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!

Daytime Dreams

Last night I had a dream. A very peculiar dream. A little unnerving. And I woke up feeling uneasy at 4:3o in the morning. Having a dream, and waking up in the night is truly strange to me - because I am SO DARN TIRED.

Lately sleep comes to me like I have been hit over the head and drugged until the alarm begins its unrelenting blare. It comes in waves while I am attempting to read to the children. I think I read, "The cat in the hat..." But really I read, "Eat... caramel apples... now." It comes in waves when I put Tildy down for her nap. The catnap is a lovely thing that I never before experienced.

And when I am awake, especially by the end of the week, I sometimes feel like I am being tortured - just a constant pinching of wakefulness.

And my intentional sleep deprivation is getting worse.

In college I had a motto that I have lately been encouraging myself with: You'll get plenty of sleep when you're dead.

I used to have daytime dreams once also. I had a lot of dreams. I've seen through my life how the slow and steady thing pays off in the end whether it is knitting a sweater or becoming a dancer with no inborn talent. Lately I have been digging up some daytime dreams, which is why I am too tired to experience them during the night.

I am not even quite sure what these daytime dreams are. I am just dabbling hoping something will click - planting a few vegetables, going to yoga class, stewing over the vastness of Etsy and wondering what to do about it, keeping the books for a few friends, and writing here.

It was recently stated to me, "So you married an artist."

I did indeed marry an artist, though I had never thought about it in these terms before. I am always uncomfortable defining art. But the fact that I married an artist explains a lot about the composition of our life together. He is an artist with a dream.

And his dream has always come first because it is the dream that has fed the family. For the past decade, the family has been my dream.

I recently signed on to Facebook. (Another story - I'll probably get a cell phone next...) So the other night I did the natural thing, and looked up a guy I dated in college. Sean was the most passionately driven person I had ever met in my life. He was a musician - a drummer - studying music and playing in a rock band at night. (And oh my gosh- they are on You Tube) Sean eventually toured with a band for a decade, and I even visited with him years later when his band toured through Boulder. So I was hoping - so hoping - that his dreams had not changed. That he was still pursuing the passionate dreams of youth. And I was disappointed. There he was, still with a caboodle of friends following his charisma, but making his living as a programmer.

My initial thought was, "He sold out." Sorry, Sean.

And how funny that it turns out that my artist husband has more staying power and passion to his dreams of youth.

It took me several days to digest this information. And I tried to look at it from Sean's point of view. Because given his sunny and passionate nature, he would most definitely not use this expression to refer to himself.

I would guess that he would say his dreams have shifted. Over the course of a decade of touring and of missing daily life with his wife and child(ren?), I would imagine he realized being a rock-n-roll star was no longer where it was at. Would I actually respect him less if he was still touring with the same band hoping for a breakthrough twenty years later? Is it better to alter your dreams of success to live a financially and socially rewarding lifestyle?

My dreams have, of course, shifted also. I no longer dream of starting my own dance company and altering the public perception of modern dance. I barely dream of dancing. Well... Maybe I do still dream of dancing when my hips don't hurt. But now I have dreams of seeing my children raised strong, healthy, intelligent, happy and community contributors. I have dreams of seeing my husband satisfied with his business of metal creation. And I am fishing around to create my own personal dreams. Because we all need dreams.

My aunt Carrie believes that she dreamed her entire life one night. She asked God to show her what she might expect, and he followed through. She saw her children and the land they would purchase and how things would go on down the line for her. Or did I dream this?

I often seem to have flashes of deja vu, and I wonder if I have dreamed my life also. Deja vu is particularly unnerving to me, because it makes me feel like time is running out - like I have used up another part of my dream. Another dream checked off and one step closer to the end. But deja vu also reassures me. Because it tells me that I am in the right place doing what I am meant to do. And that everything will be all right.

Dreams will come and continue to happen.

If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. - Henry David Thoreau

Graduation Day

Here is our graduate. Oscar graduated from preschool today complete with pomp and circumstance, mortar board, diploma, and many parents and grandparents.

