tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7032318834406133552024-02-18T19:50:56.034-07:00Reality WritesA Collective of Fort Collins Women WritersKristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09988190251156621315noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-54983977598494189972010-09-28T12:49:00.000-06:002010-09-28T12:50:39.228-06:00Paradigmpar·a·digm <br /><br />[par-uh-dahym] <br /><br />Definition: A set of forms all of which contain a particular element, esp. the set of all inflected forms based on a single stem or theme. A display in fixed arrangement of such a set, as boy, boy's, boys, boys'. An example serving as a model or pattern. A mold, standard, ideal, paragon, touchstone. <br /><br />I have come to the conclusion that RealityWritesCollective is lacking a paradigm. Perhaps that is why we have become less interested in posting our thoughts. I thought that all being women with children who would like to write would be enough of a paradigm, but I was wrong. We are all so different and have different motivations for being in Reality Writes. It is what I both LOVE about RWC and what prevents us from becoming more than what we are.<br /><br />But maybe, what we are is enough. We are a workspace where we can post story ideas, thoughts, and inspirations. We are a group that can encourage and support each other. We can review, critique, or bounce an idea around.<br /><br />Maybe lack of paradigm is not our problem – maybe we just all have a little too much work to do right now.<br /><br />NEXT MEETING October 16.Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06525729633792582047noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-67907734173786872882010-09-15T09:14:00.000-06:002010-09-15T09:15:01.495-06:00Parental Judgement<p style="text-align: justify;">Is it parental judgment or parental frustration that we get so annoyed with other peoples kids?</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">When I came across this article this morning titled <a href="http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/parenting/message-to-parents-getting-louder-no-screaming-babies-allowed-2388887/" target="_blank"><i>Message to Parents Getting Louder: No Screaming Babies Allowed</i></a>, I was sorta flabbergasted and laughing. Yes, kids can be challenging to be around when you don't have any, but most people will one day. And I would like to see any company financially survive a ban on kids.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">People in the comments section of the article were blaming parents for being too checked out and ignoring their obnoxious little people. As if these people were perfect little angels all the time when they were children. It is shocking how many people are for such things as banning kids, can't wait for them to be in the nursing home circuit while the kids they were annoyed by are running things.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">Are we just getting awfully grumpy in society today? Do we have little patience for the people in our lives and especially little patience for the people <i>not</i> in our immediate lives?</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">I thought I was above these sort of judgments of course. We often all think <i>we </i>aren't like <i>that</i>.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">Then I went to an party. That had lots and lots and lots of kiddos in attendance.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">I got frustrated I tell you. And I might seem like an overprotective nincompoop. I am not, I will fight for your kids too if I see injustice. (Well I am overprotective, but because I love my babies and you can't fault me for loving my babies)</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">But here is what gets my goat, a group of kids, whether at a party a park a play date are left to their own devices. Everyone seems to stop paying attention to their kids and lets them run willy-nilly when other kids appear.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">I get it. Many times on play dates I will let my kids know that I am talking to the grown up now and I will be with them in a minute. Play dates are for Mom's as much as they are for kids, no matter what anyone says otherwise. But it is usually me and one Mom. I can hear or see any crisis or extreme misbehavior as it happens.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">So often at outings, or groups, kids are rude. They push in front of each other, they find one kid to pick on and start doing just that in very subtle ways, sometimes not so subtle and there is an all out fight. But there is nobody there as far as the eye can see to look at these little people and let them know that that treatment of their friends is entirely unacceptable.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">Um...if we aren't letting our kids know that what they are doing is wrong...who are we hoping is going to do that?</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">Are we hoping that their peers will say, "Hey, don't push that kid out of the way! It is his turn!"</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">I may have been judging for a moment, but I am not dumb, parenting is the hardest thing I have ever done and assume that is the case with every parent. I think more it is sheer frustration. It does take a village to raise kids, and not just directly to help us raise our own kids, like a babysitter or two that you might have available, but to be examples to our kids. One kid to another.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">I don't want my kids to be bullies, the world has enough grown-up bullies in it running the joint. Our kids will one day be the ones running the world. Shouldn't we help them to understand how we treat people? Or should we leave them on their own to learn from other little kids who hit and push and bully how they should behave?</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">The way they will run the world starts with what they learn on the playground.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">Trust me, I am no way near to being a perfect Mom. I wouldn't bother making such a ludicrous and far from the truth statement. My kids annoy me some days. Mostly it is the fighting between them that really gets under my skin, which includes hitting and pushing, which for some reason they never seem to bring to play with friends. And don't get me started on the status of their room, a tornado would actually help it out a little.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">Am I judgmental? Often, yet I am trying to work on that.</p> <p style="text-align: justify;">Am I frustrated? Yes. I am tired of being the one standing there responding to your kids behavior while you relax and enjoy yourself.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-20194002029647284072010-09-02T14:32:00.003-06:002010-09-02T14:37:25.326-06:00A new hat to juggleWell, I think I can finally come up for air now. I have two weeks of classes under my belt. It’s hard to be a student after so many years, but I have wanted to get my MPH for a long time and now I am taking the first steps. Here are some of my first impressions:<br /><br />1. I am OLD – as I walk around campus I am very aware of how stinkin’ old I am! These kids look like BABIES and in fact some of them could be my babies.<br />2. An hour is not very long – I remember getting antsy after an hour of class time but now it is pretty easy to sit and listen and do nothing. It is a nice break from running around, cleaning, picking and dropping off kids.<br />3. I have learned a lot. It is amazing to hear what some of the young students think and how naïve they are about certain things. Thank goodness I have actually learned something.<br />4. I have become good at multitasking. I was worried about keeping up with everything, but it is true that the more you have to do, the more that gets done.<br />5. It’s nice (and hard) to be able to use your brain on a daily basis. Thinking makes you feel alive.<br /><br />I am on to week three. I hope I remember how to write a paper and take a test… I think I will be fine... if I just remember to breathe.Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06525729633792582047noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-31455564790609044302010-08-24T09:41:00.001-06:002010-08-24T09:48:46.584-06:00Live and Learn<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who would have thought that my own personal advice would come back and bite me in the ass. A few years ago, I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://onegirlcreative.blogspot.com/2008/01/no-spec-graphic-design.html">wrote</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> about how we as artists shouldn’t fall prey to spec design. Spec design is quite simply, doing the work before you’re compensated for it. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have always been confused by this ongoing problem with graphic designers, but it seems to be a common problem in my field.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This baffles me.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I won’t jump on my soap box just yet. What I wrote about a few years back in 2008 still holds true for me. Unfortunately, given my recent vulnerability due to my unemployment status, I figured I’ll do a little bit of work just to make sure the client knows what they’re getting from me is not only good work, but so they’ll ultimately be 'wowed' with the finished product.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was recently contacted via email about a company wanting to hire me to design some pop art images for their soon-to-be opening boutique in Florida. This company sells couture designer items that have been pre-owned and at a much cheaper cost than buying them brand new.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The owner loved my pop art pieces of Louis Vuitton and Chanel handbags, and wanted me to stick with this same concept of using designer items to hang throughout his boutique with a pop art twist. The only difference between my original designs and the ones he wanted for his boutique are a change of colors to reflect the colors in his logo and more designer items to add to their overwhelming assortment of items for sale.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I spoke to his partner on the phone, he said he wanted me to come up with some designs to send his way, and if they like them, they will then allow me to “go to town” with whatever designs I wanted. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I made it very clear that typically I don't do spec work without some sort of compensation beforehand, and as he started to say he was OK with that—me like the weak person that I am, went ahead and said I would send him a design or two without an upfront deposit.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What was I thinking? Because I got tongue-tied in the process, I assured him that I will only do a few pieces to send his way as jpegs. Ugh!</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here is where the frustration begins.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Naturally, I went ahead and created a few designs—which thankfully didn’t take too long of my time—and immediately emailed to him.