Deep Thoughts

Sunset photo taken by my friend Shari tonight

My kids are a lot like their mother. They talk too much. They prove to me daily that my mother’s comment that she hoped I had children just like me was actually a curse. To top it off, they are also deep thinkers (well, at lease one of them is), just like their mother.  Today as we were driving to and from appointments we spent about an hour and a half in the car. Car time is my favorite time to converse with them. We talk about life, listen to each others’ joys and concerns, and find out what we each think. I love that we have uninterrupted time to bounce ideas off each other. It’s hard to catch my kids for a conversation on a normal day, but in the car they’re trapped. And, I’m in control of the radio and our destination. There’s not much they can do. When they’re teenagers I am certain they will threaten to jump from my moving car on the highway if I don’t stop talking to them, but we’ll fall off that bridge when we come to it.

Most of today’s topics of conversation came straight out of a couple episodes of Little House on the Prairie. (I mentioned that show is under our skin right now.) Courtesy of an episode about a blizzard, we talked about frostbite and hypothermia, touched on faith and hope, and then danced over guilt and regret and the dreaded “what if” question. Then we skipped topics and talked about their view of their relationships with their grandparents. Later on we talked about my friend Gretchen, who is hospitalized right now, and how fragile yet resilient the human body is, how humans can incredibly withstand so much while still remaining so delicate. Soon after, we contemplated how wonderful our planet is and how intricately interwoven we are with it, in it, and with other persons and creatures.

Then, as if trying to provide proof of its shock-and-awe power, the universe offered us a stunning, orange and blue Colorado sunset. The sky, while mostly clear, was highlighted in spots with alto cumulus clouds that reflected the setting sun brilliantly. I pointed it out to the kids who wisely agreed that it was beautiful. We oohed and ahhed over the scene, and I reminded them what a gift life is and how we should appreciate each and every moment that we have on earth as if its the last one we will ever have. I told them again that I love them and that they are great boys. And, then I dropped them off at their aunt’s house for a visit and drove away filled with gratitude for my chattering little monkeys.

I am inordinately lucky to have the children I have. Despite our struggles, we teach each other more than I ever imagined we would. I know we’re never guaranteed tomorrow, so I’m just going to sit here for a few minutes right now and be glad I had today with them.

 

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Safety Dad Experiences Brain Freeze

Well...at least if it was his last photo, it would have been a good one.

My husband is extremely reliable and consistent, especially when it comes to safety. He is always looking out for me and the kids. If it were practical to pad our boys in bubble wrap and secure them with duct tape, he would do it. Me? I’m not as vigilant as he is. While I’m not quite encouraging them to juggle knives or anything, they might find time to get to it while I am busy watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory and ironing.

In conversation over dinner a few months ago, the severity of his cautious behavior became painfully apparent to him.

“Mr. Andrew is funny. He’s a fun dad,” came Luke’s innocent comment.

Steve paused to consider this. “Aren’t I a fun dad?” he inquired.

“Sort of,” said Joe. “Mostly you are Safety Dad.”

“Safety Dad?” Steve sounded entirely confused. I could tell he was disappointed by the moniker. And, just denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, he continued. “I don’t think I’m Safety Dad.”

Then, with perfect timing, Joe and Luke started proving to him exactly how he is Safety Dad by throwing his words right back at him.

“Look both ways before crossing the street.” Joe quipped.

“Wear your bike helmet,” Luke chimed in.

“Watch out for rattlesnakes,” Joe continued.

“Get those Legos out of  your mouth before you choke,” Luke remembered.

It was both hysterical and horrifying at the same time. They had him pegged. I was simultaneously impressed with their observations and heartbroken for my husband. He wants to be Fun Dad, but strong with the Safety he is.

I point all this out because yesterday Safety Dad had a brain freeze when it came to his own safety. Steve was going snow shoeing with a friend. He told me they were going up Bergen Peak in Evergreen. Sounded like a fine plan to me. It was a nice enough winter day and Bergen Peak, although 9700 feet in elevation, is well traveled.

