The Christmas Card

I recently saw a rerun of the Seinfeld episode in which Kramer bad mouths the US Postal Service. Why do we need the mail anymore what with email, Facebook, electronic transfers and Bill Pay? I've recently been feeling a bit like this myself - though you have to feel sorry for them. After centuries of reliable service, they are suddenly no longer really very needed. (Though when they are needed, are they ever needed!)

In this vein, I contemplated simply posting my Christmas card here.

But then I couldn't do it.

The tradition. The tangible copy that can be hung on the wall. The physical signature. My hand indirectly touches your hand. So I did send out a Christmas card. To all but a few of you. The special few who I know will automatically have this posting downloaded into your life.

You are part of the experiment. Do we need physical Christmas cards any more? Let me know.

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
- Susan Cooper (The Shortest Day)

It is a sunny day last August, and I am out of breath. It is like I remembered it – exhausting in an exhilarating way. I doggedly place one foot in front of the other and concentrate on filling my lungs deeply. Geoff is far in front of me. He has always been my Sherpa on our mountain hikes – though sometimes I feel like his Islamic wife the way I trail him. Nevertheless I am the birthday girl and it is my wish that I make it up this mountain. The world looks much simpler up here. One can break it down into basic necessities – being warm and dry, having air to breathe, food to eat and water to drink, the strength and health to ascend and descend. And Geoff and I make it even simpler. We leave the kids at home so we can hear the quiet. It has been over ten years and three children that I set out on such a physically challenging mission, and I am relieved that I can still handle it. I am forty years old on this August day – 2010 – and I celebrate by absorbing the infinite views on top of Mt. Bierstadt at 14,060 feet.

This year has been a turning point for me – on top of having a significantly middle aged birthday. I have always felt it takes a person two years to recover from childbirth and begin to regain strength and independent ambition. And now I have gone over three years! After Christmas and tax season last year I began to wonder what I should do with the rest of my life. Okay – I am still wondering, but I’ve put the feelers out in search of direction. I listed some custom paper dolls on Etsy (http://www.etsy.com/shop/macraft), and then started a blog (http://dandelionchain.blogspot.com/) to coincide with the shop. Turns out I like blogging a whole lot better. But unfortunately neither turns out to be much of a moneymaker. I still try to keep the blog going – it’s addicting! - but it has slowed to a trickle. Which is really too bad, because I have so much to SAY! I also started building on my bookkeeping experience from our business by doing work for some friends, which has grown into referrals. This seems to be a more practical way of contributing to the family pot, and I love that it’s concrete. I continue to expand my garden, but have reached my maximum in terms of personal environmental effort – I’m beginning to think maybe I should make life easier and buy more prepackaged food. If only it tasted as good. Mainly I am still a full-time Mom and life support for our business.

It has been a hard year for our small little metal work business. Geoff struggles on valiantly, but we are in construction after all, and suddenly people don’t want to buy $25,000 driveway gates quite so readily! We are lucky in that we have received a lot of support from friends, family, customers, and vendors, all who wish Geoff to experience success in his endeavors. It continues to be a struggle, and I was hoping Geoff might consider becoming a bus driver. We shall see.

Marek is in third grade this year. He is eight going on fifteen. I sure hope he is going through adolescence early, otherwise we might have some trouble in the years ahead. The other day he asked me what teenagers like to do. I answered, “They are all different. They all like to do different things.” And then I asked him, “What do eight-year-old boys like to do?” He answered, “Almost all of us are interested in battle.” I don’t know if this is true, but our household is filled with new interests that I never envisioned like bow and arrows, wrestling, tree climbing, pocketknives, and swordsmanship. With all this fierce energy simmering around me in our small house, I frequently command Marek to take a run around the block (“And take the dog with you!”) After I told him boxers jump rope, he started a callisthenic regimen. He also has been pursuing karate with rigor. I wish I could say he pursued his math and reading with such enthusiasm… Marek is awesome at building and drawing, and it is his greatest wish that he could help his Dad work “for real” in the shop.

Oscar started kindergarten this fall. How wonderful for me to escort a child of mine to the first day of school with a smile on both of our faces – the first in line at the door! He has met a great group of boys and is really having fun reading, writing, rhyming, and counting. Sometimes he tells me about the “trouble makers” at school. I’m not sure what this means in kindergarten, but I am glad not to find out! Marek and Oscar walk home alone from school together every day now, and I love living within the community and allowing them to experience this independence. Oscar has become one of those boys who delight in making an array of strange vocal noises ranging from spits and clacks to dolphin-like chirps. He still loves Legos and Star Wars, though he is shaped by Marek’s warmongering ways. Oscar is also quite an artist. He plays soccer and is learning to swim.

Matilda just turned three. She is a feisty girl having fought ninjas and Darth Vader for most of her conscious life. She will not allow me to dress her in clothes that she considers “too pretty.” Tildy is an organizer. Today I turned around and she was handing me dishes to put away from the clean dishwasher. Evidentially this task could not wait another instant. She likes to collect things in little Baggies and stash them in her room – her backpack is a treasure trove of missing household items. Tildy started swim lessons this fall, mainly so her mother could experience sitting by the pool by herself, but she LOVES taking part in the group and is already talking about going to kindergarten. Tildy loves reading and letters, riding her bike and playing with her friends.

“When can we go to Christmas?” Tildy’s question shapes my view of the holidays this year. It is a destination to arrive at – a world of warmth and wonder and abundance and joy. I am so in anticipation of this journey!

We hope your journey to Christmas, this year, and in life is filled with good things also.

Christa for the Newtons

December 2010

Sock Trauma

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!"

This is the refrain of Oscar as we trudge up the hill on the way to swim lessons at the rec center.

Is it the hill bringing him down?

No.

The trudging?

No.

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!

Is it the socks?

Yes! How did you guess?

Apparently Oscar is being tortured by his socks. I made him wear socks since it is only about 35 degrees out, and they are evil, badly fitting socks that refuse to stay up where he wants.

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!"

I can't stand it either. Oscar's whining/complaining is almost more than I can bear. With three kids, sometimes I feel like someone is constantly whining or complaining or crying around me. Especially when we are tired. Like today. I would like to turn around and explode, but I suck it up, and try for the ignore approach.

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!"

What is amazing to me is our capacity as humans to stand - anything. In instances like sock trauma with my kids, an image of the WWII concentration camp survivors comes to my mind. A photo is burned in my mind of a bunch of starving, skeletal men in beards peering out of bunk beds. How did they stand it? How did they keep going day after day with no clothes, little food, rampant disease, working literally to death, living in the midst of insanity?

How did they stand it? What else could they done? What choice did they really have?

Life hands us things that we must stand. Like sock trauma and whining and concentration camps. With each delivery of my children, there was always a point pushing my kids out, when I felt like I could not endure another second. With Tildy I specifically remember bouncing up and down in bed with her head lodged halfway out in the middle of the burn, "Get out! Stop hurting me! You are ripping me in two!" The nurses were there immediately to make sure that stand it I would - before I gave my daughter brain damage.

I stood it.

Luckily for us, most of the time we are not caught in life's choices midway through child delivery. Life usually presents choices. We do not have to stand most of what we do not want to stand.

I mowed lawns for several summers in college. This was the best job even if it did contribute to the weathered appearance of me today. To walk around getting exercise all day, breathing in freshly cut grass, dreaming my thoughts in my head while listening on my Walkman to Sinead O'Connor - and to be paid for this temporary bliss!