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Next day—nothing.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Day after—nothing.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Day after that—nothing, so I decided to get proactive and I contacted him to let him know that if either of the designs that I sent him were not acceptable, to please let me know and I’m happy to change whatever colors or designs he wanted.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Still, nothing.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has now been almost a week and I have yet to hear from either of them.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, again I was screwed over. For whatever reason, I don’t know. All I do know is I didn’t get compensated for my time, nor did they even have the courtesy to get back to me to say yay or nay. Nothing!</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like we always say—“live and learn.” If only I had followed my own advice (as well as many others in my field) and not accepted it without a deposit up front.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So even though I didn’t get compensated, nor did I get to “go to town” with designs with this particular businessman, I will now learn by this mistake and move forward and hope that whatever business venture or client comes my way, I will continue to present a contract to them and require my typical 30–50% deposit up front before I start the work.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm mad, and I could kick myself, but at this point, you just have to learn from your mistakes and move on.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Suzanne</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjberbNwiMyv5-Matflvy4N33Jz7h31sApTyuZOB5XIUHIuT3yznZvhgl4QnDewMj4Xem3RosD9TUd9KlMwHOe-Xkgmp1YkvcNpGyF2TlUni4HY_LSLjhtZthXR_Et7z6sPTQzdp-5IhbQ/s1600/speedy-epkin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjberbNwiMyv5-Matflvy4N33Jz7h31sApTyuZOB5XIUHIuT3yznZvhgl4QnDewMj4Xem3RosD9TUd9KlMwHOe-Xkgmp1YkvcNpGyF2TlUni4HY_LSLjhtZthXR_Et7z6sPTQzdp-5IhbQ/s320/speedy-epkin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Louis Vuitton Speedy</span></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dgR9fRC1NvHyGIhPk54aIm5BPlvKyJKpGSCPwuP40plRC9eUW72ZIXedTPuJLEKyvp3_tLR8HD58SC3p1Cl9VXYTYCOpsHMYvePIDE7X0cuc1tcd8RjCWD84SJKvNnuQiQgA3adK08ak/s1600/mini_noe-epkin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dgR9fRC1NvHyGIhPk54aIm5BPlvKyJKpGSCPwuP40plRC9eUW72ZIXedTPuJLEKyvp3_tLR8HD58SC3p1Cl9VXYTYCOpsHMYvePIDE7X0cuc1tcd8RjCWD84SJKvNnuQiQgA3adK08ak/s320/mini_noe-epkin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Louis Vuitton Mini-Noé</span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></div></span></div>One Girl Creativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694269933096071641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-85020985738163188412010-08-19T13:20:00.000-06:002010-08-19T13:20:19.386-06:00Varying shades of greenAs a child growing up in the 60's, my mom taught me to reuse and recycle. Even back then I have memories of my mom bundling up newspapers with string and having them recycled. I can also remember reusing every scrap of paper and bag we had for art projects and household use. We had never heard of the word "green" back then to describe what we were doing. It is just what we did. We didn't waste a lot of resources, but I think it was primarily for economic reasons rather than any grandiose plan to save the earth. My mom had a garden and we had a compost pile. It wasn't some fancy composting bin like they sell now at Home Depot. It was simply a pile in the corner of the yard where we threw grass clippings and organic material. I remember how bad it smelled on hot summer days. We were "green" before it was cool to be "green". We were just of a different mindset back then. We didn't waste things. <br />
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Fast forward forty years. My kids preach to me about how we need to conserve resources, save the planet, save the whales, and all good things like that. I couldn't agree more. I have been doing my part for many many years. My mom did her part by teaching me to be thrifty and practical with what I had. What I find interesting is that I would call my kids' commitment "light green". They are all talk. When it comes down to actually participating in what they preach, they only do it when it's convenient for them. <br />
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Case in point: High school senior leaves for school in the morning. She has taken AP Environmental Science, so she is enlightened about all subjects environmental and has told me about how we Americans are wrecking the planet. As she goes out the door to her gas-powered car, she leaves her bedroom light on and the stereo blaring. So much for conservation of energy. What happened to simply turning off the power?<br />
<br />
Second case in point: Middle school kid who wants to save all living things has decided that this year it will be better if I drive him to school rather than him taking the bus. So, each morning we are burning extra gas to go back and forth. Hmmm, that is not very earth-friendly, is it? <br />
<br />
Third case in point: I clean out the backpacks from the prior year. There are about a dozen half-used spiral notebooks in perfectly good shape. But do my kids want to reuse these? No! They would like new notebooks and would like to throw the old notebooks away. What do I do? I salvage all of their half used notebooks for my own personal use to write my rantings in. The paper is perfectly fine. I am the one who is saving the trees, not them. <br />
<br />
I could go on and on. <br />
<br />
I would like to believe that they will one day change their ways when they become a bit older and wiser. I'm not saying that I'm perfect. I drive an SUV and probably use more than my fair share of gas. But I do know that I am doing my small part, and I think I am actually living in a brighter shade of "green" than a lot of the young people in the world. <br />
<br />
I hope I can pass on some of these values to them like my mom did to me, but sometimes it feels hopeless. <br />
<br />
Every time they begin talking about the gigantic subject of saving the earth I just smile and keep doing what I'm doing. Maybe one day they will get it. It's all the small things on a daily basis that really make a difference. <br />
<br />
Peggy McNealPeggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01594304077135667051noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-52747452424408807622010-08-16T10:47:00.025-06:002010-08-17T19:46:41.325-06:00Climbing Quandary<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeswXWxpcoOtzp3CNHZYxTiixdSLoASt_p_no300Zo_EMG5crpMwTL73nqvVDnkGh_DaRYqrj7_xkmBqSCEapHHIcOnr5ynJtVeDSnPs9dxZ6ToboGfMPPK6W8fHTy3aWy5UYXS3Dd-Dj/s1600/IMG_5422.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeswXWxpcoOtzp3CNHZYxTiixdSLoASt_p_no300Zo_EMG5crpMwTL73nqvVDnkGh_DaRYqrj7_xkmBqSCEapHHIcOnr5ynJtVeDSnPs9dxZ6ToboGfMPPK6W8fHTy3aWy5UYXS3Dd-Dj/s200/IMG_5422.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506127954914340226" border="0" /></a>On Saturday I disappeared into thin air. Well I didn't disappear, but anyone on the trail thousands of feet below would have seen nothing more than an ant trudging up a giant anthill. Anyway at 14,265 feet up, the air is indeed thin, and the views breathtaking. Or should I say breath-catching!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifddBrXdi0Dtn_gTomiofz2hfvwm-Mx8a8u7_t8c94XYaaZ7J8CRroxEDvWDlp4CHEkgnGsS5OXPx6Wg08FddpO79wO_eY4pPP2j3vNCUAA_8wkbQ-xEDx9a1ZeUqbRap5hpmPYufs__AK/s1600/IMG_5427.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifddBrXdi0Dtn_gTomiofz2hfvwm-Mx8a8u7_t8c94XYaaZ7J8CRroxEDvWDlp4CHEkgnGsS5OXPx6Wg08FddpO79wO_eY4pPP2j3vNCUAA_8wkbQ-xEDx9a1ZeUqbRap5hpmPYufs__AK/s200/IMG_5427.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506128886272269106" border="0" /></a>Here I am celebrating an arduous climb to the summit of Quandary Peak, my first 14er, those tallest kings among mountains that Colorado is famous for. I and six girlfriends left the trailhead in the valley at 7am and 5-1/2 hours later this was our reward.<br /><br />I'd expected to do the whole hike, up and back, in that amount of time! Some of our husbands had done it a month ago in 5 hours. But unfortunately two of our group suffered bad altitude sickness requiring a slow pace and frequent rest stops on the ascent. (One did feel a little better after throwing up. That bad.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj81FmlR6HSp-DgnxMq2U3q7wm76woVIZxQ4yiP1YOzQMZNR5CgDhk6710cbwJLPXgRpnWj-VQOYg2c9IU27_DVyIQRSuiT6yMSppy0Y76_i1mtoY-8OdgHD7pZo_gix2-dGSx87xScjL3P/s1600/IMG_5419.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj81FmlR6HSp-DgnxMq2U3q7wm76woVIZxQ4yiP1YOzQMZNR5CgDhk6710cbwJLPXgRpnWj-VQOYg2c9IU27_DVyIQRSuiT6yMSppy0Y76_i1mtoY-8OdgHD7pZo_gix2-dGSx87xScjL3P/s200/IMG_5419.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506129428335144018" border="0" /></a>Around the same time I took the above photo looking up and the summit felt sooo far away, I turned around and looked down to the highway where I'd come from. Wow. It really boosted my mood and confidence when fatigue was taking a toll.<br /><br />I also contemplated the golden value of such friends I have. No one had an ego to show off. No one was trying to prove anything. There was nothing but patience and encouragement for those who were lagging. (Little did I know that would be me on the way down, running out of water two hours early and bad knees screaming their displeasure at the steep rocks.) I realized that I myself was far more flexible and patient than I used to be, willing to stay with my friends at the end of the line or offering to share my hiking poles. That's big for me, someone who has always been highly competetive. This was just not the time for that.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaR-yWn7OK7Y4QdLCjXW8NnJoM5-2v6IuFcDbWc0QlrY8WNFxc3fh4bvEe0JI1F6zG4LqChjuj9wAgBm24ivf7dBUe-ax1Q2AodVIICkjA85UwxGt57H7keHsJudx-FQOyM7owJIbMEMF/s1600/IMG_5418.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaR-yWn7OK7Y4QdLCjXW8NnJoM5-2v6IuFcDbWc0QlrY8WNFxc3fh4bvEe0JI1F6zG4LqChjuj9wAgBm24ivf7dBUe-ax1Q2AodVIICkjA85UwxGt57H7keHsJudx-FQOyM7owJIbMEMF/s200/IMG_5418.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506153746149047010" border="0" /></a>I love my girlfriends, their strength, humor, complete support and solidarity. Only recently have our friendships gone deep like this, and it's like drinking cool water from a deep clear mountain spring. I will take care of them. Frienships like this should be nurtured. As a Nigerian proverb says, "Hold a true friend with both your hands."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhe9AXSOxfVppaTexl8BYPvQ7CzQ2gOl07Xv7zv4KT-bXrPotOP1MLAZt1B2C-ULsEMWCLwxPHIlyhehJYOGXsREYiJtS2mWLWW3A0UA8gXPN9wM-XyBWoGXcEZdNsrgb7opo3XayQodWT/s1600/IMG_5423.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhe9AXSOxfVppaTexl8BYPvQ7CzQ2gOl07Xv7zv4KT-bXrPotOP1MLAZt1B2C-ULsEMWCLwxPHIlyhehJYOGXsREYiJtS2mWLWW3A0UA8gXPN9wM-XyBWoGXcEZdNsrgb7opo3XayQodWT/s200/IMG_5423.