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!