But there was one thorn in my side. I believe her name was Lynn. She was a co-worker. A complaining co-worker. After each lawn section was completed we would load up our mowers and ourselves into a trailer and drive to another section to begin anew. This was a chance for us to take a break and socialize. But for Lynn it was a chance to compare notes on everything bad about this job.

Lynn wasn't my child. I didn't have to stand it. So one day I did explode. "Stop your whining! If you don't like this job, go find another one! I love this job, and you are ruining it for me!"

Amazingly enough, she listened. I no longer had to stand Lynn. And she no longer had to stand mowing lawns. I think she got a job in the library. Probably she had to be quiet there.

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!"

I am still sucking, sucking, sucking it up. I am ignoring, ignoring, ignoring.

And finally I am rewarded for my patience.

Joyful quiet.

THINGS TO DO: Make A Tree of Thanks

Several years ago when the holidays approached, I obsessed about the lack of tradition in my children's lives. We don't have the cornerstones of religion or a humongous family to draw upon in celebrating the holidays. Since I didn't want my children to believe the holidays were all about consumption - of turkey and shopping malls - I consciously stepped in and created some traditions.

Out of this pondering, thankfully, a few man made traditions stuck. One was the Tree of Thanks.

Each Thanksgiving we gather up branches from our backyard, and assemble them in a bouquet. We decorate the branches with pine cones, and then cut out paper leaves to hang on the tree. We each write what we are thankful for on leaves as thoughts occur to us, and hang our leaves on the branches. On Thanksgiving we read through all our plenitudes of thanks.

The results make a great centerpiece to our home. It is so large compared to our square footage, that it tends to grab people as they walk by making sure that one is recording thanks. Due to this feature, Geoff is especially thankful when we can take it down.

Happy Thanksgiving! Let's play some BINGO!

An Investment in the Future

"For sale! Hand-crafted wood! For free! Made by kids!"

It's quite the marketing jingle, isn't it? It makes a mother proud, to hear such banter coming from the mouths of her babes. I had suggested to my kids that they make a sign rather than accost each confused passerby, but I do have to admire their efforts. They are chanting together as a group and have managed to "sell" one or two of their glued together wooden sculptures to cooperative strangers wandering by our front yard.

Their voices are loud enough to attract the attention of a neighbor across the road and down the block. I watch as the mom with daughter and dog walk down the alley to join us at our roadside stand.

It's the typical get-to-know-you conversation. I try to be welcoming and chatty. (I know - this is a stretch for me...) And not comment on the rudeness of her dog who is tramping through my long ago harvested strawberry plants, but gross! Isn't this like letting your dog wander through someones empty refrigerator? And I find that I am interested in this women, because she is different from most people that I encounter in my daily life living on the fringe of middle America.

She is poor.

I judge this in a split second by her clothes, carriage, energy, demeanor, and the home she has just exited.

I wonder of her story before she wandered onto my porch.

Is she really a Harvard graduate that pursued too many diplomas at the expense of a career? Is she looking to cause a lawsuit like the freak that wandered into my cousin's rummage sale years ago, tripped over her sidewalk, and sued her? Or is she simply what she appears - a just-moved-to-the-neighborhood, down-on-her-luck woman looking for companionship?

We supposedly live in a classless society. But as my economic class has dwindled, I find that classes most certainly do exist, and the definition of poor, white trash has become more important to me.

Does poor, white trash exist, and what qualifies one for this honor?

When I think of the cliche "poor, white trash" I think of a tired, mean, straggly-haired woman with too many children to feed, supported by an alcoholic husband who is seldom home. She spends her time hanging gray clothes out to dry on the broken car in her yard. She yells a lot using poor grammar, watches a lot of TV and could loose a few pounds without missing them. Her dog barks at everything and her hobby is smoking cigarettes. She feel trapped in her bathrobe, and in life.

I must admit, sometimes I wonder if I'm toeing the line. Those are the days when I use the vintage postal jeep perpetually parked in our yard as a hose holder, and yell at the kids for - nothing much - just because I am tired, and serve hot dogs and beans for dinner, and there are toys scattered all over the backyard, and Geoff is working late again, so I am alone trapped in my bathrobe, and in life.

I tend to compare myself in life with my Mom. At forty years of age she had a great job and career, had just built a new house, had a daughter (me) in college and she was just about to become a grandmother. She started her family when she was twenty.

If I really want to be accurate in my comparison, I need to look at my Mom when she had a three-year-old child to raise. She was home with her kids, babysitting to help pay the bills. Our vacations were by car, my bike was a recycled work of art, and neither she nor my Dad had yet to get a college degree (though they both would a few years later). Their lifestyle was not so different from mine today. But my life is proceeding in a non-linear fashion. It has not been building economically for a while. It has taken a detour while I invest in the future of my children.

I wonder now more about other people and their economic state. The collapse of our economy has blown open the lives of many people as foreclosure and unemployment become more common. I think about how I lived ten years ago versus how I live now - the luxuries I took for granted as necessities and the peace of mind of a steady paycheck. The age old question: How can a few people on this planet live so well while some are literally dying for lack of food and medicine?

Ten years ago I went to a J. Crew outlet with my cousin visiting from the Czech Republic. I spent about $100 on new clothes for the season - clothes I considered a bargain and a necessity. My cousin cried on the way home because it wasn't in her budget to purchase any new clothes. Her boyfriend wisely thought their money should be invested in an English dictionary. I think I felt so bad about the situation that I gave her one of my old sweaters when we got home, and I think this actually made her feel better.

But the inequity of it all that was so apparent to my cousin at the time, barely glanced off me. Now when I go out to dinner, it is infrequent enough that I am astounded by the portion sizes and the casualness of the waste. And new clothes? Let's just say they are few and far between.

There is a mom at my son's school who - if rumor is correct - is a welfare mom. Her husband died of a drug overdose two years ago, and she lives in public housing raising her three children on food stamps and hand outs. Back before I was a mother, I had a lot of contempt for welfare moms. But there are several things interesting to me about this mom. I think she does a great job masking her lifestyle - she has a cell phone and a family dog, and does not look hungry. And when I place myself in her shoes, I find she has made a choice. She is choosing to stay home and raise her kids rather than find a job as a single Mom and place her children in child care. I see this mom and her kids at all the community events: the school's Bike Rodeo, Back To School Night, soccer games, etc. She is there for her kids. When I think about it, I would probably do the same in her position, because this is how the cycle is broken.

Poor, white trash.

It is the absence of education. It is the absence of power over destiny. It is the absence of hope.

A few weeks later I see my neighbor again. She is clearly on her way to pick her daughter up from school. She has a new purchase; one of those fancy bikes that sit low to the ground. She is towing behind her bike another bike for her daughter to ride home. I laugh at her cleverness and applaud her taking a step forward in terms of environment, exercise, and example. I look at her and I see hope.

We have a class system here in the U.S., but we also can choose to move within it.

I pick up the toys scattered all over the backyard, bake some bread, change out of my sweat pants, and I feel better. I believe that wherever I am at, it is going to get better, because I will make it better.

Epitaph to A Squirrel

Tildy and I are walking in the door with an armload. It is noon, and we have just come from the library. I let Daisy, our beloved and decrepit, ancient dog out, as we walk in. I empty my arms, and then I turn to walk back out to get another load.

And in this split second somehow a squirrel has appeared who is struggling desperately to get out of Daisy's mouth.

Instinct kicks in. I run over to Daisy wringing my hands and yelling, "No, no Daisy, what have you done!" practically flinging myself prostrate kicking and crying in grief on the ground. But since Daisy is deaf - and a dog - she looks at me puzzled-like. And then politely drops her plaything and steps away so I can share.