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506148945542377218" border="0" /></a>But my friends weren't the only ones that amazed me. And I'm not talking about the guy who passed us early on wearing a kilt. (We asked if it was a skirt or a kilt and he said, "It's only a skirt if you have something under it." Eeek.) I was truly inspired by a Chinese grandfather and his seven year old grandson who held hands most of the way up the mountain. Their pace was slow like ours, so they passed us, we passed them, repeat, and it wasn't until the final and steepest stretch that they went up without us. This photo shows the two of them resting a moment (with mom) and you can see how steep the trail gets. I just accidentally typed "trial" but maybe that really isn't a typo after all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCI6WSVSL9UxuOwndy7qj5V8poWCKve4q_d3OUYqqgVLe47LpcWwel75LkmVG0BJv1gGrGl52mVtoJweJaOqxX000UnpFZtKDlDY2xLJTj3M99tQ1hzemGjTXHh4GSrC4ObezZLP-5ie-s/s1600/IMG_5432.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCI6WSVSL9UxuOwndy7qj5V8poWCKve4q_d3OUYqqgVLe47LpcWwel75LkmVG0BJv1gGrGl52mVtoJweJaOqxX000UnpFZtKDlDY2xLJTj3M99tQ1hzemGjTXHh4GSrC4ObezZLP-5ie-s/s200/IMG_5432.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506151594785109458" border="0" /></a>The high elevation made me far more emotional than I generally am. I nearly cried when I heard other hikers talking about an accident on the top involving a two year old girl in a child backpack that we had seen leave the trailhead on her father's back just before we did. Apparently he had set down the pack with her inside and she kicked her legs enough to topple over forward, hitting her face on the rocks. I didn't see them coming down (I believe I was squatting behind a big rock, he he) but my friends said she had bandaids and blood across her forehead. That was it, tears in my eyes. I have kids. I hate it when kids get hurt. I honestly felt like scurrying back down the trail to see if she was alright. I also got teary watching a big black dog of all things. The poor animal looked disoriented and thirsty and had run ahead of its owner down the mountain. It kept running ahead of us and behind us looking for a familiar face.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3Qdi2MWMTlqBLUDYBtcE7wtJn1LjukfqRLWDtfrdrgd0o0i3VCt9tXRYhgtx8cdaGlne45sNplItStksbV91-VnK6zjxbdzj_lnjCtdMYykSUgZhoVZewASNJGGsguj47qm95iSmGSMm/s1600/pika_c.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 159px; height: 138px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3Qdi2MWMTlqBLUDYBtcE7wtJn1LjukfqRLWDtfrdrgd0o0i3VCt9tXRYhgtx8cdaGlne45sNplItStksbV91-VnK6zjxbdzj_lnjCtdMYykSUgZhoVZewASNJGGsguj47qm95iSmGSMm/s200/pika_c.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506221111904421858" border="0" /></a>By the time we got back to the car it had been an 8-1/2 hour trek. I took some time to reflect on observations about myself. Right there in the back seat I wrote a list, so might as well share it that way.<br /><ul><li>I'm easily obsessive. I spent more time on 14ers.com than facebook the week prior, reading trip reports from Quandary and other peaks and searching for advice. I memorized the driving directions even though I wasn't driving. I printed a trail map even though it would be impossible to get lost with weekend crowds. I packed extra clothes, first aid, rain gear, and twice the food I needed. I spent two hours loading my backpack just right.</li></ul><ul><li>My exercise classes all summer have paid off! I felt much better than I expected. On the other hand, I still have far to go to be as fit as I want to. This was good motivation to stick with it.</li></ul><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTnFcmZJcJ_BDXz7cjet4dZaS9plid33U9r-ZrGSVs26o2j8HIFEqOy8hfRqCR0oscz2nJxd4SwopvFXAwjmCXyc29gRMQomWsYmwINdjRLmMcNEwhOjdI9E4IzuL8fIxsZoNJ1gUI9yj/s1600/mtngoat_c.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 159px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTnFcmZJcJ_BDXz7cjet4dZaS9plid33U9r-ZrGSVs26o2j8HIFEqOy8hfRqCR0oscz2nJxd4SwopvFXAwjmCXyc29gRMQomWsYmwINdjRLmMcNEwhOjdI9E4IzuL8fIxsZoNJ1gUI9yj/s200/mtngoat_c.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506220170845733650" border="0" /></a><ul><li>I still have a sense of wild adventure and spontaneity even though I haven't been able to live it out for many years. I hope this is just the beginning of rebirthing that aspect of my heart.</li></ul><ul><li>I've lost my fear of indecent exposure when nature calls. There was a time when I probably would have chosen extreme bladder discomfort rather than crouching behind rocks and trees without worrying about what people think. It's liberating.</li></ul><ul><li>Lastly, I observed that I tend to be a bit self-promoting and I need to learn to listen and engage others without talking up myself. It seemed that so often when one of my friends was telling a story, I would push my own similar stories into the conversation. I'm not as good a listener as I want to be. As I think about it, I realize I frequently do the same thing when commenting on blogs or facebook. That's kind of hard to admit, but it's something to work on.</li></ul><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_IhaWAysDpmttxqHL9Ab6SyKlVtMvDa2uBn-ipDW4e-stayjx8BJtOsFEyIO9CasouUAeByR032UL0pK2ooYeoeFVwYQKK_Zrno-fW4paqoaw7OJCyUzDAo3y6wLeQD74d4GyEp3qD4c/s1600/IMG_5416.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_IhaWAysDpmttxqHL9Ab6SyKlVtMvDa2uBn-ipDW4e-stayjx8BJtOsFEyIO9CasouUAeByR032UL0pK2ooYeoeFVwYQKK_Zrno-fW4paqoaw7OJCyUzDAo3y6wLeQD74d4GyEp3qD4c/s200/IMG_5416.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506204546384921522" border="0" /></a>Saturday was a special day - my first 14er and the first time I ever spent a whole day with girlfriends. We climbed a mountain together, and I climbed a personal mountain, that of bonding with a spectacular group of women. We scaled so many rocks that we all called each other rock stars! Our next adventure will be awesome, I am sure.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-61974274855674487922010-08-12T08:15:00.001-06:002010-08-12T13:34:59.991-06:00A dream and a goal.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">My goal. I actually have one. But will it ever come to fruition? I have no idea. But for now, it will remain both my dream, and my goal.</span></span></span> <br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Currently I am an unemployed graphic designer. During regular economic times, this would be considered a cliché since as an artist, it almost goes hand-in-hand, but in this day and age of recessions, extended unemployment, etc. it’s just plain sad.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I love what I do, and I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life, but within the past few months, I’ve had nothing but time on my hands. Enough time to sit back and contemplate what I would want to do with my life if given the opportunity of NOT getting a job in my field. What would/could I do?</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Well, there’s the common response—work at Starbucks or places of similar environments, but ultimately, would I be fulfilled? Probably not.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I don’t expect to make much money, but I do expect some sort of happiness in my life, and if it involves a job, then why not? Is this so much to ask for after spending many years in college to learn my ‘craft?’ </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">No, it isn’t.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">But after much contemplation and soul searching, I have come to the realization that what makes me happy are equally combined—teaching and art. Combine the two, and the answer should be simply, an art teacher. But again, in this economic downturn, is that the smartest move since most art and music teachers are losing their jobs due to budget cuts within the school system? Add to the continuation of my education to obtain either an MFA or a teaching certificate.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Well, since I am still paying back my school loans, this might not be the most practical solution given that the end result will most likely not be a lucrative one, or worse—still remain unemployed with even a higher balance to my never-ending school loans.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Now what do I do?</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Well, after living in Ft. Collins for twenty years, I also notice a lack of culture and art appreciation here. Yes, it has gotten much better since I first arrived here in August 1990 from New York City, but it does still need a significant amount of improvement considering how the population has increased throughout the years. I’ve always enjoyed walking through my daughter’s school so I can admire the artwork on display within the walls of each quad, and appreciate their naiveté as the children each create their individual masterpieces.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Then it hits me—why not open an art school for children? Something I could take charge of and be proud of and gain that feeling of accomplishment at the end of the day.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I realize there are a few here in town, but they’re small and expensive. I would want to make it available to children of all income levels, not just the rich or upper middle class. All children, doing nothing but creating their art and enjoying it along the way.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Of course, the space would have to be perfect. I dream of a large, open space loft—something with a rustic and urban feel to it. Lots and lots of art supplies enriched with splashes of color and ease of use. No intimidation allowed at this school! </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">But it wouldn’t stop there. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">One thing that I always learned throughout art school myself is that in order to be a successful artist, you must go back in time and learn where and how art came from. Learning about art history—even at such a young age—can not only give each child an enrichment for art, but an appreciation as well. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">But, this all costs money. Lots of money. Something I just don’t have at this point in my life. I also wonder in this economy if opening a business such as an art school for children, would be a risky move. I wish I could take the step needed to go forth with this objective, but for now, I will have to sit back and continue to fantasize about this ambition and see what happens. Maybe it’s something I will have to save for, but for now, it’ll remain a dream and a goal.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span>Suzanne</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>One Girl Creativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694269933096071641noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-58438326289729597222010-08-09T09:14:00.001-06:002010-08-09T09:14:40.680-06:00Stolen MinutesI wake up with the rooster to go for a run, way before the kids are wiggling in their beds. I have time for a shower, unloading the dishwasher and starting the breakfast before I bounce my feet up the stairs for morning hugs and kisses (yes I do have this kind of energy in the mornings). We have breakfast together… well at least until the food is on the floor instead of in their bellies. I start cleaning up, I let them “brush” their teeth at the table (with non fluoride toothpaste) while I brush the girls’ hair and put in girly hair clips. Then I brush their teeth.