He left at 6:40 a.m. to get breakfast and head to Jeff’s house to pick him up. With total reliability, at 6:58 he texted me from Starbucks: Love you sweets. Perfect. He was on his way. I figured that, given his plans, he should be home early in the afternoon.

His next text, received at 9:22 a.m., confused me. Just got to Echo Lake. Echo Lake? Echo Lake sits at the foot of Mt. Evans (elevation 14,240 feet). While it’s sort of near to Evergreen, it’s not exactly in Evergreen. I texted for clarification about his plans but he was apparently out of cell phone range already. I went back to my laundry.
Round about 1 p.m. I started to wonder what he was up to. I knew he hadn’t packed much food and, although it was sunny,  it was bound to be cold and windy where he was. At 2:02, I finally got another text from him. It was a photo of a rocky ridge with some snow on it. What the hell? He was supposed to be on snow shoes. At 2:15, I got this message: Getting gas in Evergreen. We went up Mt. Evans Road. No coverage. Sorry sweets. The road up Mt. Evans (the highest paved road in North America) is closed to car traffic from the first snow until Memorial Day due to inclement weather conditions and heavy snowfall. I’ve lived in Colorado most of my life and I know all too well that people die in the Colorado high country every winter due to exposure, avalanches, falls from icy precipices, and general lack of preparedness.

Steve and his friends had decided to trek up snowy Mt. Evans with no real knowledge of the area, no maps, no emergency supplies, no phone coverage, and little food, all without telling anyone exactly where they would be. What kind of idiot was I married to? Had Safety Dad taken temporary leave of his senses? I know that if our sons ever did what he had just done he would have lost it.

When he finally called me, I told him (for several long and surely insufferable minutes) what a stupid move that was. Then, I took a long, hot shower to calm down before recounting for my children their father’s entire adventure, making sure to let them know I would expect better judgment from them someday.

I guess I should cut Steve some slack. Safety Dad had taken an afternoon off. Isn’t that what I always hoped for? I guess I was simply disappointed to learn that when Safety Dad has a brain freeze, Safety Mom has a meltdown.

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Queen of Justification

Luckiest Boy EverJoe has never been great with surprises. From the days when he was very young, changes in his routine or in what he expected have puzzled and upset him. I remember once when he was three I was driving him to preschool and, preoccupied, I accidentally altered our route. Immediately he recognized my error and started worrying.

“This is the wrong way!” he shouted from the back seat.

“Oops. You’re right. It’s okay. We’ll just go a different way this morning, Joe.”

“I’m going to be late. I’m going to get in trouble. It’s not my fault.”

“It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll still get there. We’re just going a different route. There are dozens of ways to get to your school. We’ll still end up there.”

“But, I’ll be late.”

“It’s okay,” I reassured him. “I made a mistake. It happens. When you get to school you can tell your teacher it’s your mom’s fault that you’re late.”

Sure enough, that’s exactly what my charming and exceedingly conscientious three year old did. He walked into class a few minutes late and announced to everyone that I had made a mistake and gotten on the highway and that’s why he was late. Eeesh.

Joe had a rough 1st grade year so when his summer birthday rolled around we thought it might be fun to invite all his classmates for a surprise party. I guess we weren’t thinking when we planned the “surprise” part of that equation. Joe arrived at his party and when his friends shouted Happy Birthday, instead of being excited to see them, he ran into the corner of the yard and hid behind some bushes. He was so overwhelmed by the unexpected that he shut down. It took about ten minutes to convince him to rejoin his party guests. I still wonder if he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of that surprise.

We’ve spent years trying to convince Joe that change is okay and that, sometimes, it is not only necessary but positive. We routinely put him in situations where we throw the unexpected at him, both positive and negative, and guide him in dealing with it.