I'm sorry, Geoff. I forgot to mention that Oscar was graduating today. I just didn't think it was important. Neither did Oscar. The second he received his diploma, he ran over to me and asked, "Can I go and play with my friends some more now?"

graduate: a person who has completed a course of study at a school or college and has received a degree or diploma. [Webster's New World Dictionary]

When I left the "graduation" today I wasn't sure why I was so bothered by this terminology. The ceremony was very cute, and the cake was good, and the company was excellent. By the above definition I suppose you could stretch it and call this rite of passage a "graduation." But really, is preschool a "course of study"? Doesn't graduation imply a little intention and control on the participant's part?

Moving from preschool to kindergarten really has nothing to do with Oscar. He has not performed. By the grace of his optimistic personality, he has made the best of the situation to which he was thrown. Perhaps calling this milestone a graduation might be a good example of how we are encouraging our youth today towards the self-centeredness that the next generation often complains.

Last night we attended Shelebration - a night of poetry by Shel Silverstein recited by Marek and his class. This hysterically funny evening gave the participants knowledge of poetry and performance, group cohesivity, and shared their individual talents with their community. What a way to celebrate Marek's milestone of "graduating" from second to third grade. The grandparents should have been invited to this one. And yes, Geoff was there.

I agree that when Oscar begins kindergarten this fall, this will be a HUGE. He will finally begin his academic life with a group of peers that essentially will remain the same for at least the next six years. I am excited for this stability. But frankly, I would rather Oscar not know of this gargantuan milestone.

Because I remember when Marek began his first days of kindergarten. There I was eight-and-a-half months pregnant, and bodily throwing Marek through the doorway at his teacher and slamming the door behind him. Did I mention I was eight-and-a-half months pregnant?

Really, I do not want to make kindergarten a big deal for my next child. I would rather he take it in stride and accept it as simply the next step in his life. Nothing to be questioned.

Just the next step in life.

This is the point that haunts me. As I prepare to attend the sixtieth birthday party of my Mom and her husband, which promises to have more than 150 guests, I wonder why I don't celebrate my personal milestones more. Last year Geoff and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary by walking down to a neighborhood restaurant - with Matilda.

There is a simple rhythm to daily life. It goes on and on and never ends. And I find it very hard to voluntarily interrupt this rhythm. It is hard for me to plan a party. It is hard for me to go out on a date with my husband or friends. It is hard for me to travel away from it all. I worry that if I interrupt my attention from the rhythm of life, it will disintegrate. And things will never be the same again.

But here's what's really funny. Things WON'T ever be the same again. Tomorrow won't be the same as today. And Oscar will certainly never, ever again go to preschool. And we will both miss it.

So I am grateful that Oscar's preschool teacher's brought celebration to this moment in time that is indeed oh, so special.

But I refuse to think of it as a graduation. I will save that for college.

Our Clothes, Ourselves

I am in the bathroom giving Oscar and Tildy a bath when Marek bursts in. Amusingly enough he waves a threaded needle in my face. "Mom, would you knot this for me?"

"What are you sewing, Marek?" I ask as I tie the knot.

"My pajamas have another hole."

I know what pajamas he is talking about. These pajama pants are made of plaid, red flannel and he outgrew them in length a year or two ago. And they have a HUGE hole in the knee. I have refused several times to sew them up for Marek, prompting him to take up a needle and thread on his own - several times now. In my opinion if they are to be salvaged, the best scenario would be to chop them off and create pajama shorts for the summer. Geoff just thinks they should be tossed. Though Geoff has his own pair of red flannel, plaid pajama pants that have seen better days...

I must admit I also have my version of these pajama pants. You've probably heard me describe them before with quantities of love. My pants are blue sweat pants that were purchased for my Dad in 1983 or so when my Mom bought our whole family colorful matching sweatsuits from the Spiegel catalog. My orange assemble was outgrown long ago, but the sweat pants I inherited from Dad came worn in from decades of laundering. They are like encasing myself in a downy second skin and I will wear them despite the hole in the butt - and the fact that they are UGLY.

I guess we probably all have our version of the pajama pant.

