crying because I’m cheap and I can’t believe we paid $25 for the Zhu Zhu Pet and Fun House that Noah played with for five minutes and now we’ll be lucky to sell for $2.00.

I’m so cheap, in fact, that I refuse to pay for a classified ad in the local newspaper. Do you know the going rate for classified ads? It costs $16 for 10 words and 60¢ for each additional word.  I can’t even get my street address and hours of operation in the ad for under $20 and that doesn’t allow me to begin describing the sheer awesomeness of my garage sale!

Then I remembered that I AM A DIGTAL MARKETER. I am a blogger. I am a tweeter. I am a Facebooker. I use Craig’s List. And I pin pins on Pinterest!

So I present to you, my faithful readers, a brazen and bold digital plug for the sale of my Tiede Treasures:

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

This Thursday beginning at 4:30pm sharp, you are all invited to attend the garage sale to end all garage sales. There will be more toys than FAO Schwartz. There will be baby essentials like wipe warmers, bouncy seats, and changing pads. There will be racks of clothes organized on hangers by size and season. There will be nursing pajamas with only minor Lansinoh stains…c’mon ladies, don’t judge — you know it’s inevitable. There will be a pink motorized jeep for your little princess. There will be an infant carrier for your newborn bundle of joy. There will be a Kelty backpack for your slightly older bundle of joy. There will be a One Step Ahead Sit n Stand stroller for your second bundle of joy. There will be home decor that I can no longer bear to look at on my walls and shelves, but there’s no shame in admitting that you can’t live without them. There will be beauty supplies. There will be one kick-ass pair of boots. There will be an interview-ready suit that I clearly don’t need because my job rocks. There will be kitchen rugs. There will be bathroom rugs. There will be shower curtains. Hey! I just realized that you can redecorate your entire bathroom at my garage sale!

Stop by and check out all of the goodies you will find in my garage and on my driveway this weekend. The children are not for sale, but almost everything else you see can be yours for a small price. The sale of my husband is negotiable.

Lia, my bringer of good news

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This morning at approximately 12:38am my precious baby girl turned three years old. Like most parents, my husband and I enjoy reminiscing about that perfect day when baby Lia came into our lives. Oh wait, did I say perfect?! Crying, screaming, cursing, bleeding…maybe not so perfect. But damn, she was the most beautiful baby girl I had ever laid eyes on. Still is.

While I have cherished (almost) every stage of Lia’s three years, I don’t relate to those parents who struggle to accept the reality that their babies grow more independent with each passing day. In fact, I welcome the independence. When we had finally chosen a name for our unborn baby girl, we considered three spellings: Leah, Lea, and Lia. Our online research revealed that the first two had meanings associated with weary and dependent. The latter meant bringer of good news. Not much deliberation needed after that little discovery! Lia was the clear winner and this girl could never be mistaken for either weary or dependent! It was an added bonus that Lia was the Italian spelling for my favorite name and a special tribute to my ancestry.

Yes, there are certainly times when I love a good snuggle in the glider singing “You are my Sunshine” to this baby girl of mine. But better yet, I love when she sings it right back to me. Or she sings new songs that she learned at childcare. Or she tells me that I’m her very best friend. Or she puts her jacket on without my help. Or she blows her nose. Or she climbs up to the table without a boost. Or she picks up her toys. Or she makes a new friend. Or she tinkles in the toilet. Or she eats a cheeseburger instead of a cheese sandwich. Or she slips on her own shoes. Or she slips on my shoes. Or she pedals her tricycle. Or she washes her hands. Or she turns off her bedroom light. Or she pumps her legs on the swings. Or she tells me that her tummy hurts rather than making me guess. Or she puts her dirty clothes down the laundry chute. Or she calls me pretty. Or she does a perfect forward roll in tumbling class. Or she prefers walking to being carried. Or she tells her brother that Olivia is better than Sponge Bob. Or she kisses her dolls goodnight. Or my all-time personal favorite…she says, “I love you mommy!”

Happy Birthday to my one and only baby girl. May you grow big and strong, but always need your mommy for the most important days and moments in your life.