<br /><br />I check my email and do other to do “stuff” while the kids’ pour everything out of the dress up bin. And as the mess continues I prep snacks and lunch (especially if we’re heading out), even mine otherwise I never eat. <br /><br />Sometimes we all play together and it’s lots of fun and exhausting, in a good way. And sometimes the three of them play amazingly together and I can get more “stuff” done. If it’s not laundry or cleaning, it’s drawing, painting, writing, reading, or creating adorable troll Waldorf dolls. I love it all, but it does get a little overwhelming at times.<br /><br />During naps/rest time I continue, doing my best to cross out things on my to do list, never sitting or taking a break. In the afternoon we usually stay home or run an errand to a store. I like to slow down a little because at this point I’m pretty tired.<br /><br />At bath time my husband and me split up the kids. I always have one in our bathtub and he has two in their bathtub (we rotate kids so they all have get a bath alone). I like to use this time to chat and play since I want to give them as much one on one as I can. But sometimes I end up folding the laundry on the bathroom floor.<br /><br />Lately I feel like I have been stealing minutes throughout the day. Stealing them from my “me time” and from my “me and my kids time”. I’m trying to do little here and there so I can get more things done in one day (more than is possible sometimes). I try not to steal to many of those minutes from my kids, I love hanging out with them. But sometimes I simply have to.sara bachratyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17509050539830442075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-40666198494825001082010-08-06T13:46:00.002-06:002010-08-06T14:19:12.052-06:00Home Is Where the Heart Is!I've been sitting cross-legged on my couch in my living room as my little girl sleeps soundly in her bedroom, thinking, I love my home. I rent an old 1200 square foot Old Town home with my husband and 2 year old daughter. It's small and needs a million and one repairs (which includes a new roof), but it's cozy, with big windows facing every direction, so that there is always available light and fresh air, a fun kitchen with plenty of room for socializing in while cooking, a front porch perfect for sitting out on with a glass of wine in the summer evenings... It's got everything I need to be content. But these past several months, as I have emptied the dishwasher, done yoga poses on the living room floor, cooked a pot of black beans on the stove, or danced to "Hey Soul Sister" around the rooms with my little girl, my mind has wandered over to the reality that I might have to part with these everyday experiences soon. And it's breaking my heart. I love everything about my life... except for one thing - my marriage. As I have done all that is in my control to save it, which includes counseling, prayer, being as nice as an emotionally abused woman can be, etc., I have come to terms with the fact that, unfortunately, it takes two, and there is nothing that I can do to change the other's heart. My husband has no desire to make this marriage work. Rejected. Ouch. So what do I do? What is an unemployed mom of a two year old supposed to do? Every time I log onto a website for some type of social services I get this incredible fog and sense of fatigue over my mind, which brings me to put it off until another day. Because hey, maybe tonight he'll come home from work and give me a hug! Hell, maybe he'll look at me! But the days go by and I am left wondering again what in the world I am supposed to do. So I go about my days as usual, as if nothing is wrong, taking care of my daughter and my home, cooking, cleaning, running errands, spending money that now feels wrong for me to spend, since I am not the one making it... But still, I pray. I pray a lot. God, I know that You're here, but are You just watching me? Are you just hangin out, thinking, "This is the result of all your mistakes over the years"? Okay, I don't really believe that. But good grief, I am at a total loss. Either my husband's heart must change drastically, or sooner than later I am going to have to make the choice to build myself a new life, with my daughter. I know that I can do it... Women do it all the time. But never in a million years, growing up, did I imagine myself possibly having to experience a divorce, seek out welfare and be a single mom one day. Speaking of mom... If only she were alive. Isn't that what moms are for? Wouldn't life be so much easier if she were still here? Oh, the "what-if's". The "should've's". Those'll kill a person. I can't go there. Maybe this season of my life is a blessing in disguise. Maybe God is actually sitting next to me saying, "Oh, just you wait... I've got a 3000 square foot house full of open doors ready for you to walk through!"Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11418182144680359926noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-79347073299161691072010-08-04T09:11:00.000-06:002010-08-04T09:11:05.830-06:00Firsts and LastsYesterday, just as I have done each year for four years, I drove to the high school to turn in the athletic paperwork required to clear my soon-to-be senior daughter for the softball season. It hit me as I drove away from the school: this year is the last time I will do this for her. I won't be here next August doing this. I will instead be driving her to some still to be determined college campus and sending her on her way in life. I've already done this once before with my oldest daughter, but the thought of doing it again doesn't get any easier.<br />
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When our kids are little we celebrate all of their "firsts": first tooth, first steps, first word. This year I find myself thinking of all of the upcoming "lasts": last softball season, last homecoming, last prom. My middle daughter and I have had a challenging relationship and at times I have thought that it would be best for both of us if she went to college far away. Now that the time is growing nearer for college applications and the next step in her life, I find myself hoping that she stays closer to home. I'm ready to see her celebrate some new "firsts": first dorm room, first year of college, first sense of responsibility. <br />
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I think back to that first year of kindergarten many years ago and I can't believe that the little blonde girl that I dropped off that day is already starting her last year of high school. She grew up way too fast. Now, two daughters will be gone into the world and only my son will still be at home. <br />
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I know there will be a lot of "lasts" this year which will bring tears to my eyes. I just have to keep reminding myself that there are many more "firsts" to come. I know that the next round of "firsts" will be worth waiting for. <br />
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Peggy McNealPeggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01594304077135667051noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-71987082628107244262010-08-02T09:26:00.001-06:002010-08-02T09:28:48.946-06:00My So Called LifeOK, so I was bored. The kids were monopolizing the TV to play Wii, and now that you can watch almost any TV on line for free I “googled” an old favorite, My So Called Life. For those of you who are too young, this was a show about a 15 year-old-girl, Angela, and her trials and tribulations in high school. However, it was filmed in that super self-aware style of Thirty Something (you are also probably too young to remember that show as well). I remembered that show as being one giant sentimental tear inducing dream that always left me feeling like a moody teenager who had everything to live for. I would just crawl into Angela’s soul and be her for an hour – remembering how important each look, gesture, or word could be when you were that age. Ah, the self-absorption and self-importance of being a teenager.<br /><br />As I watched episode 1, I was surprised to find that the connection that I had once felt for Angela was replaced by the alliance I now seem to have with her mother. I literally got chills when the mom character says to her husband “It is so hard to look at her – she looks like a stranger” when speaking of her daughter. Oh, did that strike close to home. The mother also struggles with feeling left out – the dinner conversation is limited – no one wants to go ice skating with her. She complains to her husband that she always has to be the bad guy when he gets to be the fun parent, the one to say yes.<br /><br />Then there is the moment when Angela comes home after a particularly hard night and she cries to her mother and lays with her until she falls asleep. A rare break from the constant estrangement that they both feel. The look on the mom’s face when she feels that connection and knows that her teenage daughter is still in there… well, it was a real tearjerker for me.<br /><br />Still crying through this old TV show, but now for completely different reasons.<br /><br />I guess I am not quite there yet, my 10-year-old isn’t sneaking out to go to raves, but she is dying her hair blue (with my help) and I already can envision the struggle that will probably occur when she will actively try to assert her independence and break away from my control. I am both envious of the journey that she is about to embark on but also fearful for what it might do to us. But mostly, I am curious to see whom she will become and what choices she will make. I will try to be there when she needs me. I will try to be her home.Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06525729633792582047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-11726935187981244172010-07-29T11:19:00.008-06:002010-07-31T16:09:13.484-06:00Confessions of Imperfection"Mom!" I heard fear in my daughter's voice as I unbuckled my middle kid. Suddenly my giggling baby was flying "wheee" toward me on a stolen tricycle across the OUAC parking lot and that's not all, a car had to brake for him. Later I knew I should have apologized and lavishly thanked the driver for taking care. In the moment I felt too embarrassed and incompetent to even make eye contact. I snatched up the baby (unhappy to relinquish the tricycle) and held him tight.<br /><br />My daughter was supposed to be holding the baby's hand. But at six, she isn't responsible for a one-year-old in front of a toy store. The baby brother is strong, fast and capricious. From now on, he will always be the last one removed from the car.<br /><br />Why is it that I take comfort in the fact that I'm not the only mama who suffers significant lapses in parenting finesse? Wouldn't it be better for children everywhere if I really was the only recurrently maladroit mother out there? Yet as I read "<a href="http://www.facebook.com/getbornmag">get born</a>" facebook confessions of moms who left safety seats unbuckled, forgot to feed a toddler, spaced the daycare pickup, or can't remember children's birthdays at the doctor, I know we share a bond of imperfection. My neighbor's daughter drank cough syrup. A friend's son choked down coins and she had to recover them from subsequent diapers.<br /><br />I once arrived at a MOPS meeting and discovered in the parking lot that I had only two kids with me and my week-old newborn was still at home, sleeping in his carrier just inside the door. Can anybody I know outdo that? I HOPE NOT, but I wouldn't doubt it. I'm tempted to scrutinize other moms when they're having a good day, convince myself they are always full of beauty, wisdom and eternal patience, and measure myself inadequate. I begin to fantasize that they never fall from grace and there must be something seriously wrong with me, living in such blatant humanity.<br /><br />Those reminders that I'm not alone help curb the tendency to indulge in a classic guilt-ridden pity party probably involving excessive chocolate or corn chips. Well that and looking in my children's endlessly loving and forbearing faces. I really don't expect my middle son to harbor ill feelings about the preventable tantrum scar on his eyebrow, or the fact that his bike helmet is tough to fit on his misshapen skull forever flat on one side and pointy on top because I neglected to rotate his sleeping head in his first four months of life. No, he will forgive and love me just as my daughter has after being accidentally locked in the garage for ten terrified minutes when she was three - and just as the baby brother will if he ever finds out his mama let him loose in front of traffic.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-56356641330406377652010-07-28T08:18:00.004-06:002010-07-28T21:47:36.547-06:00TimeTime. It's one of those words that you don't necessarily pay attention to. You take it for granted. You go about your daily day and routines without a thought or a care in the world. You just continue on everyday.<br />