I have always liked clothes. I know this comes as a surprise to those who did not know the former me - the one prior to children that had lots of time to read fashion magazines and sew and shop for vintage. Though I dabbled with a fashion design major for two semesters in college, I have never been the high fashion type. I've never worn makeup, rarely received a professional haircut, and scoffed always at high heels. I was the type to experiment with Rit dye on long underwear and Flashdance-like T-shirts and wear these lovely assembles around campus in bare feet from dance class to calculus class. My red dyed outfit was captured forever on video in 1988, so I know exactly how great I looked.

When I became pregnant, along with my dreams of a midwife led, water birth was my dream of forever dressing my kids as I defined "cute." Little did I know this was just as unrealistic as that water birth. I thought it would be like the summer I spent every spare moment sewing clothes for my Cabbage Patch Kid, Muriel. (Yes, I was a little old to be playing with dolls, but boy, did I learn to sew on Muriel!) Muriel sat so still and was so tolerant of my clothing choices based on the weather and activity, and she always looked so well outfitted. Thank goodness I had Muriel.

Because my real children have long ago asserted their own identities with fashion. The other night as we toasted marshmallows, I was examining their outfits - little ragamuffins.


Marek - he is all about the feel. He likes pajamas - day or night. I have stacks of clothes stored in the basement that Marek has rejected but that Oscar will hopefully one day enjoy. Here he is in a pajama shirt with a newly discovered pair of jeans from storage.


Oscar - he is the least choosy. Oscar favors Walmart-like clothes that advertise various movies or superheros. I often wonder why he likes Spiderman when he has never read or even watched Spiderman. What can I say, my standards lowered for the second child, especially when I saw how happy he became from colorful polyester. Here he is in his favorite Spiderman "muscle" shirt. Which is really from a set of pajamas rejected by Marek.


Matilda - my two-year-old has already decided she knows better than I about how she should outfit her little body. No cute little dresses for Tildy. She is fond of the knit separates - and the more separate the better it seems. Look at her here.

A long time ago one of my cousins had the unfortunate experience of living in an apartment building that burned down from another tenant. From this I learned first, to always have insurance even as a renter, second, to skip the apartment and buy a house, and third, to appreciate my own clothes. Not only did my cousin and his wife miss their photos, but they missed having their own clothes. Their own comfortable pair of pajama pants.

I guess our clothes become an extension of who we are announcing to the world what we do for a living, how much money we make, our stereotypical click of how we fit into the shape of things. Our clothes reflect how we see ourselves.

Sometimes I wish I could place signs on my kids - especially for those with no kids or those too old to remember what it is like:

My child dressed him/herself this morning.

And even if they really didn't, wouldn't a sign like this be a great way to remove all responsibility?

THINGS TO DO: Toast Marshmallows

A long, long time ago when I was a little girl we only toasted marshmallows when we had an open fire. We only had an open fire when we went camping, so roasting marshmallows was a special treat enjoyed only a few times a year.

I know backyard fire pits are the rage now, so many of you have not been deprived of your smore fix. But for the rest of us...

My friend introduced me to the radical idea of toasting marshmallows over the grille. This is especially great for those of us in dry climates like Colorado. Fire danger often makes an open fire a no-no even when camping. Now I can fill my kids up with sugar all summer long!

YUM!!!

Big, Fun Change

I am walking by my neighbor's house when I notice the contractor. His truck is parked in front of the garage, and he is standing with his clipboard in hand, evidently adding up the costs. The costs for what? According to his truck and his focus, the costs for new exterior paint for the neighbor's yellow and brown trim residence. I don't mean to be nosy, but change is easy to recognise.

I note all this data in a single second, and I walk on with my life wondering what color the neighbor will choose to recolor her life. Pink? Lilac? Tan? White? The possibilities are delicious.

A few weeks later I am again walking by the the neighbor's house. The garage is all masked up and the contractor looks like he is close to completing the job. But what is surprising to me is that the garage looks just the same as before - yellow with brown trim - just a little fresher. All the color choices in the world, and the neighbor choose to keep her color life in a holding pattern. Granted this particular neighbor must be in her eighties and I hear it is gets harder and harder to make change the older we get. But still, this isn't like a change like moving into a retirement home, this is a change, like let's see how my house looks when it is orange. Just fun change. Isn't it fun change?