When the iPad2 came out, Joe mentioned that he would like one. Ha! Wouldn’t we all? We told him to forget it. We mentioned the Kindle Fire, and that is what he expected to open on Christmas morning. Instead, Santa had a little surprise up his sleeve. Santa had a $250 Visa gift card burning a hole in his pocket, so Santa splurged on the iPad2 after all. I watched Joe with great anticipation as he opened his gift. I’m always waiting for him to freak out, so seeing him happily, calmly surprised like he was on Christmas morning makes me proud.

Experts advise parents of ADHD children to routinize their lives as much as possible. I see the validity in that. Joe does need structure and routine to keep him on track at school and with chores around the house. But, as much as those things help him function more like the rest of us, the truth is that life is messy. Routines get interrupted. Schedules get pushed forward and back without warning. Because it’s difficult for Joe to deal with change, it’s even more important that we give him opportunities to do just that.

Okay. So giving Joe an iPad2 instead of a Kindle Fire wasn’t exactly a stressful surprise or unpleasant change. But, I need justification for purchasing that expensive, electronic gadget that my son really wanted. So, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. 😉

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An “Official” Christmas

The annual "tisser" (sister) photo

Every family has holiday traditions in place. Most of our traditions come straight from our parents (and still occur within their four walls). Some of them are unique to our household and are recently added. Most of them are welcome. Some of them not so much. But, as a whole they make Christmas feel like Christmas to me and the three men in my life. I thought I’d share them with you today, if only to prove to you that every family is special and nutty in its own way.

Christmas would not be Christmas without…

– pierogies, Polish sausage and the annual horseradish challenge where we see who can handle the most of that stuff without being reduced to tears.

– someone (most recently Joe) reading from the Bible, Luke 2:1-20.

– Steve and I telling the kids that there can be no gift opening on Christmas morning until after the lattes are made.

– the conundrum of trying to find a decent outfit to wear to the in-laws’ house that fits after an entire month of cookies, fudge, and libations. This closet event makes all the buying, baking, wrapping, and cleaning pale by comparison on the stress meter.

– the Candy Cane Cocktail with my family…Godiva white chocolate liquer, peppermint schnapps, and vanilla rum topped off with a candy cane.

–  a friendly go-round on some type of board game that turns into a contentious argument over cheating, being too competitive, or exhibiting poor sportsmanship. My sister’s comment yesterday: “It’s all fun and games until we play the games.”

– the annual Tisser (sister) Christmas photo.

– the Caipiroska with Steve’s family (vodka, limes, sugar, and ice).

– Luke knowing exactly what he’s getting and being unbelievably, graciously thrilled by it all the same.

– hearing the same stories we hear year after year from our parents and smiling to each other about them again.

 
Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, a joyous Festivus, or simply a pleasant day off from work!

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The Gingerbread Shanty

The model

Few things during the holiday season are as messy, frustrating, and pointless as building a gingerbread house. Yet for some reason, every freaking year, I buy one at the store so I can torture myself and share profanity later. I wish I had an explanation for this annual phenomenon, but I don’t. Let’s just chalk it up to selective holiday memory.

This year, I decided to switch out the traditional gingerbread house for a gingerbread village. The box depicted a lovely, snow-covered tableau with a river running through a small, idyllic gingerbread wonderland. How hard could it be? The buildings were tiny. Certainly I could build tiny gingerbread cottages even if I hadn’t exactly been successful with gingerbread colonials, right? Besides, they looked so cute on the box.

This morning I dug out the box I have been avoiding since I purchased it weeks ago. I put on my most positive attitude and got to building. I knew things were going south when the tiny gingerbread pieces were breaking as I tried to separate them. Still, undaunted, I continued in my quest. I patched pieces together, threatening to pull out my glue gun if necessary. And, even when the plastic icing bag with the perfectly sized decorating tip sprang a leak and started spewing frosting like a punctured artery I soldiered on. Nothing was going to stop me from this sordid holiday tradition, dammit.