I am left with - not a dead squirrel as I expect - but a very frightened and scared and broken squirrel. He is breathing quickly and when I come close, he gathers strength and pulls himself away from me. And then I notice his friend up in the tree. So I figure I will let the thing die in peace - last moments and all that. I gather up Tildy and Daisy and retreat inside.

A half hour later, Tildy is asleep, but that darn squirrel is not. He has dragged himself onto our back porch, and is still crying and chatting with his friend.

What would you do?

Obviously the logical thing to do is to put the creature out of his misery. Could you kill an injured squirrel with your bare hands?

This is not a question I expect to be faced with - well, ever.

I briefly consider plunging the squirrel in a bucket of water and drowning him, but realize in a micro second that this is a no-can-do for me. Create a Dead Thing? Never.

So I contact everyone I can think of to help. The Internet is a wonderful thing.

I call my husband, who mocks me: "Just pick the thing up and wring its neck! Or let Daisy back out." I guess he is in a busy, highly efficient sort of mood. Geoff isn't thinking of the squirrel germs on poor Daisy. Or me.

I call a woman who supposedly conducts squirrel rescues. She hangs up on me when she hears I do not have a car to load the creature into for delivery.

I call the Wild Animal Sanctuary in Keenesburg, Colorado. They save lions and bears, why not a squirrel? And the woman who answers is very understanding: "The best thing to do would be to help it along, but I couldn't do it. The line between a squirrel and a rabbit is so fine, and then the line between a rabbit and a cat... I would be holding it in my lap while it died."

I search around the neighborhood for someone with a killing instinct who might owe me a BIG favor. The closest I get is the guy across the street, who doesn't owe me squat: "I don't have a BB gun. Have you tried calling Animal Control? Why don't you call Animal Control first, and if they don't help you, I'll come over with a shovel."

Meanwhile, the squirrel has managed to scramble all the way across the porch and into the flower bed, and two hours have gone by!

I call Animal Control. The woman on the phone is very patient with my squirrel story, but clearly thinks I'm insane: "We usually say 'Let nature take its course' for this sort of thing, but I'll ask dispatch to give you a call and see what they say."

At this point, it no longer matters. I am out of time. It is time to pick up the kids from school, and with the plans of the day, we won't be home again until after seven o'clock that night.

I say my goodbyes to the squirrel. The flower bed is a cozy, sheltered spot for a squirrel's final moments. Please forgive me for your pain.

At 7:15pm the kids and I come home after soccer practice. We pause on the way in to check the flower bed. It is dark and cold and creepy. The air now has that Halloween feel to it with leaves blowing and rattling. We thoroughly check the flower bed. And check again. There is no dead squirrel in the flower bed.

After tucking Oscar and Tildy into bed, it is 8:00pm. Marek and I take a flashlight and explore the yard hoping to find a carcass. Nothing. Nowhere. Even Daisy on the leash can't sniff it out. But I think I hear something in the bushes.

At 9:00pm, everyone is asleep and I am alone with Daisy on the leash. We head outside again for one last look. As we open the back door and step down the stairs, a squirrel scampers away from us. It stops and looks and scampers some more. It kind of looks like a drunk when it scampers. It has the wobbly look of a biped, rather than the smooth lope of a squirrel. And it doesn't go up a tree like it is supposed to. This is the supposed-to-be-dead squirrel. It is now scampering. I feel chills. It is Stephen King's Pet Sematary come to life. I backtrack quickly into the house and lock the back door. Any squirrel with powers over death like this one, probably can turn door knobs.

It is time for action. I call Geoff again. I told you he worked late hours.

"If I come home early to kill this squirrel, I am going to KILL this squirrel!"

But he appears with his shining armor glinting in the moonlight.

We tiptoe outside together. I shine my flashlight all over the yard peering under bushes and in flower beds. Nothing. And then I spot it. And it is dead! I can't believe after all this, the squirrel dies right after I break down and ask Geoff to come home.

Geoff blows this theory away when he scoops up the squirrel with his shovel. "This squirrel is stiff. It's been dead for a while."

How can this be? I know I just saw it scampering an hour before. I run inside and look up "rigor mortise" online. Sure enough, rigor mortise takes three hours to set in. Great. I am now being haunted by the squirrel I couldn't kill.

As I am pondering this one, Geoff comes in. "Well, turns out you did see a different injured squirrel. I let Daisy out and she caught it again. It's over."

Geoff's autopsy report: The Mom died, and the cute little squirrel that Daisy got - twice - after all my efforts - was the baby.

I am befuddled. I feel relief that the crazy squirrel is no longer in my backyard where my children and dog play. But I am annoyed that all my efforts to keep the dog away from the injured squirrel were for naught. I mean, I could have just let Daisy kill the squirrel ten hours earlier and saved everyone, squirrel especially, a lot of pain.

"Let nature take its course."

Marek has another theory. "You know, Mom, how Daisy has been trying her entire life to catch a squirrel? Well, her life is almost over, and now her wish has been granted so she can die in peace."

Rest in peace, Daisy - I guess soon.

Rest in peace, Squirrel.

So - could you kill an injured squirrel with your bare hands?

A Letter For When You Are Sad

Right after my father passed away, I stumbled upon a letter in my baby book. It is a letter written by my Dad the day I was born.

The letter is written to the nurses at the hospital thanking them for the wonderful job they did delivering me (even though he was not allowed in the delivery room as he very much wanted to be!). It is written by his hand in his very personal cursive writing, just on standard yellow notebook paper, but it is in my father's voice - at least the voice of my father at 26 years of age, very excited after the birth of his first child.

For obvious reasons I treasure this letter.

When my first child was born, one of the first things I did after I made sure he was breathing and all that, was sit down next to him, and write him a letter. Since then I have written him and Oscar and Tildy each a letter at least every year.

Mainly these letter are just filled with information about them - developmental milestones, friends, vacations, interests, quotes - but I also try to include my thoughts on life and its issues, questions that might come up after I am gone, and I hope that my love will seep through in between the lines. The letters are written to them as young adults. I have very rarely shared them.

A while ago I wrote my first-born a very non-standard letter on depression. This was in addition to his annual update. I stored this letter away in his baby book just like usual, and figured maybe I would hand it to him in high school. But recently Marek has been going through some tough times, and I felt like it might help. So I pulled it out and read it to him.

And then after I read it, I thought I might as well share it with the world.

TO: MAREK
WITH ALL MY LOVE
FOR WHEN YOU ARE SAD

Dear Marek,
I worry about you sometimes, because you seem so sad and serious. I worry that you are a person that must fight depression. I especially worry, because Dad and I both have experienced this fight. You are one of those people who take life very seriously, as am I. Much too seriously. Most things really don't matter that much. It's better to laugh. It's so easy to say "Lighten up," but so difficult to do. Here are some ideas for when you're down:

1) LOVE - You are so loved. Even if Dad and I are not around, know that somewhere we are loving you unconditionally. We loved you into existence, we've cared for you your whole life. You have love. You are not alone. But I know this is sometimes not enough.

2) SLEEP, EAT, BATHE - Everything looks better on a full stomach after a good night's rest. Care for yourself and you will feel better. Your mind won't function correctly without care. Depression is a disease of the mind, after all - keep the chemicals well balanced.

3) EXERCISE - Everything looks better when you're run (swam, biked, danced, punched) yourself into exhaustion. Getting the blood flowing and your lungs breathing helps restore optimism.