Our day started today with Geoff making eggs, as usual. "Christa, where is the butter spread?"

"I stopped buying it, because it's not REAL food."

"It's made from vegetable oil."

"It's made in a laboratory. It doesn't come from a cow."

"I don't want to eat all the cholesterol in butter. You don't want me to die of a heart attack, do you?"

"You are using your butter for toast to eat with your Eggs Benedict. Maybe if you're worried about cholesterol, you should eat a different kind of egg? Besides, the new idea is that cholesterol has nothing to do with your heart."

"Christa, you are always imposing your ideas on the rest of us. Can't you just buy the butter spread for me and my toast?"

He is right. The purchaser does get to make the purchasing choices. And you know what? I like to make changes. So Geoff is often wondering what happened to his stereo system that I dismantled with the intention of using the computer, and his reading light that I deemed too ugly, and wondering why we have no butter spread. The shock of it all is compounded by the fact that he doesn't hear well, so even though I warn him of these changes, I am certain he never really notes them until something appears amiss.

Geoff does not like change. Perhaps it's because he is not the one making the choices.

Do we even realize that we have choices? With our every purchase, with our attention and time, with our fabrication of life, the choice is ours. We can do or buy the typical, or we can think through what is good for us, makes us happy, makes our life richer. Sometimes it is easier just to take the kids on a packaged trip to Disney World with Mickey Mouse. But maybe it might be more of an experience to camp in the middle of a National Forest with the bugs and the bears.

Recently my friend began to plan a new interior railing redesign for her new home. She showed me a quick sketch of what she had in mind. The sketch and idea was fine. But my husband is a metal worker, and I have seen the possibilities in metal work. There is awe inspiring European metal design that we never have seen in middle American. So I loaned her some books. After looking at the books she came back to me and said," You're right. There are so many choices. Why does everyone manufacture the same ten styles?"

Our forefathers fought for choice. Let's make some informed choices!

And having written all this, I now take a sip of my Earl Grey Tea. Because there are some things that you just don't ever change.

The Gold Mine

We are small business owners.

It seems like this should be an inconsequential part of my life. After all I am not the one at the shop working for our food, clothes and shelter. In fact, I'm not even an owner anymore since our incorporation in January. But when I am not thinking about the kids, I am usually thinking about the business. It really is our oldest and most needy child.

Is anyone out there writing blogs about small business?

I'm not talking about the "how too"s - I'm talking about the nitty gritty day to day hysterical results of trying to make more money than you spend. This must be a challenging subject. Because you want your business to appear successful - even if it's not - especially to clients and banks. And the humor most definitely would be found in the mishaps. And really - what small business owner experiencing mishaps has time to record the mishaps?

Like yesterday when Geoff called me fuming wondering if he should fire our employee who is getting married this weekend because he again failed to come to work. (The employee finally showed up, Geoff cooled off, and gave him another chance...)

Or like last month when the forklift somehow broke and sprayed hydraulic fluid all over a completed light fixture that was supposed to be delivered to Aspen on Monday but couldn't because the highway was closed due to a landslide. I mean, you can't make up stories like this!

Or several years ago when our portfolio mysteriously disappeared on the day Oscar was born because someone assumed Geoff wouldn't be in to work since he had just had a new baby. Silly assumption.

Or a long time ago when the alarm system continually called us on a Saturday morning as we lay in bed trying to sleep, and when Geoff finally gave in and went to the shop, found the block partitioned off and half our shop burned down.

It has taken me ten years to realize that we are panning for gold.

We hope it is a mine with some gold in it. If we keep digging, maybe we'll find the gold? But maybe not. Maybe in the end we end up with some interesting stories and a lot of - dirt.

And I know we are not alone. I have been taking on some bookkeeping. I have been looking at the financial statements of other small businesses. We are definitely not alone.

The roaring nineties featured the beginnings of many business rags to riches stories. Those in technology on the cutting edge must know that they are working in a gold mine. But in custom, architectural metal work? I have always taken the Horacio Alger work hard, have success stories to heart.