When I had three tiny houses sloppily pieced together, hubby decided to join in the fun. He built a house and planned to add it to my village after initial construction. Essentially he was going to deliver a double-wide into the landscape of my charming, middle class community. He insisted it was cuter than any of my houses, so I decided to humor him. We carefully lowered it onto a small plot in my already crowded village. It sat there for just a minute before it started collapsing in on itself. The walls listed. The roof caved. The entire building crumbled, presumably due to shoddy and hasty construction. Steve tried desperately to fix it. He attempted to push the walls back into place. I told him this is what happens when you try to subvert the system and refuse to pull permits before building. I declared the building condemned.

Still, it seemed a little sad to have spent an hour working on my village only to have it end in inexplicable disaster. Then I saw him. Lego Santa. Certainly if anyone could make things better, it had to be the man in the red suit. Maybe he could get his elves to build a Habitat House in place of the double wide?

“Work your magic, Santa,” I begged. “We need a Christmas miracle.”

Oh no! Santa!!!!

 

As if my prayer to St. Nick had been answered, a flawless plan to fix this debacle dawned on me. I tossed Santa under the rubble and turned our gingerbread village into the scene of horrific holiday tragedy. The unstable shanty had collapsed under the weight of the fat man himself. As Santa and his overstuffed pack lay under the remains of the decimated double wide, I sipped my latte with smug self-satisfaction. I diverted one holiday disaster by creating another. After all, the holidays aren’t about perfection. They’re about spending time with family, creating memories. We will always remember this year, the year Steve’s double wide collapsed and Santa saved the day.

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Border Collie Wisdom

Perfectly executed Ruby snow loop

This afternoon we returned from a few days in the relatively snow-less mountains to 12 inches of fresh powder at our house. Hubby was dying to get in the snowshoe trek I had so carefully avoided in Steamboat. Realizing I was beaten, I acquiesced. We geared up and headed out onto the open space behind our house, four people sporting snowshoes and one four-legged leader. (We have a border collie. She’s neurotic. She’s intense. She’s smart. Hubby would tell you that she’s a lot like me, only slightly furrier.)

As we hiked along together, I noticed that Ruby kept making loops in the pristine snow. She would run out away from us, turn, run back toward us, and complete her loop. She did this over and over and over. Large loops. Small loops. Skinny loops. Fat loops. Nearly each time she would take off she would return and cross over her starting point to close her loop. She was systematic. Someone walking along after us would have to wonder at her repetitive, circular art, her snowy crop circles.

Steve and I have spent most of our lives in the company of dogs, but nothing we experienced before now prepared us for life with a border collie. Often noted for being the smartest dog breed, they are truly special. Before we got her, I did a lot of reading. One book advised that you should not get a border collie unless you’re prepared to spend your days trying to outsmart your dog. That sounded like a challenge. I like challenges. Sure enough. Ruby is an enigma, but she’s never dull. I can both respect and relate to that.

She is closest to her true self when she is running off leash on the open space and her border collie instincts take over. Today, as she was making her rounds (literally) as we hiked out on our snowshoes, she was positively blissful. At one point, I swore that she must be trying to write something to us in the snow. I’m sure if we could have taken an aerial photograph of her loops we would have seen messages, trotted out with characteristic border collie fury and wisdom: “Forge your own path. Finish what you start. Find joy in nature. And, for dog’s sake, walk me more often, you losers!”

Okay. Maybe I’m reading more into her loops than I should, but I still feel like my dog is trying to teach me something. Maybe it’s just that there is a great yet simple joy in being present on a long walk on a winter’s day.

 

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Sadistic Puzzle Makers Suck

Three missing pieces. Seriously???

I like to do puzzles. I know it seems low-tech and old-fashioned for a gal who is perpetually attached to her iPhone, but I enjoy the mental work involved in piecing together a picture. And, there is something so insanely gratifying about spending hours working on a puzzle and finally seeing it through to completion. Too many things in my life are never truly finished. I do laundry, put it away, and tomorrow morning dirty clothes have magically reappeared. There is no personal gratification. If I do a puzzle, however, I end up with actual physical proof that I accomplished something. It’s borderline miraculous.