4) STAY CLEAN - Say "No" to substances. Alcohol and drugs might bring a short high, but they will bring you lower in the end. And they are addicting, so you must always get more to feel better - and even more next time.

5) ACT - It doesn't matter what you are doing - get out of your head feeling sorry for yourself and do something. Solve the problem with activity. Problems rarely go away on their own. Keep to your normal schedule and at least try to maintain.

6) SOCIALIZE - I know you aren't a people person - neither am I - but there is nothing worse for depression than sitting home alone dwelling in your mind. You don't have to throw a party - though you can. You don't have to interact one-on-one - though a walk with someone might be just the thing. Just get out in public, see other people and know whatever you're experiencing, you are not the first and you are not alone. Go to the park or the library or movie theater and people watch. Or volunteer for an organization and HELP.

7) ENVIRONMENT - Make sure you are not adding to your sadness with unneeded downers. Are you listening to sad music? Reading a sad book? Watching too much news? Surrounding yourself with negative people? Ruthlessly remove the extra downers. Replace with uplifting materials.

8) NATURE - Reconnect with where we are supposed to be living. Take a walk in the park, go camping, drive in the mountains, work in a garden, go to a plant store. Smell, touch, and feel real energy.

9) ART - Make some or experience some. Write, draw, or sing out your sadness. Absorb yourself in a good book or movie. Escape into the creative.

10) IMPORTANCE - Know that your life, like all life on this planet, interrelates and connects with everything else. Your life has value, meaning, and importance. Even if you don't feel this today, there is no telling what might happen tomorrow and what possibilities you might create. You can help and share your life and love with others. It is so important.

---------
My worst depression was when I was twenty. I had been a ballet major and decided to quit dancing. I went home for the summer and felt like I had nothing left. My passion was gone, and I had no friends in the area. I remember laying around staring at walls finding it even hard to reply to my parents when they asked me a question. After a few weeks of this, my Mom found me a job mowing lawns for Saint Mary's. I was too depressed to care. With this job she gave me life again. I had something to do, a place to go every day where I could interact with my peers, and a job that gave me exercise and connected with nature. I met a lot of friends, and ended up having a lot of fun. By the fall I was back on a path towards modern dance. A new passion and a purpose. Though I have never thanked my Mom for this intervention, I consider this one of my life's defining moments.

I love you!

Mom

Tea With Tildy

It is almost time for our guests to arrive to Tildy's birthday tea party. In my hands is a delicate blue and white doll-sized plate. It is old - given to me by my Grandma from family ancestors - and made of china. It is very breakable. It even feels thin and fragile in my hands. I take extra care washing and drying it before I carefully place it aside with the rest of the tea set.

It is my intention to place this set in the hands of Tildy and her three-year-old friends.

Next I look around for something to serve our "older" guests - the five-to-eight-year-old crowd that will be sitting at another table. I don't want to use the plastic or metal sets that Tildy typically plays with, and there aren't enough pieces for this anyway. So my eyes dart through our kitchen and land on our china cabinet.

Now I'm sure you have one of these also - a china cabinet filled with beautiful sentiment that is hardly ever to never used. Geoff and I have laughed about this, and vowed to someday use the "good china." But we have never dared.

And I still won't dare for this occasion - or will I? What about the silver tea set? Sure it is old and a family heirloom, but it's made of metal. I decide, though a tad tarnished, this is perfect for the occasion and begin washing.

Geoff walks in, and I give him the rundown of where I am at with things.

"So I plan to use the blue and white china for the three-year-old table, and the metal wedding tea set for the big kids."

"You're going to let the kids use our tea set?"

"Sure. It's made of metal. I don't think they can actually hurt it. And in my experience by the time one is old enough to use a breakable tea set, one is too old to want to use a tea set. So I thought I would actually use good dishes. The kids can be warned to be careful."

"Do you know how much value is lost if there is even one ding?"

Shoot. I forgot Geoff is a metalworker and might even have a preference on this matter.

"If you're talking about monetary value lost, it's irrelevant because I would never sell the tea set, so it has no value." I point to the delicate very breakable doll china. "I'm using my Grandma's set."

"Christa, I don't care if you use your family's set. That is yours. And if an item is replaceable, you can do what you want with it, but the silver tea set cannot be replaced. I enjoy admiring it in the cabinet. It is up to you to decide, but I strongly recommend that you leave our tea set out of the party."

Darn. I hate it when he does that - that manipulation by being a nice guy. But the silver tea set did come from Geoff's side of the family, and he does so rarely have an opinion on any household matter. I think through our guest list. Since all of the kids have been playing here since they were infants, they are perfectly at home and don't need to pretend to be shy or polite. And like any group of comfortable kids, they are prone to loudness and energy.

So I take Geoff's advice and begin digging around for another pitcher-like device for the older kids. But I am grumbling. Like should I put a plastic cover on the couch next? But I know I'm being somewhat ridiculous.

After the party, we are cleaning up. I am carrying in the last of the china tea set. Amazingly enough it is all totally intact.

"Well, you got lucky with that one," Geoff comments.

This rubs me the wrong way. Was it luck, or were we all especially sensitive and careful?

"We were careful."

"Oh, come on, Christa. I saw the table almost get completely knocked over."

"Geoff, I feel like every time I use a breakable dish, I am taking a risk. There are dishes I only use on very special occasions, just because I know that statistically in MY hands anything breakable has a very short life."

And this is true. I break most everything in our house. Last week alone I broke several glasses, and an irreplaceable crock pot lid. And until all the tea set pieces are washed and packed away securely into the basement, they are still at risk. After all, it is I who will be cleaning them.

But what are we teaching our kids about possessions through our action or lack of action? There seems to be a fine line between taking care of an item, and overemphasizing its value. Even if something cannot be replaced, the space can usually be filled with something else. Like that crock pot lid. I couldn't buy a new lid. So I bought a new crock pot. It's smaller. Turns out I like it better anyway.

So even if a dish had broken, I am glad my Grandma's china tea set was used. It is my daughter's third birthday party. What greater event than this would be worthy of unpacking the good stuff?

THINGS TO DO: Be a Yes, Mom - Play in the Mud

Okay - I must admit I was not thrilled when this project transpired unexpectedly yesterday. What is fun and cute when the child is two and tiny and exploring, and it is 90 degrees out, and there is plenty of time for clean up, is not so fun when the child is eight and the clothes to wash are almost as big as mine, and the event transpires a half hour before the beginning of soccer practice.

BUT - every now and then I have to remind myself of the mother I intended to be before the busyness of three kids and school and making a living and life stepped in the way. I did vow a long time ago that I would try to say "No" only when I really had a reason to say "No." I wanted to be a Yes, Mom instead of a No, Mom.

And so when I turned around and saw Marek covered in mud, I gulped back my yells of outrage, and went and got the camera. Meanwhile Oscar joined in, and Tildy took her clothes off.

Ah, mud. Smooth and squishy, cool and gooey. Mud is simply so viseral it is just hard to want to keep your hands clean.

We've had a dirt pile in the backyard for years, and the kids have not taken an interest in it for a long time. I've lately been thinking I should fill it in with wood chips. Judging by Tildy's amazement she has no recollection of her brothers turning into mud monsters ever before.

"Mud is yucky," says Tildy.

I just get out the hose.

On the way to soccer, I am feeling sluggish pulling the loaded trailer behind my bike. Oscar zooms by me.

"You know why I'm so fast today? I feel light. When I feel light I can go really fast."

Hmm. Maybe I should try one of those mud treatments.