We are the slow and steady tortoise. Eventually we will either stop in exhaustion, collapse from lack of fuel, or hit the jackpot - the jackpot in our case a combination of a perfect economic climate plus a great product plus great systems plus great employees.

Did you know that small business in the U.S. private workforce employs 50% of the population either through direct ownership or as an employee? And I'm sure you've heard only about 50% of small business survive the first five years. (SCORE - Counselors to America's small business)

What advice would I give someone starting up a small business? How to stack the cards for your own gold mine?

• Don't quit your day job. Start small and build. Save as much as you can going into full-time small business ownership.

• Start a business that you can operate out of your home. Especially in the beginning. Preferably one that does not require much equipment. Those overhead costs are a killer.


• Register as a sole proprietor. I've always heard from everyone that a business should be incorporated, and if you are trying to build a business to sell or if you are making a lot of money this is probably true. But for small business purposes, being a sole proprietor is simpler. And the rumor I have heard is that incorporation does not shelter the individual from liability financially or otherwise. That is the purpose of insurance.

• Nurture your relationships - even your competition. Your industry should be big enough to support all of you and helping each other out will pay you back. Think of the apprenticeships of years past.

• Read the E-myth Revisited by Michael E. Gerber. And believe it. Just because you enjoy making a product or performing a service, does not mean you will enjoy selling this product or service.

• Do not have children. I heard Oprah say years ago that she didn't think it was fair to have a child when she was so busy running her empire. I found it appalling at the time. Now I nod at the wisdom of it. At the least have your kids several after your company has stabilized.

• Expect to work very long hours. And then to work even more long hours. And then to go back to work even more long hours. I've heard business advice that new business owners must work at least 60 hours a week. For us that has been a minimum.

• Set business goals, but more importantly - limits. Need I say more?

• Love what you do. Love it, love it, love it, love it, love it, love it, love it. Because this will be your life.

Shhh! - It's A Secret!

Checking the mail used to be one of my favorite things to do before the invention of email. I would open the lid to our mailbox wondering what the pile would bring. It used to be quite often that I would hear from a friend or loved one. Every now and then I still do. But usually when I look at the mail on a typical day, I am not surprised that the postal system is having problems making ends meet. Most of my mail goes directly into the recycling bin.

But not today. Today I find an intriguing envelope with the words:

TOP SECRET
Only to: Marek
From: Annabel

You can see by the address that the postal system didn't make money on this one.

I restrain myself from peering into the contents. I try to pretend that I respect my children's privacy... But for the record, what a way to create curiosity! Perhaps Annabel should consider a career as a publicist! ...And I leave the letter on the kitchen table for Marek when he comes home from school.

I am not fond of secrets. Secrets make my imagination go wild.

I worry that the secret is about me. "Marek, did you know your Mom smells like dirty socks?"

And I worry that the secret is something dangerous. "Marek, let's go light some dirty socks on fire!"

And I worry the secret leads to more secrets. "Marek, would you hide my dirty, burnt up socks from my Mom?"

Realistically I know we are not there yet. But baby secret steps must come first.

I know there are good secrets. Like the thank you surprise secret the preschool kids have been making for Oscar's teachers. I wonder if any of the five-year olds have disclosed this secret to the recipients yet. It is so tempting to tell a secret. A secret is powerful.

I remember one of my southern belle friends coyishly stating, "One should always have a secret or two of their own," in reference to her husband. I have thought of this through the years now that I have a husband too. But do I have any secrets from my husband? Is it a secret that I don't have any secrets?

I have always been a pretty open person. Don't confuse quiet with secret. I may not volunteer much data, but if you ask, I'll tell you exactly what I think. Tact has never been one of my strong points. "Radical Honesty" not only clears the air, but is quite entertaining.

Today we stumbled upon a hidden glade of trees in the midst of the recreation center open space. I am fond of secret gardens.

The kids have been schooling themselves in closed doors, secret places, secret games, and secret code words.

Grandpa says that Marek showed him all his secret places in our backyard.

