Chicken Little Syndrome

There is smoke in the air, but the sky hasn't started falling yet.

After an extremely dry March, usually Denver’s snowiest month, wildfire season appears to be officially underway. The Lower North Fork Fire has burned 4500 acres so far. From my backyard last night, I have to admit that the smoke, fanned by strong winds from the southwest, looked ominous. I took photos of it and then sat back down to watch my recorded episode of Mad Men. We slept with the windows closed last night because of the heavy smoke, but this is not the first time we’ve had to do this so it was not unusual. We slept soundly.

This morning I was pleased to note that the winds were no longer blowing the smoke in our direction, which meant my boys who are home for spring break could go out and play with friends without smoke inhalation concerns. Around noon, we went for a 4-mile hike with friends up Waterton Canyon. We saw about 35 mountain sheep and had a picnic lunch. There was the faintest scent of smoke in the air, but nothing about which to be alarmed. Tonight when I finally had a moment to hop back on Facebook, I could not believe the amount of chatter about the fire. We live 5 miles outside the evacuation zone, but from the hefty number of posts our neighborhood Facebook page received today you would think that we were in immediate danger of Armageddon.

A resident who also happens to be a firefighter tried to quell the rampant concerns. Posts flew back and forth with links to maps of the fire evacuation area and sites where you can register your cell phone for reverse 911 emergency notification. Now, I’m all for safety and for being informed of potential danger. I will admit that hubby and I have twice now discussed what I am to throw in the car if we receive an evacuation notice. We have not, however, set anything aside for immediate packing. In fact, I’m fairly certain that if I took any precautions whatsoever that would be the surest way to guarantee that an evacuation notice would never be issued for our quaint suburban oasis. If I pack it, it will not come.

I’m befuddled by the drama and chaos that ensues in these type of situations. I don’t understand why people would choose to worry about this. If the fire decides to head this way, there will be nothing that worrying will be able to do to stop it. If we are asked to evacuate, there is nothing that worrying will do to spare our homes from the fire. Unless there is some sort of camaraderie and sense of community to be gained from it, I can’t understand what could possibly make this situation worth wasting precious moments of my present on. I’m not entirely sure what encourages people into Chicken Little’s “the sky is falling” mentality. My experience has been that worry is a waste of emotion.

I have deep sympathy for the people who have already lost homes, pets, and even family members because of this fast-moving, highly dangerous fire. I can’t imagine what the people in the fire’s path have already had to endure or how difficult it will be to pick up and rebuild after losing everything. Their suffering is real, and my fingers are crossed that the fire will be contained quickly. Still, I refuse to live in fear or to spend my day discussing other people’s misery. Rather than obsessing about what might happen, I’m going to turn off my laptop tomorrow and spend my boys’ spring break going to the movies and playing games with them. What might happen is not nearly as important as what will happen if I focus on the precious present moments I have with my boys this week.

 

 

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Our Happy Home

Our house smiled at me!

This morning, as Joe and I arrived home after some errands and I was pulling into the driveway, I noticed that our house seemed especially happy. How could I tell? Well…I noticed that the stone facing was smiling at me. No. I was not high. The stones honestly had both white and black smiley faces on them. Immediately I knew that the white ones were drawn with sidewalk chalk. What I did not know was which medium the 4 foot tall vandal had used to create the black smiles, crayon or Sharpie.

Trying desperately not to overreact, I stopped the car and turned around to look at Joe. He is a notoriously honest child (perhaps because he’s such a miserable liar), so I asked him if he knew what was up with the rocks. I gave him that “don’t even bother trying to lie about this” glare and he crumbled nearly immediately.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you the truth. I drew the white faces.”

“With what?” I inquired.

“With chalk,” he replied.

“Uh huh.” I paused for dramatic effect. “And the black ones?

“I did not do those. In fact (Joe uses “in fact” a lot), this is the first time I’ve seen those ones.”

I gave him one more withering stare and pulled into the garage. I asked him to come look at the marks with me. As we stood before them, I could see that the black marks were made with crayon rather than Sharpie. I was deeply relieved.