Rumble in the Walmart Parking Lot

Tildy and I are just leaving Walmart. She is barely visible sitting piled among our bags of household accruements. The cart bumpety-bumps along the blacktop and we are merry. We have just purchased many blue items for Tildy's blue tea party birthday on Saturday - blue jello, blue Gatorade, blue cotton candy, and blueberry tea, of course.

Suddenly and unexpectedly the car that we are right behind begins to back up. I do what any sane person would do in this circumstance. I back peddle while yelling loudly, "Stop! We are right behind you! You have to look before you back up!" And I cut the driver with my most scathing look, which my husband tells me, can be pretty frightening.

And does this driver do what any sane person would do in this circumstance? Like maybe apologize for almost just running over my daughter? That would be my expectation. That is what has happened in the past to me with incidences like this. But no. That does not happen today.

Today the driver of the vehicle stops the car, and gets out. Not to make sure we are okay. Oh, no. He gets out of the car to intimidate me and make sure I see who I am yelling at. I look at this driver - he is young. Maybe he is a high school drop out. Maybe he is 25, I really can't tell other than he is furious and has one of those inverse ear holes and looks like he could maybe pull a weapon out of the car along with him, and not a foam sword weapon like my children's either.

I must admit I am also furious. It doesn't help this situation that careless drivers around pedestrians are a pet peeve of mine. Words are exchanged. Apparently this driver operates on his own rules and believes pedestrians should steer clear of cars that just happen to pull out when they are right behind them. I think he should go back and retake his driver's test. By the end I am scanning the parking lot for a police officer and wishing I had a cell phone.

But I let him have the last word. "Watch out for cars when you're walking!" I am shaking I am so angry, and we have attracted the attention of several friendly shoppers.

I am struck by the similarity of experience I once had while fighting over a parking place in downtown Fort Worth, Texas. A car knowingly crept in and stole a parking spot that we were obviously waiting for, and I began to roll down the window (yes, it was a while ago...) to exchanged heated words. My friend stopped me this time: "Let it go. Remember where you are. It is not worth it."

Wise words from someone who thought of the environment in the heat of the moment. After all, the high schools of Fort Worth have metal detectors. And this was BEFORE Columbine.

I do not usually run across gangsters in the middle of suburbia in the middle of the day. I know that our town does have some economic friction, but at the grade school levels where I spent most of my time, it is not yet obvious. There is still hope that we can teach our youth to talk out their problems instead of fighting out their problems. So to be so confronted is shocking to me.

I remember hearing about Columbine when it happened - a nice suburb just down the interstate - and wondering at the time how parents would be able to send their kids to school without fear after this incident. Years later, now that I have my own kids in school, I have found I have never really feared for their safety in this capacity. Sure I have worried they were being teased, or bullied, or overlooked, but I haven't worried about their physical safety, and this is odd, because I am a worrier. But in the moment, life is just life. How can it possibly go wrong?

Once when I went to pick up Marek from kindergarten, I found the school in lock down - all the doors were locked up tight and the blinds were drawn. No one could get in, and the pick up process was delayed until the school could sort through a problem. Even this did not phase me. Instead it actually reassured me, because, wow, the school really does have a plan in place to implement in abnormal emergency situations.

The car at Walmart backs away finally, and I spend what seems like minutes just staring at the car and its contents. I think they are thinking I am glaring at them - maybe I am - but really I am just trying to figure them out. The gangster is driving, and in the front is an older blond. His mother? His wife/girlfriend? Is this who he trying to impress with his discourtesy and recklessness? And why are they driving a nicer car than me? And in the back seat are two little boys. Are these his sons? His brothers, cousins? Is he role modeling? Are these future classmates of my children?

I think about those who live in the inner city and live with this friction every day - or at least as it is pictured in the movies, because, really, when have I ever seen it? But I imagine the helplessness - to know that one is in the right, but that the ignorant have the power.

"Let it go. Remember where you are. It is not worth it."

Obviously I could have used a friend next to me today, when the gangster stepped out of his car. It would have been wise to let him intimidate me. It would have been wise to step around his car, rudeness, and endangerment. But what if it happens again while the Mom pushing the cart is digging in her purse looking for her car keys?

Tildy is oblivious to the whole episode. She is still happy with thoughts of a blue tea party. We get home and she asks me, "Are you happy, Mommy? Because I'm happy."

Jog-A Thon

"On your mark. Get set. Go!"

And they are off - over 140 sets of little legs, topped by enthusiastic smiles, and with a real racing number stamped on their back obviously supplied by the Bolder Boulder. The participants have a long way to go, but the afternoon kindergarten classes and first graders of Lafayette Elementary are not deterred - especially because most of them have no concept of time. They begin their 35 minute participation in Lafayette Elementary's Jog-A-Thon with hopes of running THE WHOLE TIME. They are advised to not use all their energy up at once, but what fun to watch the crowd take off like a shot and by lap three start to straggle around. They are just TOO CUTE. And my camera is forgotten at home.

I let Tildy jump in at lap three. She is way excited by the energy of the crowd and the shiny, happy people music blaring. By the time the event is over Tildy has run 3/4 of a mile and she is wondering when she can go to school.

The Jog-A Thin is my favorite fundraiser for our school. I love that it creates community, competitiveness of self and others, teaches discipline and the value of exercise, and raises money based on - nothing. No coupon books, no fast food restaurants, no junk food, or junk to add to the earth. (School Fundraisers) Just the power of the human body.

As I am watching the event, it is announced over the loudspeaker that the students of Lafayette Elementary have collectively run over 900 miles so far at this point in the day. I have no idea of the final count, but I think last year the approximately 650 kids ran all the way to the Mississippi River. And I am struck by the unspoken environmental message so obviously illustrated by the herd of kids.

If each one of us were to walk instead of drive a few miles each day, the impact on our fuel consumption and environmental pollution would be HUGE. Our individual efforts do matter when they are taken as part of a whole. After all, this collective of little legs adds up to the sum of pollution free cross country travel.

THINGS TO DO: Make Paper Shoes

A long, long, long, long time ago, back when Marek was a newborn, my niece and nephew came to meet their new cousin for Easter. This was back when I had time on my hands - all I had to do was make sure my newborn was fed, clean, rested and breathing (breathing being the most important). And so, with a niece who was four, and a nephew that was ten - Wow! - they did more then blink and burp at me. We could actually do real live interactive projects, like make paper shoes. So we did.

I had actually been furnished a paper shoe pattern at some point, which I dug out. Basically the shoes were made by:

1) Trace around the pattern (which could easily be another shoe) for the size of the shoe bottom.

2) Cut several layers of cardboard for each shoe bottom.

3) Cut a band or bands to attach over the top of the shoe, sandal style.

4) Glue the band(s) over the first layer leaving room for the foot to fit, of course, and attaching underneath this layer.

5) Glue the rest of the layers together which helps to hold the band(s) in place.

6) Place shoes on and try to walk in them. Shoe will rip apart.

7) Tape shoes back together decoratively using duck tape, electrical tape, or packing tape.

We wore our shoes on this occasion for our Easter Egg Hunt, and then I kept those shoes around for years - probably until last year when I did an entirely too thorough cleaning of my basement. I am still discovering missing items that I must have got rid of that I don't remember getting rid of that I sure wish were around.

Like those paper shoes.

Because I few days ago Marek started cutting up cardboard boxes to make paper shoes for Oscar, Tildy, and himself. At least the original paper shoes lasted long enough to inspire Marek, because now that I have three kids of my own that do more than blink and burp, I find it much harder to do things like make paper shoes with them.

