One Snow Day Too Many

Another snow day; another day I wish I lived south of the Mason Dixon line - even if Yankees aren't welcome there. I don't care, at least I'd be warm, and able to leave my house without an ice pick and a bag of salt.

We've had an unusually high number of snow days this year. Maybe I'm being nostalgic in a 'we were tougher in my day' kind of way, but I don't recall as many weather related school closings as there seem to be now that I'm not the one going to school. The thing is, snow days, delayed openings, early releases, they begin to lose their magic after awhile.

The first snow day of the year is fun. It is. The glistening snow is soft and sparkly and all kinds of other wonderful glittery adjectives. The house is warm and cozy. A fire crackles in the fireplace. The Five Year Old declares it Red Blankie Day and doesn't let his fleece blanket leave his side. The kids laze around in pajamas and form elaborate army-man battles within barracks built out of the wooden blocks their grandfather hand carved for them. Cookies bake, pancakes sizzle, coffee brews. It's all Norman Rockwell-y good.

The second snow day of the year is okay, but not nearly as fun as the first. The falling snow piles up on the existing two feet that already surrounds the house. This new wetter, heavier snow is more difficult to manage even with a snow blower, and your back still aches from the last storm. The house feels cold and cluttered. The Five Year Old still clings to his blankie, which could use a whirl in the wash cycle. The army-man battles end in tears because the dog chewed most of the heads off the little green men that were left lying on the floor. Cookies still bake, pancakes still sizzle, and the coffee brews by the pot. It's all...okay.

The third snow day. The third snow day of the year forces you to question your existence, or more accurately, your decision to live in the Northeast. The snow that falls from the infinite sky of doom now completely blocks the back door. Despite the drafts hissing in through the old windows, the house feels devoid of air to breathe. The kid still drags his damn blanket around the house. Comfort item? Try dust magnet. Neither child ever gets dressed, which only leads to a massive crankfest of crankiness. By late afternoon, their pajamas are crusted over with breakfast and lunch remnants. Every last toy from Christmas has been played with. Twice. Cookies don't bake. They just stick to your thighs like lard laden leeches. No pancakes; cold cereal. But the coffee, the saving grace of the day, still brews.

One more snow day and I'm out of here. I'm already practicing my southern twang, y'all.

I Think They're On To Something (teachers, that is)

Somehow I got roped in to making spring hats for my son's Kindergarten class. Where roped in means I raised my hand when his teacher asked for volunteers. I didn't even balk, as I usually do when asked to spare some of my time. With a mind of its own, my hand shot up into the air. It didn't even ask me first.

So even though it was more like a fluke response on the part of my spastic hand, here I am stuck with shaping and taping old newspapers into crumpled hats for small heads. My dining room table is a fire hazard right now, strewn with loose pages of old papers we subscribe to but never get around to reading. Although I may have put together some window boxes and dabbled in homemade paint, I am actually not at all crafty, which is why it's taking me longer than I anticipated to complete the project. I think I have more in common with Jon Stewart than I do with Martha Stewart.

I'm fairly confident that teachers dole out this kind of grunt work to naive parent volunteers purposefully. I mean, I would if I were a teacher. They work long hours, they're underpaid, they deal with drippy-nosed children everyday. If they can pawn off some of the crappy stuff, why not? I wouldn't be surprised if when they find a willing recruit to copy and collate, cut and paste, and make paper hats, they hand over the work, breathe a sigh of relief and whisper to themselves, Sucker!

I've experienced this kind of thing before. When I signed up to help during literacy in my son's first grade classroom I was under the impression that I would be, you know, helping with literacy. But on more than one occasion, my volunteer hour was spent in the copy room. Making double sided copies. Last year, I volunteered in the school library where the job description included things like 'help children find books'. But when I arrived for my library duty I was handed a spray bottle of disinfectant and a roll of paper towels, and was asked, albeit nicely, to clean books.

You'd think I would have learned my lesson by now. But no, I continue to make copies, clean books and raise my hand, telling myself that it's all for the good of my child's educational experience.