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But within the past few weeks, I quickly realized how time has taken a toll in my life, my world, my family.<br />
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Over a year ago, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. As anybody could imagine, we were scared of the inevitable. But my father's oncologist assured my parents that it was in the early stages and with treatments, he would be fine.<br />
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Fast-forward to now and yes, although he is currently 'cancer-free,' the chemo treatments have taken a toll on his 74 year-old body, thus affecting his health. He had been complaining of lack of energy and exhaustion for several weeks, to the point that he would fall because he couldn't walk properly. As their home physical therapist was working with my him, she noticed he wasn't breathing properly, so they called 911 to ask their advice on what they should do.<br />
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First stop—a trip to the hospital.<br />
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Turns out, my father was in the early stages of pneumonia. Thankfully because they caught it early, it hadn't escalated to the point of threatening his life. Regardless, they admitted him and kept a watch on him only to be released a few days later.<br />
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Next stop—rehabilitation.<br />
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This was very difficult for my father to comprehend. Not because he is delirious or suffering from dementia, but because he's a stubborn Italian man. Always has been, most likely always will be. Like any patient would be, he was reluctant to go, but knew it was one of those necessary evils in life. If he didn't, it could potentially get worse.<br />
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My mother assures me that he is fine and well taken care of at the rehab center. They don't anticipate releasing him until they feel he is 100% capable of walking on his own, and doing—what we consider to be mundane—activities by himself everyday without the aid of my mother. It could take a week, it could take a month, but either way, I know he is in good hands with 2–3 hours of physical therapy everyday.<br />
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Even though my father and I have always had a tumultuous relationship, I still love him more than I did as a child. He's my daddy, and I'm his little girl—his 45 year-old little girl. So a part of me wants to fly out there immediately and comfort him, let him know that we are there to support him, but my mother says not to come as of yet. He wants to be healthy enough to enjoy the company of his daughter and granddaughter.<br />
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As any daughter or son could imagine, I am scared. I have always looked upon my father as a pillar of strength, so to hear these events occur, is distressing, but for the most part, shocking. My father was the leader of our family. He was the voice of reason—albeit a loud voice—but the 'voice,' nevertheless. I have never considered myself a mature person, which for me, is just fine. But to see how time has marched on and we have all gotten older in our years, I realize that not only are my parents getting older, so am I. So is my daughter. So is my husband.<br />
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But it happens. Unfortunately, it happens.<br />
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So, I will wait, wait to hear from my mother and wait to hop on the next plane out to Las Vegas to visit them and enjoy their company.<br />
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Last stop—home.<br />
<br />
SuzanneOne Girl Creativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694269933096071641noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-43498556676167516592010-07-27T06:44:00.001-06:002010-07-27T10:09:59.947-06:00Haunted by the inevitableAt some point, we are all going to die.<br /><br />Not like this is ground breaking news that we all didn't realize before, but it's a fact I never really focused on until becoming a mom. Maybe it's because before starting a family, I really didn't care if I met my demise anytime soon. Maybe it's because I feel like I now have something to lose. Whatever the case, I feel like I'm constantly haunted by the inevitable.<br /><br />Now that my boys are growing a little bit older, my husband and I have more freedom to go out on our own leaving them behind with a sitter. We are enjoying date nights at concerts at The Aggie and Mishawaka and have even started to do some overnight stays at hotels in Denver. The freedom to enjoy these moments with my husband is amazing. Long gone are the days of being home-bound and bored with limits and restrictions that revolve around diaper changes, nap schedules and feeding regimens. Through time, the shackles of babyhood have been broken, leaving us to run free.<br /><br />On our last kid-free adventure, we drove up to The Mish with friends for a concert. Music blaring, friends laughing, the warm wind blowing through our hair as we rode the twists and turns of the road hugging the beautiful Poudre River while driving up the canyon. Our kids at home with the sitter and safely tucked in their beds, I couldn't help but think how dangerous this trip was. At a moments notice, we could be in a head-on collision, swerve off the road and into the river, or a true reality, hit a deer.<br /><br />My biggest fear is not knowing what would happen to my kids if both my husband and I were to die at the same time.<br /><br />Most families are fairly normal. When you have your first baby, one of the most important steps in becoming a parent is drawing up a Will, laying out a plan of care for your children if you should expire earlier than you hoped. Normal families have Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, or some trusted adults named to take over and keep your kids safe. We do not. Without going into a long list of specifics, there is nobody I trust enough with my kids if I should die.<br /><br />This fact recently hit me like a ton of bricks a few weeks ago after reading the news story in The Coloradoan. The one about the parents who made some very poor decisions, speeding and driving drunk down Lemay, only to end up in a fatal and gory car accident at the insurance office building. They left behind children with no plans for their care. Friends and family rallied to raise money to take care of the mourning children and their future was uncertain.<br /><br />I can't even begin to explain how disturbing this was to me. Not that my husband and I make stupid decisions like speeding while driving drunk, but life is unpredictable. Anything can happen at any time. My boys could easily be in the same situation, parent-less and bouncing from house to house, or in foster care, while people manage the mess of the aftermath.<br /><br />These thoughts are often buried deep within the halls of my mind, but every so often a door is opened and I'm tormented by what has surfaced. I don't care about an afterlife, meeting a maker or simply returning to dust. I care immensely about what happens to my children after I'm gone. And until they are able to care for themselves, I will always be haunted by the inevitable.<br /><br />Kristin MastreKristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09988190251156621315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-80020560010936531982010-07-26T07:33:00.005-06:002010-07-26T07:40:32.768-06:00YES mom NO momAs you all have heard before, I want to be the mom to say YES. I want to be cool and fun. I want my kids to like me. Don’t we all. But alas, this is not the way it has to be… <br /><br />I have an iPhone. AND as one of the “urban Amish” (a term I stole from Peggy but perfectly describes me as well), it is underused. By me. For me, it is a phone, and a way to check e-mail, and texts, but Apps are not my thing. I do have a few to be sure, a movie clock, a pregnancy wheel, etc. but not pages and pages of them. <br /><br />One of my biggest “YES” mistakes was to let my 10-year-old daughter “buy” some free games. Now when we drive around she drains my battery playing silly games with names like Jelly car.<br /><br />Yesterday after coming back from a run, she was waiting for me outside. I felt happy that she had missed me and was excited to see me back. It turned out that what she really wanted was to buy a game for my phone that cost $10.00. “NO” was my immediate answer and my reward was that pouty sulky face that makes me feel like I am the meanest worst mother in the whole entire world. This really pissed me off. Not only did it ruin my endorphin high, but also I realized that I should have just been strong enough to not have ever let her use my phone in the first place. <br /><br />I told her that I was really disappointed in her attitude especially since I have been so generous with my phone and that that could change at any moment in time if she didn’t change her attitude. And then I said ”sorry mommy” to which she said “sorry mommy” in that somewhat insincere and mocking voice and then I made a forced smile showing all my teeth and then she did too and walked away.<br /><br />Needless to say, her adolescence has officially started in my mind and I should probably get a prescription for Xanax at my next check up. I am also going to have to say “NO” more frequently and more easily and without the nagging guilt that comes with it. Next time, the “NO” may be more important.Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06525729633792582047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-79837134457196426192010-07-21T09:57:00.000-06:002010-07-21T09:57:51.172-06:00Victoria's Secret secret?I'm a pretty open-minded mom, and I have allowed my kids a lot of freedom growing up. Now that I look back on it, I was probably too liberal at times, but it's too late to change courses now. What's done is done. Along with this open-mindedness comes dialogue like the following, which occurred on Mother's Day this year:<br />