I am truly OCD when I work on puzzles too. I will happily work along for hours in an oblivious fog. Eventually it will dawn on me that the house is unreasonably quiet. Looking up, I will notice that it’s 11 o’clock and my entire family has gone to bed without me. At that point, the obsessive compulsive bargaining begins. I’ll go to bed right after I find the next piece. It’s a little game I play with myself. Ask me how many times I find that piece and go right to bed. The answer is never. I often will end up getting three hours of sleep a night until I finish the stupid puzzle.

This week I opened a small puzzle (750 pieces), just enough to keep me busy in off times for a couple days. My family helped out, but mostly it was me spending hours staring at the cartoon drawing of One Hundred Dogs and a Cat. I was about two-thirds to puzzle completion when I got the sneaking suspicion that there might be pieces missing. I had my kids scour the floor for missing pieces. They couldn’t find any. Knowing all too well how not thorough they are in the “looking” department, I too crawled around on the hard wood floor under the dining table. Twice. Nothing.

Sure enough. When every last available piece of the puzzle was placed into the framework, there were three conspicuous holes in the art. Oh, how I hate that. It seems unfair to work so long at something only to have it not totally complete. It was a brand new puzzle too. I had opened the plastic package myself. I was diligent about carefully laying the pieces on the table and vigilant about making sure none were being swept onto the floor for the dog to mangle. Yet there they were. Three holes in an otherwise perfect puzzle. Oh…the humanity!

This same thing happened to me with two other puzzles in the past year: One Hundred Mice and a Cheese and One Hundred Elephants and a Mouse both were missing pieces as well. Not to sound paranoid and delusional (on top of obsessive compulsive), but I am now absolutely convinced that Ceaco (the puzzle company) is screwing with me. Somewhere in a factory there is some sick, sadistic puzzle maker who is purposely dropping a couple pieces from what would otherwise be a whole puzzle onto the floor at work just to mess with me. I hope he knows there is a toasty place in hell for him where he can work on incomplete puzzles for eternity. I hope you enjoy karma, jerk.

 

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By George…Bailey

It really is a wonderful life.

A week ago I wrote a post entitled God’s Plans. My basis premise was that too often we become dissatisfied with where we are in our lives because it’s not where we think we should be. I know that I struggle with this quite often as a stay-at-home mom with a post graduate degree. After all the work I did in my younger years to become something, how did I let myself end up in an unpaid position folding laundry and chauffeuring kids around?

Today, as part of our Christmas movie marathon here in Steamboat, we watched It’s A Wonderful Life. When I was younger, it was my favorite Christmas film. As I’ve aged, however, it’s been replaced as favorite by other stories. As I was watching today, I pondered why it was no longer my favorite. Sure it’s a bit dated and hokey (especially when my kids make me watch the colorized version I abhor). When the bell rings on the Christmas tree and ZuZu talks about the angel getting his wings, I nearly lapse into a sugar coma. But, the overall sweetness of the film is not what has changed how I feel about it.

Truth is that the story hits a bit too close to home. I understand exactly how George Bailey feels on his critical night. Overcome with bitterness for what he feels is his great failure to do anything “important” with his life, he lashes out at his family. He forgets all he has and focuses instead on what is lacking. He believes his life is pointless and that the world would not be any worse off had he never been born.

It’s A Wonderful Life chronicles George Bailey’s midlife crisis. And, I can relate. But, if I can relate to the breakdown George suffers as he fears he is about to lose the business his father built, the thing that changed his life irretrievably from what he hoped it would be, then I should be able to relate to his epiphany too. Blinded by his self-perceived failure, George nearly fails to recognize the enormous gift he received by taking a different path. Only when presented with a vision of the world without him does he understand what he truly has.

I am George Bailey. I get shortsighted and fixate occasionally on what I’m lacking rather than what makes me rich. I bet I’m not the only one either. Instead of relegating this movie to the bottom of my Christmas favorites list, I should watch it more often as a reminder that concentrating on what I didn’t become doesn’t change the positive things that I am instead. George’s story is not a story about Christmas. It’s a story about life, a wonderful life, one I probably fail to acknowledge often enough.