This morning I sit in my dining room staring at the mess of newspapers, masking tape and a few clumsily assembled hats that cover the table. Five down, ten more to go.

As I pick up another stack of newspapers I can't help but whisper to myself, Sucker!

Seeking My Summer

"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer." --Albert Camus

the path to our front door

I'm searching for my inner summer, but everywhere I look I find winter.

The Snack Habit

I have a problem. I am a compulsive snacker. The winter months are the most difficult, and the hours between 3pm and 5pm are my prime binge-snacking time. I usually reach for something salty. Or sweet. Or both - cheese and crackers, a handful of chocolate chips, cinnamon toast or even dry cereal. It's not pretty.

I've tried to curb the mindless snacking compulsion, but I just don't think it's going to happen. I'm hungry and grumpy in the late, dark afternoons of winter, and it's so easy to find solace in whatever crunchy carb is within reach. 

But lately my jeans are feeling snuggish, and my body sluggish. So I am making some changes in my snacking habits. That is, I am filling my kitchen cabinets with better foods to reach for as the days gradually grow lighter.
 
I made these this weekend, starting with a recipe from vegweb, and tweaking it to suit my tastes. They're tasty, filling and better than a bag of chips.

Homemade Grain-Laden, Protein Packed Granola Bars:

1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
1/4 cup wheat germ
1/2 cup toasted quinoa
1 1/2 cup rolled oats
3/4 cup sliced raw almonds
1/3-1/2 cup raw pumpkin seeds (or sunflower seeds)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 cup chocolate chips
1/2 - 2/3 cup dried blueberries or cranberries or any other dried fruit

2/3 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup molasses
1/4 cup applesauce
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1/3 cup all-natural peanut butter or sunflower seed butter
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/3 cup water

Directions:

1. Toast quinoa by spreading it on a cookie sheet and baking at 325 degrees for about 20 minutes. Check it after 10 minutes, toss it around to make sure it's getting evenly toasted. When it's done, it should be a nice golden brown color.

2. Mix all the wet ingredients together plus the brown sugar.

3. In a separate bowl, mix together the dry ingredients, including the toasted quinoa.

4. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients and mix until well combined.

4. In a greased 9 x 13 baking pan, spread the mixture into the pan in an even layer. You may want to use your hands to pat it all down.

Bake for about 25-30 minutes at 325.

Let cool. Cut into bars. Snack healthy.

The Entitlement Generation

My kids are at the age where each week our mailbox contains at least one birthday party invitation. It's not that they are particularly popular. It's just that they are in the age group where the current trend is to have big invite-the-whole-class parties at expensive outsourced venues. (I'm no exception. My son just had a laser tag party with 13 of his closest friends. Guilty as charged).

But lately I'm seeing a new trend along with these birthday party invitations. More often than not, the invitations come with a gift registry. Instead of being pleased with a big party, friends to share it with and a few presents, kids are being told that it's acceptable to send along a list of gift ideas. And specific stores in which to purchase them.

Instant gratification begins young these days.

My nine year old is always the last one of his friends to get whatever the hot new toy of the week is. He was the last to have Silly Bandz and Bakugans and every other trending plastic toy. Much to his chagrin, we have a 'no new toys except on holidays unless you use your own money' policy. When I asked him how it is that every kid in his class has every hot new item so quickly he responded without a beat. Because, mom, he told me, when Joe, Michael or George want something, they tell their moms and then their moms drive them to Target THAT DAY.

And you know what? I believe him.

I'm not sure what leads parents to overindulge their kids. Guilt? Expendable income? Self-image issues? We're all guilty of splurging on unnecessary junk for our precious offspring now and then, but there is a line, and I think it's being crossed. Allowing our kids to create birthday registries is not a great idea. Buying them what they want when they want it is also not a great idea. We are teaching them entitlement rather than gratitude.

We're sliding down a slippery slope here. Watch out. If we're not careful, we will breed a whole generation of kids like this one:

Art and the Artist

I finished a book last night.

