Taking a Break

Whew! It's been that kind of month so far and it is only March 4th. Between working and living, I find I have little left to give to my blog. Oh, I'm still as opinionated as ever, but much of what I would like to say in this forum I find I cannot say, realistically. So for now, I'll be taking a break from the blog. Perhaps in the future I'll find more time to devote to writing about the study revealing that some first grade classrooms are sub-par... and how that jives with my own child's first grade year so far. Hopefully I'll be back to share how my son's summer of day camps starts out. Will he enjoy his experiences, and be stimulated and engaged? Or will he grow tired of camp? Will my garden produce anything edible this year, and will I EVER be successful at baking with a sourdough starter? We'll see. And then maybe I'll write about it!

Be well, and hug your kids. 

DUDE! Stop littering!

Okay, I've reached my limit. Clearly there is a conspiracy to make me crazy with people blatantly littering. On Sunday, as I left Target, the man in front of me was emptying his pockets onto the ground as he walked. Methodically reaching into his pocket and dropping the garbage onto the ground. The third time he did it, I burst out with, "Dude! You did not just drop your garbage onto the ground, did you?" He looked at me, thought a minute, and said, "Why don't you pick it up for me." That didn't sit well, so I retorted that it was his job to do that. What a pig. 

Yesterday, as I was driving home from work through downtown, kids were throwing garbage from the open widows of their school bus, and loving every minute of it. I was disgusted. I pulled up to the driver's window and pointed to the back. Whether he cared enough to pay attention, I don't know. I thought about calling the bus company, but what would they do? 

Then today, I again was driving through the city as the driver in front of me tossed her cigarette butt onto the pavement. I nearly wept with frustration. 

I've written letters to the editor about the litter in our neighborhood. I cannot stand to see the fast food garbage just tossed onto the road. I feel helpless when neighbors' recycling blows down the block on a windy day...is no one else seeing this??!! I feel like the only one who cares. 

Home On the Ranch

The summer after my freshman year in college, I went to Granby, Colorado to work on a guest ranch. I have always loved horses, so this was more fulfilling a dream of mine than worrying about what the wages would be--though my mother worried enough for both of us and commented for years about how she didn't think I made enough. I arrived on a gorgeous June day and fell in love with the red-roofed cabins, the sky bursting with stars and the herd of horses that ran past my room every morning during round-up. Pure heaven.

Drowsy Water Ranch employed about 25 people that summer from all over the country. And oh, the range of personalities! I made friends and gained enemies. I was the youngest staff member, but let's just say that I discovered new lows in immaturity from some of the older & wiser staff members...ahem. Our bosses were friendly, conservative, and I learned a lot from them. And I got to ride on my days off—what a joy! The ranch sits at about 8,000 feet, 2 hours west of Denver, nestled in the mountains near Winter Park. We rode through rainstorms and in bright sunshine, and  there was no greater pleasure for me than being in the saddle. I got teased for my choice in horses, but I didn't care. Laredo, a Palomino, was a dream to ride. 

The summer had its dramas: Randy Sue, one of the owners, was in a car accident. Two of the horse wrangling staff got engaged. One staffer was sent packing after she verbally dressed down one of the owners' sons. I took full advantage of my surroundings and my freedom from Ohio and college, borrowing cars to go sightseeing in Winter Park, Estes Park, and Boulder. Lots of young people travel to Colorado and never return to their hometowns. That didn't happen with me, but I've always felt my true home is in those mountains on the back of a horse. Maybe someday. For now, I'd be content to take my son and husband to the ranch to share a little of my history with them. But it's cheaper to go to Europe!

Is it too late to learn how to run a ranch?

Picky, Picky

What happens to kids when they turn six? Last year, long about June when my son added another year to his age, he suddenly morphed into A Picky Eater. I thought kids were choosy when they were toddlers: au contraire. The child who used to eat black bean patties, salmon, tilapia, avocado, and sundry other healthy foods suddenly realized he was being far too agreeable at mealtime. Now, it's a semi-battle to get him to try a new food. I've had enough, and lately I've been trying to get creative...without negotiating. 

One of my favorite writers is Catherine Newman, who recently began writing about her family recipes. She posts wonderful dishes like Dinner Beans and Fluffy Pancake and Homemade Vanilla, and her photos usually include her two kids, merrily helping to prepare the meals but also merrily eating them. So, I thought I'd show these photos to my son, hoping he'd be inspired by pictures of other kids—especially the boy, Ben—happily eating Carrot Salad and Black Bean Dip and Borscht. (Well, maybe not so much the borscht. Who am I kidding?) What has she done differently from me when it comes to feeding her kidlings? I strive to make tasty dishes, both old favorites and new concoctions. Occasionally, Henry will give something a try: to be fair, he DID try the hummus I made for him earlier this week. But the comment he made about it afterwards was priceless. "This must be for OLDER kids!" Ha!

I'm not giving up. I've invited Henry to help me cook, I've bought him his very own cookbook and asked him to find a recipe or two that interests him which I will then help him to prepare, and I'm still scouring the Internet for no fail kid's meals. Must I resort to "hiding" the beans in the pasta sauce, or whatever it is that Jessica Seinfeld wrote about in her book?? I sincerely hope not. Oy. 

Play Dates at the White House

President Obama. How long have we waited to utter those two words? I know I've waited for what seems like a hundred years. And then, in a surreal series of events on January 20, it happened. We wept, we cheered, we silently emoted, and we were thankful that this time had come. 