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Boys Will Be Boys

Boys will be boys

Here are 5 reasons why I am immeasurably glad I gave birth to boys instead of girls:

1) Their ability to pee standing up. This little convenience has saved us so many times on long car trips where there are no bathrooms for miles. I will even admit that there have been occasions when we have handed our sons empty water bottles in the car while we’ve been stuck in never-ending traffic on I-70 and let them have at it. Okay. It’s a bit gauche. But, you know what, I bet their little pee hoses have saved us unnecessary trauma at filthy rest areas all over this country.

2) Colorful and interesting word choices. Every single day I get to hear phrases including words like hot lava, explosion, death ray, imperial cruiser, and Uranus. In fact, my 8 year old just told his brother, “I’ve got my stun gun.” So precious. And way more fun than conversations about American Girl dolls. (Unless you recount the conversations when my boys combine hot lava, explosions, death rays, imperial cruisers, and Uranus in a story involving American Girl dolls.)

3) Whoopee cushions. ‘Nuff said.

4) Mud is better than glitter. Mud can be cleaned up. Glitter is sparkly herpes. Once you acquire it, you can never truly be rid of it.

5) Darth Vader is better than Barbie. Barbie has a Malibu townhouse, a pink convertible, and Ken. Darth Vader has galactic power, a Death Star, and the ability to force choke people without even touching them. Darth Vader – 1, Barbie – 0.

 

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Don’t Touch My Cupcake

Someone wants to lose some fingers!

“Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.” ~M. F. K. Fisher

I have an issue. I hate sharing food. Hate it. And, now that I truly reflect on it, “hate” might not be a strong enough word for the feeling that stirs deep inside me when someone eyes something I’m quite happily, peacefully nibbling on. I guess I’m sort of like my dog that way. If I walk into the room where she is eating, she will glare suspiciously at me out of the corner of her eye as if to say “Don’t even think about it, lady.” I have no interest in ingesting her dog food, but she’s not taking any chances. I get it. She and I are simpatico that way.

I blame this deep-seated food selfishness on my mother. I suppose because so little of what she had while we were growing up was hers and hers alone she coveted her food. My sisters and I were not allowed to touch a morsel on her plate. I distinctly remember being in restaurants with her where we would ask for a bit of her meal only to be told, “If you wanted this, you should have ordered it.” Touché. We learned quickly that what was on our plates was solely ours and that no one had a right to it unless we offered it first. Actually, I’ve simply considered it good etiquette not to ask for a bite of another person’s meal. If they want to share, they will offer. And I never want to share so I never offer. End of story.

I only bring this up now because 16 years ago I married into a family of food sharers, and I have struggled with this little complication ever since. The other night we were out to dinner with my in-laws, and the food sharing conversation began. Phrases like, “Oh….that looks good!” and “Wow. How is that?” dotted our table. As soon as the comments began flying, I bristled. In their defense, my extended family loves to eat and they are generous food sharers. They are foodies with extensive palates and insatiable curiosity about foods and flavors. And, while I understand their desire to trade food with others to sample new things, like my dog at her stainless steel dish I cower defensively over my plate when the food talk starts. If you wanted this, you should have ordered it.

The other day hubby and I were home together but making separate lunches. I had acquiesced to release the leftovers I truly wanted so that he might have them. In exchange, I had grilled what I considered to be a second-rate alternative, a ham and swiss cheese sandwich. He gave it an admiring once over. I snapped at him.

“You had your lunch. Back off.”

He wisely determined it was my low-blood sugar condition talking (the one that makes me meaner than a bear after hibernation when I’m hungry), and skulked away.

It’s not that I’m anti-sharing. I will happily share most of my things without a second thought. But if you want to keep all ten of your digits in tact, you’d best keep them away from my food. I haven’t bitten anyone for stealing food off my plate yet but, like my docile and seemingly sweet border collie, I wouldn’t rule it out.

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