This is not a remarkably profound statement for me to make. I read just about every night after the kids are tucked in and the dishes are done. And even when I turned the last page of this particular novel last night, I had no noteworthy thoughts other than 'that was pretty good'. It served its purpose - it drowned out all the day to day thoughts bobbing around in my head so that I could get to sleep. It asked questions and made me think. It was...good.

I enjoyed it enough that this morning I searched for other books by the same author.

And that's when things started to go downhill. 

I found several other books written by the author, but I also stumbled across some not so glowing articles about her. Apparently, she was in the spotlight several years ago when she made some controversial remarks in the New York Times. As I dug deeper - how could I not? - I found more things she said that I didn't like. Things that were offensive. And insensitive. And, well, I decided that I couldn't be friends with her even if she lived next door and brought me chocolate every day.

As I read and thought about all the negative statements she made, statements that quickly became public information, I found myself finding more fault with her book. I went from feeling pretty good about it, to not liking it very much. It wasn't that well written. The story was predictable, the characters stereotypical.

I criticized the art because of the actions, or in this case, words, of the artist. 

Is that a fair thing to do?

Should we judge art based on our feelings about the artist?  Should a person's perceived competency be affected by actions unrelated to their work? Can we separate the two? And how much should we allow the lines of private and public affairs to intersect? Things like social networking, YouTube and 24/7 media access have made this last question blurry and almost impossible to answer. But it's there. And it impacts how we see one another.

It's happens all the time, of course. Actors, musicians, politicians and even authors, they all muck up their private lives enough to affect their professional ones. But! They almost always recover. Alec Baldwin is doing just fine after his embarrassingly ugly voicemail to his daughter was made public. Most of us were willing to overlook his crude behavior so long as he made us laugh on Thursday nights on 30 Rock. What about Bill Clinton? He came out on top despite the fact that the world knew of his cigar smoking rendezvous with Monica. Our stocks were soaring during his term. Who cares that he had relations with an intern? The list of public figures gone bad is endless...Mel Gibson, Michael Vick, Brittany Spears, even Martha Stewart. Yet, despite their faults (and some of them are pretty significant), we usually invite them back into our lives in some fashion.

The art prevails. Does it always, though? 

I know I'm mixing medias. Celebrities - actors, politicians and athletes - certainly differ from non-hollywoodized writers, but I think the basic question is the same. Which is this: when is it okay to separate the artist from the art, the person from the work? When is it justified to overlook talent and competence because of questionable personal actions?  When is it not?

I'm not sure.

What I do know, right or wrong, is that after my Google investigations I'm finding it difficult to pick up another book by an author whose work I liked just 24 hours ago. 

And also, there is such a thing as too much information. 

Weeding My Garden

I'm not one to make resolutions when the ball drops. When the clock strikes midnight I'm more likely to be sharpening my guitar hero skills than working on my new year's vows. Resolutions seem contrived to me, and most of them are made under the influence, which makes their success rate even more dismal. The truth is, like everyone else, I'm probably not going to get up any earlier or exercise any more than I already do. I'm not going to eat less sugar or suddenly stop procrastinating. I know I won't give up my high caloric coffee creamer or squeeze out any more savings from the monthly budget. I don't make any of these promises to myself because I know I won't follow through. I am who I am. 

What I do find myself doing at the start of the new year is taking stock and cleaning house and weeding all the crap out of my proverbial garden.

I yank out the energy sucking clutter that I have let grow all year - in my closets, in my relationships, in my head- and I spend more time nurturing the good stuff.

I make my lists, but cross off the items that have been lazing around all year, hopping from one sticky note to the next. They don't deserve my time.

I set my goals, realistically. I let go of the ones that have been dragging me down. I feed the ones that lift me up.

I readjust my attitude. I crowd out the guilt and the criticisms, and will them to leave me alone. I make more room for patience, determination and optimism. 

Mostly, no matter what I wish was or wasn't, I look around my world and remember that it's all good.

Complicated, but good.


What are you weeding out of your life this year? What are you making room for?