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?