Marek had a slightly different paper shoe making technique having no instructions to draw upon and no visual other than his memory and imagination. He traced the foot directly onto the cardboard, made the shoe in one layer (which was probably easier to walk in), and directly duck taped the heck out of the shoes. In fact, he ran out of duck tape before he completed his own pair.

Oscar and Tildy enjoyed theirs. If you had run into us at assessments last week you might have noticed Oscar gliding around the school hallway in this unusual bit of footwear. I would not recommend paper shoes for riding your scooter however.

A Call From Grandma

I realized something was up when we got home from soccer, and there was a phone message from my grandma.

My grandma has NEVER called me before. She must have worked hard to track down my number, because I can't imagine her looking it up on the internet. We are more letter communicators.

But nevertheless, there it was. A message waiting for me: "Christa, we've been hearing about the fire out your way. I was just worried about you, and wanted to make sure you were all okay."

I hadn't realized the Four Mile Canyon fire was a national news event. I did, of course, realize there was a fire. On Monday, the smoke cloud filled half of the sky. On Tuesday, soccer practice and outdoor recess were canceled due to the poor air quality. And on Wednesday, my sheets I hung out to dry had a decided campfire smell to them. But there are fires in the mountains every year. I assumed it had been dealt with. Put out. Damage tallied. Insurance claims paid.

I placed aside my wonder as to the unexpected phone message and moved on to the hecticness of feeding and getting kids to bed in a timely manner. Meanwhile I stewed on the REALLY important matter that was on my mind.

I know this is an amazing fact, but Oscar is the ONLY five-year-old on his soccer team that does not have cleats. CLEATS! AT FIVE! And honestly, at five years of age, if the the ball is being kicked in the right direction, good things are happening. This group of five-year-olds must really take their soccer seriously.

And to make matters worse for Oscar, a boy on his team has been giving him a hard time about his lack of proper foot apparel. So my thoughts were not on world news. Or even local news. They were on the state of our youth and sports. I'm sure you are well aware that I spend vast amounts of time wishing things would lighten up with kids and sports. You can read about in "Mama Mia! Look At Christa!" or "Soccer Snacks" if you have any confusion on where I stand.

So through dinner we discussed cleats. Through bath I thought about - cleats. I looked to see if we had any bedtime stories about cleats. But no. So we made due with Maisy and Dr. Seuss and Narnia. And after the kids went to bed, I looked to Facebook to discuss - cleats.

And this stopped me in my tracks. A link to this photo journal of the fire that was STILL happening. A link to the fire that has damaged more structures than any other in Colorado history. A fire that was still burning. I was stunned. And immediately put in my place.

Cleats.

When more than 150 structures in the area have burned.

I didn't even know.

Two years ago I made the conscious decision to stop reading all news. This was right after we were sued. Which is one of the worst experiences a person can go through. I needed the cocoon of isolationism. I needed to believe the world is a good place. A good place filled with good people. Obama had just been elected. The country was entering a terrible recession. I was tired of reading about the what-ifs, because the present was scary enough. I canceled my Newsweek subscription, which combined with The Late Show, was about the full extent of my news information network.

Since then, I have been relying on word of mouth. I figure if something is worth talking about, then people are probably talking about it. But no one around me has been talking about this fire that had been burning up acres for four days and had even prompted warnings to Boulder city proper residents to be ready to evacuate if needed. I hadn't even realized the Four Mile Canyon fire was still burning!

I am put in my place and am so thankful for what I have: my home, a healthy, loving family, a fire department blocks away.

Suddenly Oscar's lack of cleats are not so important. And I am struck with the thought that though I have been sheltering myself against a negative view of the world, I have also been sheltering myself from a sense of compassion for my community. Living in a bubble allows no sense of comparison. No sense of perspective. No sense of place in the world. I have been living - just a little - senseless.

It might be time to emerge from my news isolationism.

Maybe.

THINGS TO DO: Make War with Rubber Bands

"Pling!" Another rubber bands shoots by me. "Plung!" They are flying fast and furious. "Plunk!" A band hits in me in my hip and I must retaliate!

The battle begins with a simple request, "Mom, can I use these?"

I turn around to spot Marek holding a bag of rubber bands that I just recently purchased.

"Of course! Maybe I'll use some too!"

I have never liked guns in my house - even water guns freak me out because a water gun is still a gun pointed at my child. But shooting rubber bands seems like a fairly good compromise between ammunition and waving daisies around a peace banner.

Marek and Oscar are mastering the slingshot technique where the band is mounted on one's thumb and the other hand pulls the band back and releases. They have also developed a technique where they launch the rubber band from the back of a chair.

After hours of practice in my youth, I have favored the one-handed launching technique where the band is wrapped around the thumb and shot from the pointer finger.

The bands don't really hurt when they hit - unless it is in the eye. Our rules are simple: No shooting at the head. Everything else is fair.

Recently I was at a friend's house. She apologized for the profusion of rubber bands around her house. Her son had just received a rubber band launcher made out of wire. And as anyone who has ever had fun with rubber bands knows, the remnants last for days and they are nothing to apologize for. I am still finding rubber bands here.

On Homework

"Mom, can we go swimming?"

"Okay, but let's get our homework done before we head out."

"Oh, Mom! Do we have to? Why can't we do it later?"

"Because if we wait until later, it won't happen."

"Will you do it for me then, Mom?"

What? This is Oscar I am talking with! I am having having this conversation with Oscar, my five-year-old, two weeks into the kindergarten school year! Which leads me to wonder, which is more ridiculous - that he could possibly think that I might do his homework for him - or that my five-year-old even HAS homework?

I really just don't get it - the homework thing. I have heard that the idea is to create work patterns at a young age, but the patterns that are created in our house seem to emphasize the "work" in homework, and by Marek's age of eight involve loud screams of agony, threats, bribes, and things flying across the room. And really, if you were a five-year-old boy, would you rather build a stick tent in the backyard with your brother or color in patterns on a striped cow?

I look to my old friend, Laura Ingalls Wilder when I contemplate schoolwork. I tell my kids how going to school was such a privilege to her (and still is in some places of the world), and how hard Laura studied after hours in order to master the material to become a teacher. But really, when Laura was five, she was just moving out of the Big Woods and into Indian Territory. She was running around barefoot with Jack watching Pa build a log cabin. There was barely a neighbor within miles, much rather a school with homework.

This past week I found myself at "Back to School Night" with my knees smashed under Marek's desk listening to his third grade teacher's curriculum and expectations for the year.

"In third grade, it is expected that your child will read individually six nights a weeks for twenty to thirty minutes a night."

I raise my hand, "By "individually" do you mean they are reading to themselves or reading out loud to someone?"

"They should be reading out loud to someone."

I raise my hand again, "So if they are reading out loud for thirty minutes, and then doing math and spelling homework, they will have about an hour of homework every night?"

"Well, the spelling and the math shouldn't take that long."

Evidently this teacher has never spent a homework evening at my house where just setting aside our ninja costumes and repeatedly calming down vocal noise might take an hour.

And I am left feeling as tightly squeezed by this homework assignment as my body is in Marek's desk.

Everyone complains of the homework for the constraints it places on our children's time, but really, let's be honest here. What I resent as a parent is that this homework is in actuality MY homework. If my son doesn't perform well or I forget to sign the homework slip, it is not Marek who will be judged at this age, but ME. Marek is too young to pull this stuff together himself. The expectation is that I work alongside him and his homework.

