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.