As we walked into the house, I used words like “vandalism” and “misdemeanor.” I asked him if he knew that willfully defacing someone’s property was a crime. I graciously told him that I would not press charges against him because he’s my son (ha), but I also told him if he knew he should tell me who used black crayon on our house. I truly believe he doesn’t know because he would have caved under pressure. He always does. I reminded him, though, that whoever did it was merely following his disrespectful example, which made him culpable even if he didn’t wield the black crayon himself. I thought it might be good for him to chew on that thought for a while.

Joe hard at work

I started preparing a bucket of soapy water and asked him to go upstairs and get the scrub brush. When he came back down, I handed him a Magic Eraser sponge and then sent him out to get to work. I let him scrub at it for about five minutes before I went out. The white chalk was mostly gone but he was still working on the black crayon. I have to admit that it felt pretty good to stand there and supervise. I could have done it myself, but why should I deny him the reward of responsibility? After all, it was his mess to clean up.

When I got home today, my house was smiling at me. As I go to bed tonight, I am smiling at myself for making Joe clean up his own mess. I’m also smiling because I know he will not draw on our house again. He now knows that defacing our property will, at the very least, mean he will have to clean it up. Hell. For all he knows, next time I just might call the police on him. 😉

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Jockeying For A Better View

Cloudy and cool is better than windy and snowy any day.

“To live happily is an inward power of the soul.” ~Marcus Aurelius

I found this quote today and it really got to me. There are too many times when I find my happiness tangled up in things outside my control. Other people in my life seem to struggle with this too. They will become upset with me because I did not react the way they wanted me to. In those situations, I tell myself that they are crazy for pinning their happiness on me and whether or not I disappoint them. What I fail to see in those moments of criticizing others for their bad attitude is how frequently I employ that ridiculously self-defeating thought process myself.

For the past two weeks I have been working to retrain myself or at least to gain back some of the control over happiness in my life. When my attitude goes downhill, I stop to look at the situation again for a positive. If I can’t find one in that particular situation, then I go outside of it and look at my life as a whole because I know that on the whole my life has more reasons to be grateful than to be grumpy. This morning we’d planned to go on a long ride with friends because the weather was supposed to be perfect…unseasonably warm and sunny. At 8:30 a.m., however, as we were getting ready to leave it was still 43 degrees outside and overcast. I hate to ride in the cold and was annoyed about the change in the forecast. Exactly who told Mother Nature she could screw with my weather for ride day? Instead of being cranky about it, though, I decided that even without perfect weather there were plenty of reasons to be happy about this ride: great people to ride with, the freedom to leave our kids for a few hours and get out, the beautiful lack of snow, health that allows me to ride 36 miles without pain, and the fitness to get up a short but steep 10% incline without much suffering.

It’s easy to be negative. The world around us provides ample amounts of bad news. It takes real determination to be happy and to live with gratitude. Happiness is always a choice. If things don’t look right to me from one point of view, I jockey myself around until things look a little better. Sometimes all you need for a an attitude adjustment is a little wiggle room.

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Role Reversal

Adults...not grown ups

“Too many people grow up. That’s the real trouble with the world.” ~Walt Disney

According to the law, I’ve been an adult for nearly 26 years. Why does that not seem possible? It should. I’ve gotten my degrees, we own a home, we have had 16 wedding anniversaries, and our oldest son will be 11 soon. Yet, somehow, my brain lives on an alternate plane where no matter how old I get, no matter the responsibilities I manage, no matter what my reality is I’m still not grown up. There are times when I’m standing at a rental car counter and I’m flabbergasted that they are going to give me a car. I almost look around to see if I’m going to get away with it. Or sometimes I’ll be in the middle of a parent/teacher conference and it will almost be an out-of-body experience. I’ll wonder what I’m doing there. It’s like the plaque I have in my kitchen: “Who are these kids and why are they calling me Mom?” When the hell did I get so old?

Although time keeps marching on despite my attempts to turn the clock back, I suppose there are benefits to getting older. When we were in college, we could buy alcohol but we couldn’t afford anything decent to drink. We might not have had to pay all our own bills, but at the end of the school we had to go home and live under someone else’s roof with someone else’s rules. We cared too much about what our friends thought of us and not enough about what we thought of ourselves. We looked good in our own skin, but didn’t feel comfortable in it.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve been able to relax a bit. I no longer care all that much if people don’t like me or if they think I’m silly or childish. I no longer buy into the idea that an adult should act with decorum 100% of the time. What I find amusing, though, is that just as I am beginning to let go and to live a little, my children are buying into the idea of growing up and acting accordingly.

