A dream and a goal.

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.

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.

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?

Well, there’s the common response—work at Starbucks or places of similar environments, but ultimately, would I be fulfilled? Probably not.

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?’ 

No, it isn’t.

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.

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.

Now what do I do?

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.

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.

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.

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! 

But it wouldn’t stop there. 

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. 

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.

Suzanne

Confessions 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.

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.

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 "get born" 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.

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.

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.

Haunted by the inevitable

At some point, we are all going to die.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Kristin Mastre

Zero To One

My husband used to ask our child-blessed friends which was harder, going from one to two or two to three. I always wanted three. The general consensus was that once you have two, adding more was easy.

I had sailed through college, worked several years including two abroad, entered grad school and married soon after, all along nurturing a horde of hobbies: photography, guitar, hiking, Japanese, on went the list. I held onto my dream in the face of infertility and when I defended my master's thesis eight months pregnant, life was good.

True, I did not like holding, smelling, hearing, or even looking at babies. "It'll be different when it's your own," I'd been told. But countless hours spent in my blue rocking chair, bedroom door shut, weepy eyes studying a tiny suckling infant, heart aching desperately to love her with a fierce maternal bond did not make it so. I was a babysitter and not even a good one.

I lost myself in those postpartum months. Yet in the dark cocoon of depression I was being forever transformed. When at last I spread my wings to soar, I found joy and freedom and beauty in the flight. I discovered the height of a mother's love. I became a mom.

My third child was born this year, and I am happy. My whiteboard pen has been replaced by a feeding spoon, book pages by baby wipes, guitar picking fingers plucking cheerios from linoleum. Though at times I cast a wistful glance at the box of watercolors or the shelf of gourmet cookbooks, I am content to stash them away for a season of life that has redefined me. And I know that if I am ever asked whether it's harder going from one to two or two to three, I will have to say that my greatest challenge was going from zero to one.

Kristina Lim