Yesterday Grandma Kathleen overheard the boys say, "Let's go out and do something secret!"

An hour or so after Marek gets home, he asks me to read him Annabel's secret note. This makes me happy. The secret is too important for Marek to trust his own reading skills. I won't tell you what it says. I'll keep the secret and leave you wondering other than there was no mention of dirty socks.

But I sure would like to know what Marek wrote back to Annabel.

War

"Mom, what would happen if the enemy we are at war with dug a tunnel all the way through the earth into our country?"

"Marek, what country are we at war with?"

"I don't know. Aren't we at war with somebody?"

Hmmm. Are we at war with someone? Is there a correct answer to this question? Since I discontinued my Newsweek subscription due to a constant stream of depressive and over reactive news, I have no idea what is really going on in the world. And I kind of like it like that.

So I sidestep. "Any country that we are not on good terms with is on the other side of the earth. It would be impossible for our enemy to dig all the way through the planet and invade us."

"What if they use a country that is right next to our country?"

"Canada or Mexico?"

I envision a giant tunnel going under the border of Mexico for invasion of the U.S. I can't see it. Perhaps it might come in handy for illegal immigration though.

"Marek, no one is going to tunnel under our borders to invade us. It is just not effective."

"What if the people drop down out of airplanes?"

Well, this one might be more feasible... but "Marek, our country has a huge system of technology set up to tell us if any danger is approaching." I am reassuring, but I am also thinking of Pearl Harbor and 9-11 and the recent New York bomb scare. Could we be invaded without detection? Aren't invasion attempts happening all the time?

"So Colorado where we live, is in the middle of the country. So enemies would have a hard time getting to us?"

"Yes." I don't mention our proximity to NORAD buried beneath Cheyenne Mountain.

"So we live in the safest place in the United States."

"Yes."

Last week just as I was leaving Marek's school from my classroom volunteering, our city began testing the tornado sirens. It was 10am, siren testing hour, so it didn't really even phase me. I just kept walking. But then a programmed voice on a loudspeaker joined in the whine. I could not quite understand what was being broadcast, but it was declared over and over for the whole neighborhood to pick up. I suddenly had a slight nagging worry in the back of my head. What if something was really wrong? For some reason I was not thinking of tornadoes. I was thinking more about a nuclear attack. What if this was a nuclear attack? Should I run back to the school to be with my son for our final moments? Or should I head to my friend's house who was looking after Oscar and Tildy?

Instead, I checked out a couple of car drivers. Surely they had the radio on. They did not look panicked or hysterical. So I continued on my journey home, and even managed to forget this flitter of insecurity as I mapped out my use of child free time.

But what if?

I am old enough to have lived through the end of the cold war. But I never seriously worried about enemy invasion when I was young - my fears were more realistically centered on fire and tornadoes. My entire life I have taken the security of our country for granted. Even after 9-11. I did not view this as part of a war. I viewed it at a huge, impactful, and life altering incident more akin to a natural disaster. A few judgemental people cause complete devastation, take countless innocent lives, and change the parameters of war forever.

Are we at war? Who are we at war with? And how is this war being fought? How do we aid this war and acknowledge this war? How do we explain this war to our kids? How is the unexplainable, explained?

Aren't we fighting a war every day? We are fighting a war of fear. We help this war every day just my living our lives with freedom and intention. I am aiding this war by still getting on a commercial airline flight even though I am now slightly phobic. I am fighting when I jog at night by myself. I am fighting when I allow Marek to attend public school and to walk home by himself. I am fighting when I skip our flu shots. I am fighting when we eat trick-or-treating candy, or talk with strangers in the park.

The world is a dangerous place. It always has been. It always will be. The dangers just keep on changing.

And yet, after any life altering event, a new rhythm is established. The fear dissipates and lightens until one day is just another ordinary day, and I am wondering what we should have for dinner.

"Are people dropping out of the sky to spy on us?" asks Marek.

I don't know, but I hope they're nice people that will contribute to our community while they're here.

THINGS TO DO: Make Paper Beads

I love making something from nothing. Using old magazines, school glue, and elastic, totally hip jewelry can be created by you and your kids.