Last night, we had an intimate wine tasting dinner at our house with a few friends. I have to admit that I felt fairly adult picking out the wines and planning the meal. We cooked gourmet pizzas and had port and chocolates for dessert. Somewhere between the first and fifth bottle of wine that the six of us shared, though, we got a little loud and started having way more fun than our kids thought we should. Truth is, we sort of forgot that our 8 and 10 year old sons were upstairs quietly watching movies. Well into dessert and conversation I heard the tell-tale ping of a text message on my phone. It was from Joe who was upstairs texting me from his iPad.

“Mom…your friends should leave soon. It is 11:00.”

Crap. It’s 11 o’clock? Where had the evening gone? Ping. Another text.

“Very late, Mom.”

Oh okay, okay. Fine. I texted him back.

“We’ll be upstairs in a minute. Brush your teeth and get into bed.”

“We already are. We are very tired. You need to tell your friends to go home.”

I stalled a while, but eventually went up to check on them. Luke was already asleep. Joe was the lone holdout. He looked exhausted and annoyed. He told me that he wanted our friends to be gone no later than midnight.

Geez. Mr. Bossypants. Way to ruin the fun. By the time Andrew and Heather left it was around 12:30 and both boys were, thankfully, asleep. We’d managed to spend five hours in our own house entertaining friends without non-stop requests or care giving. It felt borderline miraculous.

This morning Joe gave us a hard time about our behavior last night. He said we were way too loud and laughing non-stop. He questioned the number of bottles we had gone through. He told us they could barely hear their movie and that we kept them awake. I had to wonder when our roles had been reversed. We spend our entire youth trying to figure out how to be responsible adults and then we spend our adulthood trying to regain our lost sense of youth. Funny the way it is.

 

 

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Evolutionary Thought

Joe's latest library book from school

“Don’t handicap your children by making their lives easy.” ~ Robert A. Heinlein

I’ve blogged before about my deep-thinking son, Joe, and how he struggles with his ideas about evolution versus creation. I’ll admit that we’ve not made it easy on him. We’ve refused to give him definitive answers about science versus the Bible, mainly because we’re not the kind of people who are bound by absolutes. We like wiggle room. My favorite phrase to use with my kids when they’re going off on a tangent about why something is absolutely one way or another is “Let me complicate that thought for you.” Then I proceed to show them another way of thinking. The one thing I have vowed to create is children who are capable of thinking for themselves.

Today Joe came home with a new library book from school entitled The Great Dinosaur Mystery and the Bible. He told me that he wanted to see how his classmates understand dinosaurs and the Bible and how the two are intertwined because it’s never made any sense to him. I was proud. Good for you, Joe, for being willing to learn another point of view. Then, he spilled it. He said he was hoping that maybe it would make so much sense to him that he wouldn’t have to be the only kid in his class who believes in evolution. Dang it. He’s still a tortured soul.

It’s hard knowing that my son struggles with trying to fit in and yet retain his own autonomous thoughts. I imagine it’s rough to be 10 years old and feel out of step with the kids with whom you spend most of your time. But, I’m sticking with my guns on this one. I want to raise thinking, reasoning adults. If I’d wanted sheep, I’d have bought a ranch. There’s no telling where Joe will land on this issue before it’s all said and done. We’re leaving the door wide open. We will accept whatever he decides makes sense to him because that’s what we want: children who can think for themselves and make up their own minds. As long as he’s done his research and found something that makes sense to him, I’ll feel like I’ve done my job. Now, none of this is to say that if he decides that this library book makes sense to him and that dinosaurs and people once coexisted I won’t struggle a bit with his truth. I will. But, I know I can’t have it both ways. I can’t raise a person capable of making up his own mind and then judge him when he doesn’t agree with me.

Sometimes, the parenting decisions we make can make our lives more difficult but nothing in life worth learning comes as an easy lesson.

 

 

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Every Life Comes With A Death Sentence

Netflix is my best friend. It is.