I grew up attending a racially balanced school in Cincinnati. The first boy I ever kissed was African-American. Because it was an arts school, our principal ensured that the leads of our plays were racially mixed: one white girl opposite one African-American boy, and vice-versa. And then I went to college. Whoo, boy. The real world wasn't quite as balanced. Not by a long shot.

I thought of my racist and fearful family members as I watched Mr. Obama take the oath of office. I wondered what they would say were they still with us to witness this historic event. Some of them are still with me, fortunately, but I don't relish the comments I'm bound to hear when I see them next. But you know what? It's our turn. It's time for this country to breathe again, to feel hope, to feel represented. So it's OK if a few grumps need to make snide remarks. This is better than Christmas: I'll be grinning like a fool for a good long time. 

Last night, as I was tucking in my son, he asked, wholly innocently, if he could have a play date with the Obama girls. Son, you let me know when that invitation comes...Mommy will be more than happy to drive you to their house. I hear they even have their own movie theater. 

So Tired

Our son Henry has always been an early to bed, early to rise kind of kid. But lately I've been growing more and more worried about the early to rise part. He is dreaming away by 7:30 every night, he never complains about going to bed, and he falls asleep within minutes of head hitting pillow, so I'm pretty sure his bedtime is right on. But a mere 9 hours later, at 4:30 in the AM, he is at my side asking if it's time to get up yet. Um, no. 

I go to work at an obscenely early hour so that I can leave work in time to pick Henry up from school. Therefore, Henry thinks he should be up every morning when I'm up, so he doesn't miss saying good-bye. And once he's up, there's no getting him back into bed. I love that I get to be at school every afternoon: I feel like part of the stay-at-home-parents club, even though I'm not a full member. I love that Henry and I chat in the car on the drive home and that I'm there for him to talk to if he's had a "bumpy day," as we call them. But this week especially I've noticed that my usually sunny boy has seemed not so sunny. Down. Serious. Unenthusiastic.  When I ask him what's up, he says "I'm just so tired..." He rests his head on his hand during dinner, even when chocolate-chip pancakes are on the menu, a Henry favorite. Last night he chose a recipe from his cookbook and we made it together, an apple-y dessert. He had playtime, movie time, snuggle time, goofy time, book time, all our usual after school and bedtime activities. But his usual spark wasn't there. He wept while we tried to do his homework, which he usually enjoys.

I think I asked him 15 times if there was anything he wanted to talk with me about. Had something happened at school? Did someone make him sad or upset? Had he had a time-out in gym? Nope, just tired, he says. We've had (and continue to have) the talk about secrets and inappropriate garbage and the like, but he is usually very forthcoming when something has gone wrong at school. So, I chalk it up to exhaustion. 

Today I'll be calling our pediatrician to see what we can do to...what, reset Henry's internal clock? We've tried keeping him up a bit later (and a lot later). But what we end up with is an overtired boy the next day. He gets fresh air, we dance in the living room, he has gym, we try to make healthy meals. I'm hoping we can find a way to convince him to stay in bed, even though I'm getting up to go to work. I hate leaving him every day, but I hate it more when my son is unhappy every afternoon because he's so sleepy. Yawn. 

You're On Your Own, Kid

This being the first full week of school since the holiday break, I've been anticipating some fussing, some reluctance to cooperate, and some bleary, sleepy mornings. And since this is the first full week back to work since a spate of days off, I've been expecting the same from myself and my husband. Ahem. Turns out Henry has been a cooperation champ lately, so if there's any fussing going on, it's coming from me. 

So far, the week back to school has been uneventful, at least for us. A mate of my son's had a rough day yesterday, though. I meet Henry after school to drive him home—we live too far away for him to walk, and we pulled him off of the school bus last year for reasons I'll have to get into in another posting. (I'll just say here: you think you've prepared your kid for some of the bad things that can happen. Then it turns out you haven't thought of them all.) I know several of Henry's friends, and a few of their parents, by virtue of my presence at the school yard every day. One boy's parents seem to arrive a little later than most of the adults from time to time, so I've gotten used to his hanging out with us until he sees mom or dad. Yesterday, as the crowd thinned out, I could see he was growing more and more anxious, and I was getting concerned. Of course, I would stay with him until I saw one of his grown-ups, but he was really worried. My being there with him (and my son's trying to distract him with snowballs) wasn't helping. 

Finally, after the school yard was pretty empty, he had the idea to go back to his classroom to see if his teacher had heard anything. We went back inside and his teacher calmly told him he was supposed to walk home that day. His mom had called and instructed him to walk home. He froze, then blurted out, "the whole way?" and burst into tears and ran away from us. I called him back and offered to drive him home, but he was in a hurry. I imagine they had discussed this at home, maybe they'd practiced his doing this on his own, but he seemed stunned. He took off on foot, headed for home, and refused our offer to walk with him. I wish I'd insisted. 

I found out the next day that his mother had been looking for him on his path home, and I didn't get to speak to her to see how it had gone. He lives blocks and blocks from school, and he has to cross some busy streets to get there. He's six years old, like my son. I know we parents want and need to teach our kids how to do things for themselves, and giving them wings is our job. But it broke my heart that he was so upset about walking home alone. Is this what Free Range Kids is all about, or was this an error in judgment? He didn't seem ready for what was being asked of him. Would my son be able to find his way home if he suddenly was being asked to? I have no idea.