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Twenty year-old college student daughter: "Hey mom, remember those thong underwear you bought me at Victoria's Secret? Boyfriend (name being withheld to protect his privacy) really liked them."<br />
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Me: "Great! - I'm glad to hear that!" <br />
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Actually, I'm not quite sure of my exact reaction. I know that it was one of those moments of hearing just a little too much information for a mom and wanting to hold my fingers in my ears and shout "LALALALALA" at the same time to drown out the details. <br />
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Considering she is twenty and living on her own, I really don't have a huge problem with this, but it's one of those topics that maybe should stay secret and not be shared between mother and daughter. On the one hand, I'm glad she feels so free to tell me this. On the other hand, however, there are some things best left out of the conversation with Mom on Mother's Day. <br />
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Somehow I imagined Mother's Day to be calm and tranquil with my darling older kids cooking a wonderful meal for me and none of the kids swearing at each other, and definitely not telling me about their boyfriend's approval of the underwear purchase.<br />
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Then I was jolted back to reality with the fact that I have teenagers and twenty-year olds, and somehow things just aren't the same anymore. I cooked them a wonderful meal while they sat on the couch and watched TV, frantically texting the friends they couldn't be with that day.<br />
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Ahh, the joys of Motherhood. <br />
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Peggy McNeal<br />
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Peggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01594304077135667051noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-67171333150434935472010-07-19T12:39:00.001-06:002010-07-19T12:42:21.953-06:00I hate youMy 10-year-old daughter and my 5-year-old son have a love-hate relationship. He loves her and she hates him. Well, at least some of the time. She oftentimes plays with him especially if she can set the terms. She is a skilled negotiator (a.k.a. manipulator) who can usually get people to see things her way. However, she loses her patience with him which results in crying followed by “I wish we never adopted him. Let’s send him back.”<br /><br />The other day, this whole pattern cycled through but this time she said “I want to kill myself.” Time out.... In the medical world this is a statement that is not to be taken lightly. It generally means a trip to the emergency room and a psych consult. That further tempered with a suicide in a relative from someone at my daughter’s school made me sit up and pay attention. Should I be taking her to the ER? Calling her pediatrician?<br /><br />I sat with her and listened to her complaints and stroked her hair while she cried. She was fine yesterday. I wanted to take her seriously, yet it was hard to when she has never shown signs of depression before. <br /><br />I kept a close eye on her the entire day. I encouraged (forced) her to go on a family bike ride thinking that between the exercise and the sun exposure that would help her sullen mood. And it did. Where the Spring Creek trail merges into the Poudre trail we pulled over to throw rocks into the water and everyone was in good spirits again. She even played with the boy that night despite my repeatedly saying that she really didn’t have to.<br /><br />Luckily this episode was a false alarm. Girl drama. But I will remain super alert as she inches towards puberty, as I know the risk of depression increases during this developmental period. At least I know where to find a good therapist…Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06525729633792582047noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-10161606194155798702010-07-15T11:44:00.002-06:002010-07-15T11:54:47.012-06:00Blue Highlights<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5SREyz4sHA4pKh2EOfD-1WoH35yqdAZmmP6xQO_BvEgU9e3DS1GCvcna5LWNjbO3g75X-C69p3vW_53NSzOXAGw7E9W1hAZxL1OONDL6SVoUV1CylALw7GLeN2SkVqtHYVdXfTQ5pSQ/s1600/DSC_0026.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5SREyz4sHA4pKh2EOfD-1WoH35yqdAZmmP6xQO_BvEgU9e3DS1GCvcna5LWNjbO3g75X-C69p3vW_53NSzOXAGw7E9W1hAZxL1OONDL6SVoUV1CylALw7GLeN2SkVqtHYVdXfTQ5pSQ/s320/DSC_0026.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494192629010763906" /></a><br />I know it was indulgent, but there I was sitting in Studio Be Salon in Old Town as my ten-year-old daughter was getting her highlights dyed blue. Indulgent because it is an unnecessary and over-the-top expense for a ten year old. Indulgent because it makes me feel like a cool mom. And it’s not like a tattoo or a piercing; it will grow out. I am tired of being the good mother and restricting the sugared cereal and the TV time. It is summer and I want to be able to say YES….<br /> <br />I pat myself on the back. I am so cool to break this taboo. It is something that my mom (and mother-in-law) would never approve of. And therefore, it became a little dirty and sinful as if I was rebelling against them. Living vicariously through my daughter I could almost reenact all the crazy things that I wanted to do as a teenager but didn’t have the guts to do for fear of my mother’s disapproving comments.<br /><br />She sits comfortably in the chair, chatting with the stylist, confident and carefree. When asked if she would like something to drink she says “maybe a glass of water.” How is it that she can enjoy this totally self-indulgent treat while I have not cut or colored my hair since October? I want her to be able to do nice things for herself. To think herself worthy of a full hour of pampering will be a minor victory for me. <br /><br />In return for my "rebellious" splurge, my ten year old teaches me to say yes to my own needs. She is in love with her mother and helps reverse some of the insecurities I still carry from my own mother’s constant disapproval. She teaches me that I am worthy and beautiful.<br /><br />No, I will not be dying blue streaks into my hair, but I will get it colored and cover up the gray. Maybe bangs? Maybe some layers? I might even accept a beverage when my stylist offers. Small victories perhaps, but freeing never the less. It is finally time to let go.Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06525729633792582047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-7959857755315141122010-07-14T01:52:00.001-06:002010-07-27T10:10:26.804-06:00So, I guess we finally have it right after all these years of notA few weeks ago, I was able to join my husband in an all day Life Plan meeting that was set up by his workplace. I know, it sounds new-agey, which I'm not. And when I heard the words "life" and "plan" put together, I thought to myself, <span style="font-style: italic;">well, this is going to be interesting because everything I try to plan in my life never quite works out the way I intend</span>.<br /><br />My husband works for Otterbox, an amazing local company here in Fort Collins that is growing at a massive rate. His employment there has drastically changed our life for the better. This is just another example of that betterment. Otterbox really cares about their employees and everyone is given the chance to sit down with a life coach to develop this master Life Plan to figure out where they want to go in the company and how their skill sets will be best utilized. It's a fantastic tool for a business, but this plan also touches on personal and family life aspects...<br /><br /><a href="http://www.patersoncenter.com/sub_cc_lp.htm">The Life Plan experience</a>, designed by Tom Patterson, is an intense two-day meeting that designs your total life strategy. It is heavily rooted in Christian beliefs where "God has a plan for you", which I don't buy for a second (says the Atheist in me.) However, I do believe in the importance of planning, having direction and focus in all aspects of your life. That's just common sense.<br /><br />The first day is spent entirely on gaining perspective and understanding your story - where you've come from and why. You look for behavioral patterns and themes with life decisions you make. It's all about delving into who you are and what you do. I missed this day, but would have loved to experience it. I'm kind of a geek for insightful moments and gaining perspective.<br /><br />The second day is nothing but planing and figuring out how parts of your life fit together. It's such a complicated, multidimensional experience with lists, circles, colors and 17 large sheets of flip chart papers covering the room from all four walls and to floor to ceiling. It all seems to flow along flawlessly. Each aspect of your life (Personal, Family, and Professional) is rated with a color: green = good, yellow = needs some work, and red = poor. It's just like a traffic light.<br /><br />When we were going over the family aspect of Bill's life, every point was green, meaning that we had perfect balance. In our discussion, we concluded that our family life and our marriage is incredibly positive, strong and balanced, if I dare say near "perfect". It's never been better.<br /><br />What an incredibly powerful moment for me. To see without a shadow of a doubt, right there on paper full of green circles, that all of the many years of hard work we've put into our relationship has paid off. We've reached our goal of a harmonious house and an amazing marriage. It hasn't always been this way, in fact, we've always been insanely imperfect and there were times we didn't think we were going to make it. It took many, many years of tears, stress, strife and counseling to get here. But we did it and only just recently. We couldn't be more proud of each other.<br /><br />While this Life Plan was enormously beneficial and literally life changing for my husband when it came to his professional life at Otterbox, it was such a huge gift for me to be able to experience the second half and recognize the effort we've put into us and our family life. I don't believe God has a master plan already mapped out, but I do believe in us and the tremendous amount of work we've accomplished to get here.<br /><br />So, I guess we finally have it right after all these years of not.<br /><br />Kristin MastreKristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09988190251156621315noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-33276324013099787122010-07-09T09:01:00.007-06:002010-07-09T12:22:12.144-06:00Compassion?On Facebook this morning the Dalai Lama had posted this:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"A mind committed to compassion is like an overflowing reservoir - a constant source of energy, determination and kindness. This mind can also be likened to a seed; when cultivated, it gives rise to many other qualities, such as forgiveness, tolerance, inner strength, and the confidence to overcome fear and insecurity."