About six weeks ago I started watching the AMC show Breaking Bad on Netflix. I did so on the recommendation of my college roommate, Michelle, who told me that if I like Mad Men I would probably like this as well. I didn’t know much about the show before her recommendation, other than the fact that its lead actor, Bryan Cranston, has won three consecutive Emmy Awards for his part in this show that very few people seem to know about. So, about the time I decided to get on my bike trainer again, I decided to check it out. I need something to watch while I’m stuck on the bike indoors. The show has gotten me through 250 miles so far. I am impressed.

If you’re like most people I know who have not heard of the show, let me fill you in. The lead character, Walter White, is diagnosed with lung cancer and receives an unfavorable prognosis. He is a high school chemistry teacher who also works part-time at a car wash to support his family. He realizes that he’s running out of time and he has nothing to leave to his family, which includes a pregnant wife and a teenage son with cerebral palsy. Through a series of convoluted circumstances, it occurs to him that as a chemist he could make a boat load of cash quickly by manufacturing methamphetamine. I know. It’s a crazy premise for a show, but that’s what makes it so interesting. Walt’s transformation from mousy cancer victim to drug criminal is profound.

The episode I watched yesterday while on the bike trainer showed Walt at yet another doctor’s appointment awaiting a scan. In the waiting room, a newly diagnosed cancer patient strikes up a conversation with him.

“It’s like they say. You make plans and God laughs,” the guy tells Walt.

“That is such bullshit,” Walt replies. “Never give up control. Live life on your own terms.”

How easily we all give up when an impediment blocks our way.  Oh well. I guess I’m supposed to do this now. What else can I do? I’m sure in the face of a cancer diagnosis, the first reaction is to feel bad about the hand we’ve been dealt. The man is saying as much to Walt. Cancer is cancer. What are you going to do? Blah, blah, blah. Then, Walt says this:

“To hell with your cancer. I’ve been living with cancer for the better part of a year. Right from the start it’s a death sentence. That’s what they keep telling me. Well, guess what? Every life comes with a death sentence…but until then I’m in charge. That’s how I live my life.”

Wow. I had to stop the show, back it up, and watch that part again. It was brilliant. It’s got shades of The Shawshank Redemption‘s “Get busy living or get busy dying” in it but it’s definitely a more in-your-face message. Every life comes with a death sentence…but until then I’m in charge. Walt’s cancer wasn’t a death sentence for him but a life sentence. He’d been going along in his daily routine not thinking a thing about it, not truly being present in his life, until the cancer gave him a wake-up call he desperately needed. When you stop to confront your death, you might see your life differently. The cancer took Walt out of his comfortable life. He became less fearful. After all, what did he have to lose?

I’ve been thinking a lot about Walt’s little speech. It’s good to be reminded that we’re only here a short time. We’re not in charge of everything that happens in our lives, but we are in charge of how we react to it. We won’t live forever, but we can live on our own terms.

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So, Who Are You?

Nothing about my bike trainer says "fun."

“It’s not who you are that holds you back. It’s who you think you’re not.” ~Anonymous

A couple weeks ago I was chatting with my friend, Edie, via the Hey Tell app. We were discussing exercise. She was telling me how much she hates it and how she wishes she enjoyed it like I do.

“Ummmm, Edie? I don’t know how to break this to you, but I hate to exercise.”

“What do you mean you hate it? You work out like all the time.”

“Well, it’s not all the time,” I admitted….(although it certainly feels like all the time). “But, when I do exercise, I can guarantee you I’m not enjoying it.”

“Really? Because you’re always doing those events. You climb the stairs at Red Rocks and do the 150-mile ride. You did that MS walk a couple years back. Last year you did the Warrior Dash.”

“Oh. I like doing events. I just don’t like training to do events. The training takes too long and the events are over far too quickly.”

“Huh. I always just assumed you like it.”

“I’m on my trainer right now and I can assure you that I am not finding this enjoyable at all. I do like the way I feel afterward, though, and that is usually what gets me through it. Well, that and television.”

“I guess that makes me feel better,” Edie said. “At least now I don’t feel like some folks enjoy it and it’s just me that doesn’t.”

“Edie, I’m sure some folks do enjoy it. I’m just not one of them.”