I used paper beads on Suzanne's birthday crown for decor. They also make conversation provoking bracelets and necklaces.

1) Choose your medium. I like to use old magazines because they are brightly colored and glossy. I tried scrapbooking paper for Suzanne's crown which was easier to work with and made a thicker bead.

2) Cut the paper into long triangles. The width of the strip is the width of the bead, and the tapering allows the bead to build into the center and create a curve.

3) Place a bead of glue on the back of the triangle. It does not take much.

4) Roll the bead. I use a toothpick as a guide to roll around and begin the roll at the thick end of the triangle.

The Backpack Diet

Tildy walks out of her bedroom. Her cheeks are bulging. It is obvious that something is in her mouth. I panic, of course. I'm thinking of marbles and dice and choking.

"Tildy. What is in your mouth? Spit that out now!" And I offer my hand under her mouth wondering what will appear.

She does what she is told. She is a good listener. And my hand is suddenly filled with some sort of well-chewed carbohydrate. What IS this?

"Tildy, what have you been eating? Where did you get it?"

It is time for some parental investigation.

I have my suspicions, of course. I head to the ladybug backpack and it is HEAVY. Within the polka-dotted pouch I find baggies filled with peanuts and the cookie from yesterday; I find baggies of apple slices and carrots from several days ago; I find baggies of graham crackers from last week; I find a baggie with my flash drive. Matilda has been squirreling away food and household items for quite awhile.

I have noticed her running off with handfuls of dinner and baggies. I have stopped her from packing away the cheese and the hard-boiled egg and the casserole. But I have not really noticed the frequency of the packed up snacks. I have been bothered by this habit mainly because we are going through baggies like toilet paper, and what about saving the earth one baggie at a time?

Why is Matilda packing away her food?

So I ask her, "Why are you packing up food in your backpack?"

She answers, "So I have food in my backpack."

Tildy is smart. Rather than saving her extra food on her butt, thighs, or stomach, she is saving it in her backpack for when she is truly hungry. I think she just might have invented a new diet plan.

I used to diet. I think it was trendy in the Jane Fonda era. I mean, who wouldn't diet if they walked around dressed in spandex leotards and leg warmers? I ate toast for breakfast, an apple for lunch, and green beans and a hard boiled egg for dinner. I don't know how I found the energy to get out of bed on this diet. But this was not about weight. Not really. This was about control. It was just a game. Let's see how few calories I can live on. Can I keep it under 1000?

I stopped intentionally dieting when I went to college and found myself having to purchase my own food. The foods I choose at the grocery store were decided heavily by price. If any item cost more than one dollar, I wouldn't buy it. Again, another game of control. I was dancing hard. I didn't need to diet. I needed to eat all the Taco Bell fat I could to keep going. And let's face it, a shortage of money does limit one's food consumption.

Over the years, I have fine-tuned my diet philosophy. Now my goal is to eat as much as I possibly can and still feel good. In this way I am constantly bumping up my metabolism. I figure that if I cut my calories, my body is just going to slow down. If I increase my calories, doesn't it reason my body should speed up?

Here are my other "diet" rules:

Throw out the scale and weigh in using a TIGHT pair of jeans.

If after something is eaten, you feel like you just swallowed an ocean of live baby whales, perhaps too much food may have been consumed in one sitting. Learn from this.

If you are feeling or looking fat, console yourself that a) muscle weighs more than fat, b) perhaps you are pregnant, or c) wouldn't it be better to be fat than pregnant?

And in the words of Michael Pollan from In Defense of Food: "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants."

Really what other diet advice is needed?

Tildy walks out of her room a little later. She is chewing again. She holds in her hand a cookie.

"I want a cookie!" demands Oscar.

"You should have saved yours from yesterday like Tildy," I answer.

"Mom, where is my turtle backpack? I want to start saving food like Tildy," says Marek.

Control.

Tildy now controls the food supply instead of me.

How To Achieve Quiet In a House with Three Young Children

If I sit here long enough, quietly typing, I know our new household friend will soon peek out at me. I have seen him three times already today. He is very cute: small and brown and fuzzy and quick. When I last saw him sneaking steadily across the kitchen floor, I was so taken that for a moment I pondered keeping him around like our dog. But then I think of the soils in my bottom kitchen cupboard surrounding the dog treat box.