Maybe if our household had three Moms this would be groovy. One could clean the kitchen and prepare for the next day. One could get the younger kids to bed. And the last Mom could cozily sit with Marek and work with him on his homework for an hour while sipping hot chocolate. But our household isn't like that. Geoff is working. It is me who cleans, prepares, bathes, and simultaneously educates. Hey teachers, ever wonder why Marek's homework is wet, wet, wet? It is ME. ME. ME. Tears or bathwater? Take a guess.

Has Marek ever thought to do his homework on his own? No. Because he is not supposed to. I am supposed to. And really, if a child is not capable of doing their own homework on their own, then aren't they a little too young to have it assigned of them?

There I am in Marek's classroom, the only parent repeatedly raising my hand to question these numbers. There is not an uprising of protest behind me. And yet I hear everyone complaining later along with me. We complain about how awful it is that our young kids have to sit down and work so hard when they should be out catching toads in the creek, selling lemonade in the front yard, kicking a ball around the backyard, mingling with their peers. Which is all totally true.

But really, our children should be working hard. I see no problem with our kids doing homework if it is interesting, informative, and age appropriate.

But I shouldn't have to. I already learned how to color patterns on a striped cow.

Let's go back and looked at how I began this rant:

"Mom, can we go swimming?"
"Okay, but let's get our homework done before head out."

Isn't it funny that I automatically said "OUR" homework?

The Music Teacher

For several years now I've heard from Marek about his music teacher.

Evidently this teacher is big and green and mean. I've pictured him with two different sized legs, stomping around the classroom beating a stick into his open palm (in time to the music , of course). His alien antennas are always on the alert pointed up for any class disruptions. When someone steps out of line, which happens daily due to the numerous and impossible expectations, everything instantly stops so a punishment can be handed out and the disruptor sent to the Principal's office. And then the music starts up again. Kind of like alien punishment musical chairs. Let's see who is left at the end of class.

From what I have heard from Marek, there has been little musical instruction provided. In fact, Marek has taken pride in not learning a note from this guy - let's just call him Mr. X.

Marek is not the only one complaining of this monster. I know other people who have complained of his teaching methods. I have wondered why the school continues to employ Mr. X, and have even contemplated writing a note to the school about the torture that my oldest is put through under his tutelage.

Imagine my surprise this week, when Oscar runs out of kindergarten, his eyes bright and shining happily: "Mom! I had music class today with Mr. X!"

"Oh-no!," I inwardly cringe. "Why do both of my boys have to taught by this, this..."

"Guess what? Mr. X is special."

"Oh yeah? Why is he special?" I say, but I think, "Because he was born in outer space?"

"Mr. X knows how to sing REALLY good."

And for the rest of the week, Oscar runs around blaring guitar riffs and rhymes that I've never before heard in our household. He talks often of Mr. X.

Mr. X is now tall, but stoops down frequently to make eye contact with my son and his peers. He sings like an angel and presents my son with accessible music information that can be understood and enjoyed. A glow of light surrounds him as he strides down the school's hall, and smiles are reflected and bounce off the walls for all to embrace and collect.

I am filled with gladness that my son has connected so deeply in one week with a leader at his new school. I am so glad he has a male role model, and I feel like I should write the school or Mr. X a short note and let him know how much he has helped Oscar.

Which of my sons is seeing reality?

Probably neither. Marek is very sensitive. Oscar will tire of his worship and move on the gym teacher next week.

But how satisfying to experience multiple insights of the same individual. To see how a teacher can completely miss with one person, and completely hit with the other. This is what makes our school system great.

Willowby, Wallowby Beacher,
The Elephant Sat on my Teacher.

Pretty Pink Paint

"I want to help, Mom, I want to paint too!"

"Oscar, you told me you didn't, so I didn't get things ready for you to help. Besides, the stuff smells terrible. Doesn't it even make your eyes hurt?"

"No. I don't smell anything."

Oscar and Matilda perch on the only remaining piece of furniture in Matilda's new room - the bed - while I paint the walls around them. Luckily they are only entertained by my painting efforts for a few minutes. Because this stuff DOES smell terrible. It makes my eyes hurt. It fills my nose and mouth, and probably even my ears. I go and put a fan in the window which helps some, but by the end of my first coat of the yucky primer, I feel shaky and lightheaded. The fumes? Lack of sleep? Probably low blood sugar. I am one of those people who need to snack constantly to maintain equilibrium. I hope it's the blood sugar.

There is something about me that is not obvious at first glance. Though maybe you might assume it. I usually think I look pretty enviro, but then recently I was asked if I fed my kids white bread. White bread? Are you kidding me? My kids are grinding their own wheat for breakfast! I've never been so insulted! But I diverge. So it may not be obvious, but if you spend just a short time with me, you will pick up that I am somewhat of a chemophobe. Okay. I am a HUGE chemophobe.

But if you had my family history, you would be too. Oh yeah - a lot of you reading this do have my family history...

It actually started the year I worked as a screen printer. One wants to be cool and unconcerned. So wearing proper respirators is not something that happens hiring day. It's something that is learned after an afternoon spent breathing lacquer thinner for hours until finally one is not left with an incredible high, but with a thin, shaky feeling and a temper that snaps and screams angrily with their fume-filled lungs at the person who sold this job, "Why don't you do this, if you want to sell work like this!" The outburst is followed by objects flying, tears, and a retreat out the door for a literal, breather.

I was not fired after this outburst, but I did find work elsewhere shortly after. But to this day, due to the constant exposure, I believe my body is more sensitive to chemicals than others. And if I had to do it again, I would not consider a profession that came into contact with toxic chemicals. What was the cost of this exposure?

I am the one at the park questioning the maintenance workers about their pesticides. I am the one who would rather risk Lyme's disease than use a Deet product. I am the one who doesn't like to clean the house because of the Comet. Or do I really just not like to clean the house?

A while ago one of my friends called me to ask if I'd ever used natural cleaners. Coincidentally around the same time, my nephew recommended the book, The Urban Homestead. Within this treasury were explicit instructions on obtaining a sparkling - okay livable - quality of clean using simple household cleaners like vinegar and baking soda. Vinegar and baking soda! I can EAT vinegar and baking soda. I can make cookies from vinegar and baking soda! Yum! Vinegar cookies! And think of the potential science experiments! Hours of entertaining volcanic eruptions on hand at all times!

So last spring I excitedly purchased my first gallon of vinegar and baking soda, and tossed all the smelly ol' store bought sponges in exchange for my handy dandy ripped up recycled clothes. I am loving this stuff. I excitedly spray vinegar all over the place every chance I get. In fact, we fight over who gets to excitedly spray vinegar all over the place. (Geoff did worn me away from our metal kitchen cabinets. Apparently he makes a fine chemical patina for his metal work - out of vinegar.)

The very best part of this household shift is that my chemophode self no longer has to scream at my kids as I clean the bathroom, "Don't touch the bathtub! I just put Comet on it! Just stay out! Save yourself!"

Now I can invite Mommy's little helpers in with the only problem being that I can go through a gallon of vinegar in like a second once Matilda starts spraying, and that Oscar is usually right behind her, "It's my turn to spray!"

Cleaning has become a little simpler in terms of product load, and it has got me thinking even more about all the unnecessary chemicals that are dumped down our lives each day. The horror of vast quantities of oil pouring into our ocean depths was felt by all this summer. But what are we individually pouring down our drains? Do all the little bits add up to a huge horror? All those peed out birth control pills flushing into our water supply, disposable dusting clothes filling the landfill, plug-in room deodorizers perfuming the air, antibacterial hand soaps washing away the good as well as the bad.