</span><br /><br />I love starting my day with his inspiring ideas about the world.<br /><br />Of course there is a standard order to my web viewing in the morning. First I check my personal emails, then I post a blog to my site, then I head to Facebook, then I head over to my Google Homepage to check my favorite blogs I RSS Feed to, then it is over to Yahoo. I hate to admit it, but I peruse the 'news', mostly trash articles about celebrities and sports, in which the once in a while actual news article takes me off guard, at the top of the screen before I wander into my Yahoo Mail to check my 'everything else' email box.<br /><br />I cam across this little article today, <a href="http://tv.yahoo.com/news/article/tv-news.en.ap.org/tv-news.en.ap.org-20100709-us_tv_today_gay_wedding">NBC Changes Rules to Allow Gay 'Today' Wedding</a>. Reading the article it seemed pretty straightforward, what I found offensive was many of the comments.<br /><br />I was immediately brought back to the Dalai Lama's quote I had read a few moments before, ironically, about compassion. Why is it so hard for us as human beings to have compassion for one another? Regardless of our beliefs about one thing or other?<br /><br />Lately I have found that holds true for Mom's. Someone, somewhere is always judging the way other Mom's are doing it. Whether on Facebook, blogs, or articles. I am pained when I see light remarks made that reflect a quick judgment upon another, who is also just trying to do her best. Parenting is so dang hard, no matter how you look at it. Let us show compassion instead of assumptions toward each other. Each of us could use all the support we can get.<br /><br />I am not immune from my own snap snarkiness. I was in line at Target last night getting a birthday present for my little boy. In front of me was a woman who looked utterly terrified as she gazed at all of the food items the cashier was ringing up. She had cash in one hand and a credit card in the other. Her teenage daughter was loading the bags into the cart. The fear was seeping from her pores. Instead of compassion, I looked at her clothes and thought to myself, "If it is that bad, why do you look so darn cute in an adorable outfit?"<br /><br />Ouch.<br /><br />I quickly realized my rash arrogance. I decided to imagine the gazillion things that could have gone wrong in her life recently. Her husband could be unemployed, she could have lost her job, her husband or one of her children may be going through a medical crisis, she could have just gotten a divorce, maybe someone in her family passed away and they had unexpected travel expenses, maybe one of her kids has a huge talent the family spends a lot of money supporting, maybe...maybe...maybe...<br /><br />Who are we to know? What was <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> to know?<br /><br />Compassion allows us to see the humanity in us all. The fragile, scary, joyous humaness we each posses. If we just try to put ourselves in each others shoes, instead of being so quick to judge, we could offer another human the most amazing gift of all...simple compassion.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-14941766879457221652010-07-07T14:42:00.003-06:002010-07-07T15:03:33.210-06:00A rainy day is a good day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMJYCHx4vzqVV2UbRTUZCxcGskq0YLZFq2OXQtgqby3yx4nqYz7r0s3ewMrAsM1gFtPyZhPCUys2g18dWUCShWxHT4e83e7U1Zeahfu-0YbdarAzh5KMmJwWYrE9nCyKo5ZFJQEF5gLw/s1600/photo-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 186px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMJYCHx4vzqVV2UbRTUZCxcGskq0YLZFq2OXQtgqby3yx4nqYz7r0s3ewMrAsM1gFtPyZhPCUys2g18dWUCShWxHT4e83e7U1Zeahfu-0YbdarAzh5KMmJwWYrE9nCyKo5ZFJQEF5gLw/s320/photo-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491272720824207490" /></a><br />It’s rainy and grey outside today. I like rainy days as long as there are lots of sunny ones in between. It cozy, lazy and you have an excuse to bake. Today we baked a birthday cake. It’s my husband’s birthday today and he loves days like this, it’s perfect.<br /><br />In the car this morning we turned the explosive children’s music off and just listened to the rain and the windshield wipers, pitter patter, swoosh swoosh. The sound of rain hitting the window is almost healing, it forces me to take a break, even if it’s just for a minute.<br /><br />I dropped my preschooler off at the farm for her little “Pee Wee Farmer” class. I pictured them spending the next hour and a half up on the loft, playing in the hay with the kitty cats and telling stories. I wanted to stay too. But, instead I walked my two toddlers back to the car where they hopped and splashed in some puddles until my daughter hopped right out of her shoe and her sock got wet, and that was the end of that. When we returned to the farm all the Pee Wee Farmers pulled up sitting on hay behind a tractor, smiles all around. <br /><br />It’s naptime now and the entire house sounds like it does in my kids bedrooms, it’s just like the rain sound from their sound machines. My twin toddlers are sleeping, even my preschooler decided to nap (she never decides to nap). It’s has to be this rainy day, I might cuddle up on the couch too.<br /><br />I think rainy days are good for the soul.sara bachratyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17509050539830442075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-64632181003105267632010-06-28T13:20:00.000-06:002010-06-28T13:21:25.718-06:00TimeWe recently visited friends whose eldest is off to college in the fall. He is a boy-man at 6’5” and over 200 pounds. He is beautiful like a J. Crew model. He lazes around looking like he is waiting. Waiting for his life to begin, waiting for the adventure of college. My husband and his friend sat drinking and recalling those days. Stories were told. Memories of a different place revisited.<br /><br />How is it possible that our children are grown when it feels like I am still a child? And how would I feel to be his mother? Looking at him, almost too big to hug. How did my mother feel when I went off to college? Was it relief or an unbearable separation? I was scared but felt free. Excited at the possibility of beginning. <br /><br />But now, time is playing tricks on me. I know she does not stand still, yet I am always surprised when I look in the mirror – expecting to see someone else. I never would have plastic surgery I used to say, but now the idea is beginning to tempt. My daughter grows more beautiful and I more ugly. Did the women who came before me feel the same? Were they jealous or did they find comfort in the knowledge of all that came before?<br /><br />I cannot slow it down or make it stop. I can only embrace and appreciate all that life has given me. I will learn to love myself the way I am today.Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06525729633792582047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-83272967454901140312010-06-24T09:01:00.004-06:002010-06-24T09:09:10.512-06:00The Realities of Reality<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcerQMAVUhHKy6xBCp1efhCaQLp000TQNiBC0f0qbLt5joj_JDh_qxEkypawiuWNBIPunCVt0hF-ZbvZkpLjU38Q68_HRNGxGHabJ848IUrsm0wod7gsyJ9kbAlDY0zhGdzzm4V1rkVP_/s1600/tv_the_real_housewives_of_new_york_city01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcerQMAVUhHKy6xBCp1efhCaQLp000TQNiBC0f0qbLt5joj_JDh_qxEkypawiuWNBIPunCVt0hF-ZbvZkpLjU38Q68_HRNGxGHabJ848IUrsm0wod7gsyJ9kbAlDY0zhGdzzm4V1rkVP_/s320/tv_the_real_housewives_of_new_york_city01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Let me preface this by saying that I admit, I am a reality show junkie. That being said, I felt compelled to write about this recent phenomenon not with rose-colored glasses, but objectively as a viewer myself.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">When this whole reality show excursion bursted onto the scene, I was very skeptical and apprehensive to take part in what I call “train wreck television.” And for the most part, I actually held up my convictions until recently. In the past year or so, I have become addicted to (insert embarrassment here) many of the reality shows and competitions on the cable network, BravoTV. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I have never watched Survivor, American Idol or The Amazing Race (or whatever it’s called), but when Bravo premiered Project Runway several years ago, I just had to watch. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Since my first major in college was fashion design, I have always had a keen interest in fashion and how it comes to fruition. For me, Project Runway was a perfect gateway to fulfill that fixation. Since I hadn’t started watching it from the beginning, I rented the first few seasons to play catch up so I can immediately capture the current moments of each Project Runway season. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I loved it. I couldn’t get enough of hearing Heidi Klum utter the words each week to the failing contestant—“you’re out.” It was exhilarating.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Then came Top Chef. Since I loathe cooking and get quite bored with it, it provided that escapism aspect that I needed. Even though I had no idea how they were creating their dishes, I enjoyed watching the narcissistic attitudes of each chef that was provided for us—the viewing audience—each week.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Then came The Real Housewives of Orange County. Please understand, that when this show first came on the scene, it wasn’t the train wreck television that we see now with any of the Real Housewives’ franchise (i.e. Orange County, New York City, Atlanta, New Jersey and soon-to-come, Washington, D.C.). No, just the opposite—it provided a glimpse in the life of the rich and affluent lifestyles of these Orange County housewives and their daily interactions with one another, frequent shopping sprees to boutiques I can only dream of, unlimited travel to exotic locations, and a close-up glimpse of the inside of their beloved McMansions. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I loved it.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Again, it provided the escapism that I needed in my life.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Fast forward to 2010, and what we see now is a compilation of catty and faux rich women who each have their own skeletons in their large walk-in closets. With each of these Real Housewives shows, they provided the curiosity syndrome that most of us “real folk” only dreamed about. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Until recently. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It seems that with the combination of on-camera evictions, recent bankruptcy filings, sex tapes abound, et al—instead, what Bravo provided was nothing but a sham to the viewing audience. Out of all of these ‘characters’ from these shows, it seems that only a handful (and I’m being generous here) are who they say they are—meaning, they’re actually wealthy in real life. The rest? Not so much.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I have come to learn that most reality shows (if not all) that are out there, are not considered ‘reality.,’ but just the opposite. They’re scripted like any other show with real actors, only they want you to believe that what you’re seeing is real. But is it? In this Photoshop-ladened era, it really doesn't surprise me that most of what we're seeing, is fake or scripted.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Nowadays these networks have the viewers believing they are in fact, reality. So even though reality shows have evolved since the popular MTV series Real World came onto the scene back in the 90s, or veteran reality show inaugurate, The Osbournes, I believe we have grown as an audience, as well.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Either way, I know it seems trite and quite mind-numbing to watch the majority of these shows, so why does the American public continue to watch them?</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">One answer: because it’s like a car accident, as macabre as it may seem, you just HAVE to look.</span><br />