Our uninvited mouse friend has got to go.

It has been quite the winter for unwelcome rodents. We have killed at least fifteen. I have long ago lost count. I am guessing one of the rodents must have posted a "Mouse Motel" sign up somewhere on an external mouse door, because they just keep on coming. Luckily I accidentally ordered 120 mousetraps. The quantity on the internet said (1). It did not say they came in packs of four.

This new guy. He has actually been here for several weeks. I have set the usual traps. I hear him in there rustling around them. But I don't hear the traps snapping. This one is very smart. Or very lucky. In addition to being very cute. I am amazed that a mouse is even up and about in the daytime. This guy must never sleep. He is too busy celebrating the feast of crumbs left under our kitchen table.

When I pick up Marek from school today, I tell him of my mouse sightings. Marek is fascinated by the mouse. I hired Marek as an assassin. I hear Marek explain the difference between an assassin and a bounty hunter to Oscar. "A bounty hunter can bring someone back alive. Mom wants the mouse dead."

Marek and Oscar set to work at once upon arrival home. Marek began work on a bow and arrow yesterday, so this is the weapon they deem most effective for killing mice. They begin construction on another bow for Oscar with specialized arrows tipped with cheese. Unfortunately, I outlaw this weapon before it can be brought to trial. I envision cheese scraps all the over the house welcoming more mice.

I explain to the kids that the mouse only makes an appearance when it is very, very quiet. Only when everyone is asleep or out of the house will the mouse come out and forage and mock me. Me - I am obviously not viewed as any sort of threat. He is jeering at me for even trying to kill him with my mouse traps.

Marek and Oscar set up their hunter's camp.

The boys quietly drag their bedding out. Marek sets up a bed in the living room and Oscar in the kitchen so that all areas are guarded. They have their weapons at the ready. But they also bring out a pile of books each. I wonder if perhaps they mean to fool the mouse into believing they are engrossed in their reading and quiet. But they settle down and they really are - reading and quiet.

I don't know if I have ever experienced quiet in our house after school. I can't remember another occasion.

And so, the mouse serves a useful purpose after all. He keeps my kids quiet. Maybe I should keep him around.

"Snap!" Got him!

I wish.

Could Have, Should Have, Would Have

By some chance of fate, or planning, I am alone on the sidelines of Marek's soccer game. There are no other members of the Newton cheering squad. There is only me and peace and quiet amiss the noise and energy of the game with plenty of time to actually observe.

"Kick it! Keep going and kick the ball in, Mike. Okay, now go to the center, Jessie. Great save, goalie! That's yours, Marek! Throw the ball to Chewy's feet. Perfect." This is the voice of Marek's coach.

"You should have thrown the ball to the side. You should never thrown it down the center! Why didn't you pass that to David? He was totally open!" This is the voice of the other coach.

One coach is leading and teaching. The other coach is wishing things were different.

I try not to be critical of volunteer parents who are simply doing their best. But it makes me think, "What kind of "coach" am I?"

When Tildy fails to reach the potty again right when we are walking out the door, do I say, "Tildy, why couldn't you go in the potty?" I think I do.

Could have, should have, would have...

There is a time and place for analyzing our past mistakes. We all have them. Things we wish we had done differently. Things we wish we had never done at all. Things we wish we could change RIGHT NOW, but they are out of our present control. Or are they?

So we kicked the ball the wrong way. Can't we chase after it and turn it around and still score a goal? The past is what it is. It doesn't matter from what direction the ball comes, what matters is that it ends up in the goal.

A good coach knows this. A good coach will continue to encourage and lead until the season is over.

"You can put the pee in the potty, Matilda. And here is how you do it..."

Every time I walk out of my house to go for a jog, I am confronted by a choice: should I go to the left and go downhill first and uphill to come home, or should I go to the right and go uphill first and downhill on the way home?

I try not to beat myself up too much when I make the wrong choice.

If I have to, I just walk.