I admit there are some products for which a substitute is simply not a choice, and I would guess that this varies per individual. I like lotion. A lot of lotion. It's dry here. But really - yuck - lotion washing down the drain.

And I think I must confess, I like paint. It is so much more satisfying to me to paint a wall then to just try and wash it. There are some walls in my house that I paint every year. Try to imagine 15 layers of paint on the wall between my living room and kitchen. I wonder if its taken inches off my room size?

Right now it is EVIL in Matilda's room. as the pretty pink paint begins to dry and harden and mesh with the plaster. The fumes are filtering away and hazily float up and out the window...

Go Tell It On the Mountain

Today I am forty.

But look - here is my birthday celebration. I purposely posed next to the oldest thing in existence - look how young I look next to this mountain!

Even more importantly, look how far I've come.

If you look close - really close - squint close - you might see from where we began our walk up this mountain. That line off my right hip, that is where our car is parked. Though the car is green so it is a bit camouflaged. So I understand if you miss it.

In planning this adventure, I chose a peak carefully, because failure was NOT an option. And to be clear, I had not climbed a large peak since I was in my twenties.

Geoff asked, "Shouldn't you work up to something like this?"

Who has time for that?

So though I set my sights high - a geographical destination at 14,000 feet - I set my sights realistically low.

This is a mountain you can walk up, no crampons and ice axes needed. This is a summit only three miles from the trail head. This is a wilderness journey without any scary mountain lions or trail uncertainty. Only Bill and Ted on their big adventure behind us, loudly talking into their cell phone and scaring away any moose that might be planning on popping out of the willows with a birthday wish.

The guy in the parking lot loading his three-year-old into his baby backpack - he summited about the same time we were coming down. The lady coercing her two adolescent daughters into continuing despite the "breeze" - same. The 10-year-old Boy Scout with his Boy Scout Troop - they made it - at the same time as Geoff and I. Even the Jack Russell Terrier with the short little legs made it to the tippy top.

But before I belittle the experience too much, let me assure you that climbing uphill for three hours hurts even when there is enough oxygen for trees and grass to grow, and at 14,000 feet can cause headaches, vomiting, dizziness, and tiredness that's not to believe. Dare I mention, Kyle, how your journey in a train up Pikes Peak ended? No, I won't. I'll let Mary ask about it.

It's a journey not to be attempted without a positive attitude, water, water, WATER, a good pair of shoes, and plenty of chocolate (Though I learned NOT the 60% cocoa type. The more sugar the better. A Milky Way would have been better.)

The night before our big hike, Geoff asked me, "Have you ever wondered what your bones look like?"

I thought a moment. "No. I have never thought about what my bones look like."

"Maybe you should think about what the inside of your body looks like as well as the outside."

Let me tell you there is nothing like climbing a mountain to make one consider what the inside of one's body looks like. Though perhaps this is part of the aging process - to start to worry about one's heartbeat, and the structural composition of one's knees, and the oxygen filling and collapsing one's struggling lungs while walking closer to the exosphere.

Geoff asked me if I felt like I accomplished what I wanted, making it up this mountain. I did accomplish it. I made it to the summit. And it was a CROWDED summit what with that Boy Scout Troop. I counted about 40 people enjoying the views along with us. Perhaps one for every year of my life?

But it's funny, it's not that I made it that mattered to me. But it would have mattered galatically if I hadn't made it. This day was not about the journey or experiencing nature or interacting with another human. This day was about reaching the summit. I would have crawled on my hands and knees up this mountain rather than admit defeat. Barring an electrical storm or a heart attack, I was determined to get to the top. Because what would it have meant if I was no longer capable? One step at a gasping time through the treeline, the willows, the grassland, the rocky soils, and the mars like rocks until the geology of Colorado was spread around and under me like a model topo map. Then I could blissfully eat my sandwich knowing that my body may be forty, but it is still functioning - good enough to get me where I want to go.

I must be doing all right. Because here I am on the top of Mount Bierstadt at 14,060 feet in the air.

And you know what - it was easy.

THINGS TO DO: Make a Pinata

I love papier-mache. It is so fun and messy and and cheap and the possibilities are endless. Pinatas are especially great since they involve candy and smashing - two of my kids favorite things. Pinatas are easy but they can take some time. You'll want to allow several days for building, drying, filling, and decorating. And their construction is messy. I like to build them outside where I can hose off our remains.

TO BUILD A PINATA:

1) Design your pinata. Pinatas are typically made using an inflated balloon for the shape. But I have built a bird and a pterodactyl using multiple balloons, and this time around I experimented using paper for the form. After the papier-mache part is finished, you can add paper and cardboard details to the pinata when you decorate. Anything is possible.

2) Mix up the paste. I use the following recipe: Mix one quarter cup of flour into one cup of water. Add this into five cups of boiling water. Gently boil and stir this mixture for about three minutes. Cool before using.

3) Create your form. It is easiest to have a blown up balloon to follow in creating the shape.

4) Cut or rip strips of newspaper. Size the strips appropriately for your pinata design.

5) Begin laying the newspaper strips on the pinata form. To do this dip the newspaper strip in the paste. Remove excess paste. Place the strip on the form. Smooth the strip on to the shape. Repeat, crossing the strips back and forth for strength. Leave an opening to place the candy into the pinata.

6) Layer the strips. If the form becomes too soggy, take a break and allow the papier-mache to dry before continuing. I generally build about three layers on a pinata. I feel it when it is dry and make sure it seems sturdy, and add more layers if needed. Generally my pinatas end up stronger than imagined.

7) Break the balloon and fill the pinata with candy. After you break the balloon inside your pinata, pull it out if possible. I made a pinata for my wedding without removing the balloon, and all the candy went into the balloon when it went into the pinata. When the pinata broke, a ball of candy filled balloon fell with a thud and we had an additional game of baseball to break the balloon open.

8) Cover the candy opening with more paper mache. In a pinch, I have just taped this closed.

9) Decorate the pinata. Pinatas are traditionally covered with tissue paper. The tissue paper is cut into strips and one edge is fringed. The fringe is glued all over the pinata. I just use white school glue to attach the tissue paper.

10) Hang the pinata. This step can be integrated sooner. I like to papier-mache the hanger for the pinata on right away and work on the pinata with it suspended. In the case of this pinata, the candy was too heavy for the string I chose to hang the pinata, and the line ripped right out. Oh well. The plan is now to hang it with some ribbon birthday present style.

11) Break the pinata. Traditionally each participant has a chance to try their luck beginning with the youngest child and working through to the oldest. It is fun to hang the pinata so it can be manipulated up and down while the blindfolded players attempt to hit it with a stick or baseball bat. Once the pinata breaks it is a free for all.

* * * * * * *

We had some challenges with our pinata creation this time around. Marek decided he wanted to make his own raindrop (balloon) shape pinata. Unfortunately after it was filled with candy, we left the pinatas on the table for the night. The dog decided she wanted to sample some of the delicacies inside, and that was the end of his nice raindrop shape. Marek was disheartened and did not attempt to repair his efforts.

The cake shape I made in three separate layers and then joined the layers together after they were dried. For this reason, some of this pinata is very thick, but I sure hope the joints don't give out immediately. I am always curious how strong my pinatas turn out to be. This one has fallen three times already without damage through the construction process, so I am hoping it makes it through most of the thirty kids that will be at Mom and Doug's birthday party.

The Newtons are packing up the pinata and heading to the party. I may take a break from blogging for a while and enjoy the festivities and the beginning of summer break. But I will be back!

Happy Sixtieth Birthday, Mom and Doug!