If Edie needed proof of my assertions, she’d need only ask Steve. Steve could tell her that any time we do a training ride together I complain. I whine as I’m getting dressed before we even get on our bikes. For the first ten minutes we’re riding I will make flippant remarks like, “Wow! This is such fun!” If we’re climbing stairs at Red Rocks, in between panting, I will be bitching about how much it sucks. On the second morning of the Colorado MS150 as we’re beginning the climb up Horsetooth Reservoir and we’re tackling the 9% grade on sore hineys from the previous day’s 75 miles, I’m swearing like a sailor who just hit her head on a steel beam below deck.

But, oh…the satisfaction I get when I fit into my clothes and there is no muffin top, the joy I get when I’m savoring every bite of ice cream after eating pizza for dinner without caloric panic, and the euphoria that exists when I roll under the 75-mile banner for the day….those moments more than trump the amount of hatred I have for exercise. Exercise is the means to an end. I truly dislike dripping sweat as I balance on one leg, twisted like a pretzel in Eagle pose in hot yoga. But, when I put on that dress that hits four inches above my forty-something year old knees and I notice that my legs look pretty darn good, it’s so worth it. It balances out.

So to all you folks who are just sitting around waiting for the “urge” to exercise to hit you this spring, may I politely and respectfully say…”GET OFF THE COUCH ALREADY!” There are a few crazy souls who wake up and can’t wait to get their butts handed to them in an hour-long boot camp. Most of us will never relish exercise quite they way they do. Stop waiting for the urge to exercise to hit you. Put one foot in front of the other and get out on the trail. Or squeeze into those bike shorts and hop into that bike. Dislike of exercise doesn’t make you unique. But, taking the initiative to override your distaste for exercise and pushing yourself to be better does. What are you telling yourself that you can’t do? Tell yourself to shut up, then go out do what you never thought you could.

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Vigilante Justine

Dental appointment confirmation overkill.

“The act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.” ~Albert Camus

I had a dental appointment today. Although I am very lucky as far as teeth go (only one cavity in nearly 44 years), I loathe going to the dentist. I do it because I never, ever want to soak my teeth in a glass at night. Two weeks ago, my very well-intentioned dentist sent me a reminder post card. The appointment has been in my iPhone since I made it six months ago, but the post card was a little heads up to start flossing every day. Good reminder. Two weeks is adequate time to get my teeth back in flossing condition.

Then, a week ago on both my home phone and my cell phone I received reminder messages, requesting that I call the dental office to confirm my appointment. I thought that was a bit excessive given the fact that 1) they’d just sent me a post card and 2) I’ve never missed an appointment or even arrived late for that matter. These pleasant reminders were becoming a bit intrusive. Feeling a bit rebellious, I decided not to return their calls. Ha! I’ll show you.

Then, four days ago, I got a reminder text on my iPhone asking me to confirm the appointment. Oh. Okay. Fine. I’ll do it. Get off my back already! So, I texted the required “C” response to them, happy to be finished with all the reminders. Or so I thought. Today, just one hour before the appointment, I got another appointment reminder. Seriously?

I was annoyed and I had to be at their office in one hour. My brain was spinning trying to think of possible revenge scenarios. Should I be late just to be as much of a pain in the butt as they were being? My responsible, just-and-fair self took over. No. It’s not fair to punish my hygienist just because the office is a bit OCD about reminders. I would feel bad if Candi was late to or missed her lunch hour because of my well-timed, silent hissy fit. (Yes. My hygienist is named Candi. How’s that for dental office irony?)

I drove to the appointment with my perfectly clean teeth courtesy of my Sonicare and one unit of threader floss. The entire way I was scheming. There had to be something I could do without actually having to confront anyone. (I’m conflict averse, you see.) I got to the office, parked, and went in to fill out my update sheet. That’s when it occurred to me. I should simply take my cell number off their information sheet. That way at least I’d be sure to get only one postcard and one phone call in six months. But, that was so adult. So mature. So boring. Instead, in my own little act of retaliation, I crossed out my cell phone number and made an amendment. I gave them a new cell phone number. I have no idea who it belongs to or if it’s even a working number. All I know is it’s not mine. Childish, yes. But, I feel so much better now. And, in six months when they start calling and texting me about my appointment, I will not be annoyed (although someone else might be a bit confused).