<br />
Suzanne</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>One Girl Creativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11694269933096071641noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-72203301326772281222010-06-24T07:48:00.003-06:002010-06-24T07:52:25.312-06:00Decisions decisions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0jru8kpAmfkegiDrjGe4tzkplUSggCDqZPQCfUAW_GJjpbPzLgtcDuPpzCHms7JkLDdU8G_7LWltWcxsHIpsiZ2zx_wa8F6KE8zv9Y5JMz8fHDvRvfvqZeGobiOiLWaGzUIpRjLEQU4/s1600/wh.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0jru8kpAmfkegiDrjGe4tzkplUSggCDqZPQCfUAW_GJjpbPzLgtcDuPpzCHms7JkLDdU8G_7LWltWcxsHIpsiZ2zx_wa8F6KE8zv9Y5JMz8fHDvRvfvqZeGobiOiLWaGzUIpRjLEQU4/s320/wh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486337518347744802" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.bostonherald.com/blogs/sports/rap_sheet/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/work_life.jpg">Source</a><br /><br />I nervously dropped off job applications at the mall. I didn’t want to. I did it because it’d be nice to have some extra money this summer (for the kids) and because I might need some time away. Some time to not worry about house and kids, some time just to be me. Working at the mall was the only place I could think of where I could still be a “full time” mom working only evenings and weekend and I even have retail experience from my collage years.<br /><br />I don’t know if I will get hired or even go on an interview, still I can’t help feeling nervous. I have been home with my kids for almost 4 1/2 years (their whole lives). I know I need time away from them sometimes but the thought of leaving them for many hours at a time a few days a week to work makes me sick in the stomach. I feel silly thinking that because so many moms have to work, or want to work and not only part time, but full time. I guess I’m so used to being with them that I know nothing else, my home, husband and kids are my comfort zone. <br /><br />Sometimes I feel like I forget how to socialize; I talk to kids all day long. When I do go out I feel weird sometimes because I don’t have much to say. And then I worry; I’m not nice enough, funny enough or the least bit interesting (even though I know I am those things, at least at home). How will that work out at a job?<br /><br />Do I even know how to work anymore? I know how to be a mom; well at least I try. Is giving my kids choices to solve a problem similar to bringing a customer a few different outfits to try on? Is folding laundry, dealing with a tantrum and trying to get my husbands attention for help similar to working the cash register, dealing with an unsatisfied customer while smiling?<br /><br />I love being home with my kids. I want to be there for them and I don’t want to miss anything. I want them to be happy. But maybe we’ll all be even happier with some time apart and some extra money to take them places this summer.<br /><br />Leaving my kids to work is something I have no clue to what it would be like, it’s unknown and unfamiliar. So here I am worrying about something that might never happen? And I don’t know if I should try harder to make it happen. Who knows, it could be amazing, for them and me.sara bachratyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17509050539830442075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-703231883440613355.post-63432214647405470162010-06-21T10:13:00.024-06:002010-06-21T20:13:07.976-06:00The Sunrise Yurt<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-wNwVt49wh-7TW-rNpmpGgxV9dAT9Zj9FLnJQsEe1SB_xNYEdABRTZ77X5CGYae2QY8XyBU9K7aWuHiiivBqu6TWh2jh3Fc3lk_tmHVjRXmJ-1YzNagUnmHPfi8U1bAl1VBilxFxn-27/s1600/IMG_5046.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-wNwVt49wh-7TW-rNpmpGgxV9dAT9Zj9FLnJQsEe1SB_xNYEdABRTZ77X5CGYae2QY8XyBU9K7aWuHiiivBqu6TWh2jh3Fc3lk_tmHVjRXmJ-1YzNagUnmHPfi8U1bAl1VBilxFxn-27/s200/IMG_5046.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485345131655433602" border="0" /></a>"What's a yurt?" Common question. It's a hut-shaped canvas tent on a wooden frame and deck, equipped with bunk beds, a table and chairs, and a skylight. We camped in one for the first time a week ago at Bear Creek Lake Park west of Denver. The campsite came with the usual fire pit, grill, picnic table, and mosquitos.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Q8wRdnffxGz8-SA76gBwDThgcbGJyEHltwku1E0smZLV0DxHxRMGbBDCk-AAekurSAfLSEj9KRe_e1v2_1Lm_Y_eZjpoBTa5Z6Ff2g3_FqJE_w36AS38sZIaC_ADUkzPok5D_sYhlPhC/s1600/IMG_5061.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Q8wRdnffxGz8-SA76gBwDThgcbGJyEHltwku1E0smZLV0DxHxRMGbBDCk-AAekurSAfLSEj9KRe_e1v2_1Lm_Y_eZjpoBTa5Z6Ff2g3_FqJE_w36AS38sZIaC_ADUkzPok5D_sYhlPhC/s200/IMG_5061.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485343505890661282" border="0" /></a>Although I grew up tent camping every summer at secluded lakes surrounded by lush lodgepole pine forests in the Oregon Cascades, my Singapore-raised husband is a greenhorn. Our only previous kid camping experience was in 2007 with a 3-yr-old and a 4-mo baby. The 3-yr got bored, scraped her knee on a rock, and woke at 4am jabbering on and on about the stars and how stinky the tent was. Good thing we only planned an overnight trip. The baby was totally easy, hanging out on a blanket during the day and waking once to nurse at night. Well he did have a very inconvenient diaper blowout but hey, it's not like outhouses are all that convenient either!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimOJxzUcyiQWtfChaBNV6GEb7qbFRn3hW4tc9h84R1IHt2s4Wa7xlNY9HXp3fkfwNr9zlL5HgWFcwf2ho6O35LDMfPVdPkNK_GmYmCJlLsH8h6f2I8k_HESY_f39tme4Uchjzcst9E_78R/s1600/IMG_5034.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimOJxzUcyiQWtfChaBNV6GEb7qbFRn3hW4tc9h84R1IHt2s4Wa7xlNY9HXp3fkfwNr9zlL5HgWFcwf2ho6O35LDMfPVdPkNK_GmYmCJlLsH8h6f2I8k_HESY_f39tme4Uchjzcst9E_78R/s200/IMG_5034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485342567732091474" border="0" /></a>With a 6-yr, 3-yr, and 16-mo baby this summer, we thought we'd have another go. Not owning a large tent, the yurt was perfect. And the campground, though not the private and pristine wonderland of my childhood memories, was a big hit when all the kids saw not one but two playgrounds, a horse barn, and a swim beach selling ice cream bars by Big Soda Lake. We spent hours at the playgrounds and splashing in the water, when the kids weren't collecting rocks in plastic cups or tossing the frisbee or playing house in the 2-man backpacking tent we set up just for fun. I gave them an inflatable chair inside the tent and they kept pretending it was a potty.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnPTLUAqTeZAIxIPLDFE3Ye29JRU71BDa_EEfzyaRMrqU_MKSUd3dO3bAUK2C4yT-L6Ik60T5eqgWQdAAX68uej6_9TZk3-rOGiLGWoq_ZUV6mxjuKQQh71SowJ7fWNXUh2ePQj1GXOiG/s1600/IMG_5080.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnPTLUAqTeZAIxIPLDFE3Ye29JRU71BDa_EEfzyaRMrqU_MKSUd3dO3bAUK2C4yT-L6Ik60T5eqgWQdAAX68uej6_9TZk3-rOGiLGWoq_ZUV6mxjuKQQh71SowJ7fWNXUh2ePQj1GXOiG/s200/IMG_5080.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485339589000580610" border="0" /></a>But what's a camping trip without some little mishaps? I bought plastic spatulas at the thrift store for my camp frypan and didn't think about a flipper for hamburgers on the charcoal grill. Ok, drag out the grilling cage we registered for when we got married and have never ever used. The burgers hung out of the edges but still cooked up great under my husband's grilling expertise. Next challenge: pancakes for breakfast. Sounds easy, but I forgot to bring *any* butter, syrup, jam, honey, anything remotely resembling pancake toppings, and the pancake batter itself was an unsweetened biscuit-style mix. In fact the only significantly sweet item in the food chest besides whole fruit was marshmallows for the s'mores we'd enjoyed by the fire the night before. Out came the roasting sticks, and marshmallow-filled pancakes soon graced the picnic table.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31y5z1wHzOLE0TUdfqyaf_8bXXWCNhKQ5XjptPRr39Hwy_v6kt2ApCiuJXfydDCga1EfDBO2ANy8YamFrccEjqsyvAGdFQ46Wz5fKKtEJmSOQ6h_lZdvRDXc2KGa-_mZQ72foOoeiMar0/s1600/IMG_5059.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31y5z1wHzOLE0TUdfqyaf_8bXXWCNhKQ5XjptPRr39Hwy_v6kt2ApCiuJXfydDCga1EfDBO2ANy8YamFrccEjqsyvAGdFQ46Wz5fKKtEJmSOQ6h_lZdvRDXc2KGa-_mZQ72foOoeiMar0/s200/IMG_5059.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485342586860616818" border="0" /></a>Comforting a crying 3-yr-old at 1am who didn't want to walk a quarter mile to the toilet and kept insisting we go home right away was distinctly the low point of the trip. He woke the baby in the portacrib, who Daddy cuddled back to sleep and shared his bunk with until morning. And tropical-blooded Daddy needs to remember a heavy blanket next time! Again, good thing it was just one night. We concluded that our family is still quite young for full fledged camping and maybe we should stick to day trips for a while.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCDeyap7xQbEyroTxZmW8wUcjUUvURlm4ARTCOH997pCIlhHeIYGDQRctbemG2UJ0yX3ac-aogQZkhf0zMYc6bgij4xWbVCnLdYbH51x_HqnGtmBa76QUg8k0UP3KiT1jAAhfIHxjNwWp/s1600/IMG_5024.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCDeyap7xQbEyroTxZmW8wUcjUUvURlm4ARTCOH997pCIlhHeIYGDQRctbemG2UJ0yX3ac-aogQZkhf0zMYc6bgij4xWbVCnLdYbH51x_HqnGtmBa76QUg8k0UP3KiT1jAAhfIHxjNwWp/s200/IMG_5024.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485341702510408018" border="0" /></a>At least that's what we thought on the way home... but with all the fun we shared as a family, here we are a few days later thinking about how to plan the next camping adventure. It's surprising how easy it was to minimize the bad and crave a repeat of the good. All we need is a family tent and some kind of cargo solution for the gear...<br /><br />...and another destination with a playground and flushing toilets wouldn't be a bad idea! I can survive this kind of "camping" - views of RVs through thin trees, Home Depot perched on the hill, suburban lights flanking the night skyline - for a few more years. My first camping memories were around age 7 or 8 and continued until I left home, so perhaps I'm not really ripping off my kids by not exposing them to truly rugged and hard-core camping at the preschool stage. Although I feel their childhood flying by so fast, I have to remember that they really are still little and there is still time for dozens of quiet and remote family camping memories to be made. And dozens more s'mores to be eaten.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1