It’s funny how sometimes one little act of rebellion can make you feel powerful. Okay. Okay. So handing out a false number doesn’t actually make me a rebel. Heaven knows I’ve done it before. But, today I incorporated a bit of mischief into my otherwise calm, orderly, and vanilla suburban existence. Wonder where this could lead? If your trash can lid goes missing or you find the tree in your front yard covered with toilet paper, however, don’t look at me. I’m a responsible adult with impeccable decorum and a nearly flawless Cheshire cat grin.

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Don’t Make Me Bring Out the Bear

Okay. So he looks a little Romulan. He's still cute.

The other night at dinner, I nearly had to bring out Mama Bear. Those of you who are moms, have moms, or are married to women who are moms, know how serious this is. A woman only brings out Mama Bear when someone disparages or hurts her child. I very rarely bring out Mama Bear because she is sacred. Like the spot in the wall marked “In Case of Emergency,” you don’t break the glass and pull the alarm unless you’re absolutely in need of assistance. Mama Bear doesn’t go away easily once unleashed.

The other night I kept Mama Bear concealed not because I had nothing to say but because my son didn’t realize he was being teased. I did, but for the sake of not becoming snarky at the dinner table I let it slide. Why point out something to my son when he was so happily oblivious? Someone (who shall remain nameless) said, “Luke looks positively Romulan with that haircut.” Now, I’m not saying that my son’s hair does not resemble at times something out of Star Trek. For some reason, the poor kid’s sideburns do seem to grow toward a point when they get longer, but it’s not his fault. He’s got a thick, coarse mop of hair. It is unruly and does what it wants. Normally I would not care that a crack like this one had been made. Heaven knows I tease the kid a bunch myself, but that’s my job. Not someone else’s. To make matters worse, this is not the first time this particular person has made this same comment about my son’s hair. Mama Bear growled inside me, but I locked her back in her cage and ignored the remark. A birthday celebration is never the time or place to release the bear.

I don’t harbor any ill will towards the person who made the comment. Perhaps they thought they were making a clever and astute observation, a harmless and amusing remark. And it would have been nothing if it it had been made anywhere other than within earshot of the poor Romulan’s mother. I’m letting it slide because I know this person loves my son, crazy hair and all. Still…it would be best if I don’t hear this particular remark a third time because Mama Bear does strictly abide by the three-strikes rule. The first two strikes are gimmes. The third strike brings out the claws.

 

 

 

 

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Don’t Forget to Pack a Sweater

It's not Venice, but it's not home either.

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” ~Robert Louis Stevenson

I spent a couple hours today engrossed in one of my favorite pastimes…researching travel. I get nearly as much joy from researching trips as I do from actually taking them. I love to learn about other places. Like my son, I am obsessed with Google Earth. As much as I love Colorado (and I do love it), I need to escape it three to four times a year. I simply need a change of scenery. It doesn’t matter where I go, either. I don’t have to travel to an exotic locale for it to count. Nor do I have to travel somewhere I’ve never been before. I just need to “Get out of Dodge.”

Today I was captivated thinking about a trip we’ll be taking to Boston in October. The official reason for the trip is to attend our friend Jeff’s wedding. Steve and I have never been to New England before, though, so we have a lot to read up on before we go. I am the type of traveler who likes to learn about the area I am traveling to. I research things to do, places to visit, and historical facts. When I get there, I’m then prepared to go with where the spirit leads me as the mood strikes and the weather approves. I suppose I could buy our plane tickets and we could wing it completely, but I’m not that spontaneous when finances are involved. Although it wouldn’t be the world’s worst thing if we ended up staying in a fleabag motel because we didn’t have reservations anywhere, I’d prefer a reliable and well-reviewed B&B if I can get it.

If my life ever comes to a point when I am unable to travel, I will continue to use books and the Internet to go places in my mind. I will get on Google Earth or pick up a travel book and I will envision being somewhere else. I will travel to Bora Bora and stay in a hut over the water. I will drop myself onto streets in Paris or Vienna and explore. I will glide over the vast wilderness of Africa and put myself into a world without Starbucks, 24-hour grocery stores, and homes with two-car garages. I will still get out of Dodge because I have to. I live for the opportunity to escape. Sometimes the only way to get perspective is to step back far enough that the entire picture comes into view. I know that travel (even mental travel) isn’t always easy or pleasant; but, sometimes you have to put on an itchy lambswool sweater to remember how good cashmere feels.

 

 

 

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