Milestone Ride

For years, I have longingly eyed a mountain bike path, one that stretches across Vail Pass.  This weekend, Will and I claimed the 30-mile span from Frisco to Vail.  It was a milestone ride to celebrate his 10 years.

The ride held all the elements of a good story:

• mystery - the path to us was new
• challenge - the climb, the cold rain
• struggle - there were 3 falls and slight altitude delirium
• determination - we paced ourselves with snack-point destinations
• joy - reaching the top of the pass
• beauty - breath-taking scenery
• euphoria - shouting to the wind at break-neck speed
• pride - we cruised into town, tired and content, just as the sun disappeared behind the mountains

As we rode, we spoke in code:  "2-5?"  "No, 3-2."  "1-4."  "2-6?"  "Yeah, 2-6."  It was his first time on a bike with more than 7 speeds.

On a grander scale, like the mountains around us, he pondered big questions:  "What is the funniest thing you've ever experienced?"  "What's the best thing you've ever done?"  "Do you talk to yourself?"  "If you could go anywhere, alone or with family, where would it be?"

At one point, Will said, "Wow - we are alone."  We were.  On that day, there were few others on the path.  But for me, the loneliness of the mountains, the rain, and the empty path felt warm because we were there together.  A mother of a fast growing 10-year old cannot wish for more.

Adapting - A Lesson - Really

As a parent, I think it is important for my kids to learn to be adaptable.  Adaptability might not always have the greatest appeal.  It sort of straddles between the positive undertones of "flexible," "resiliant" and "forgiving" and the negative connotations of "avoidance" and "milk-toast."  But this week, in the midst of holiday activity, I am aware that in four particular circumstances, I am teaching my kids how to be adaptable:

First, the mice.  They come in our house, and we just rearrange the food.  Our pantry is wonderfully mouse free because all our food now sits on the kitchen counter where they cannot climb to get it.

Second, the heat.  We currently have none.  So, I found our trusty space heater and we're all nice and cozy in my room, three in sleeping bags on the floor and three on the bed.  Ah, togetherness.

Third, the smoke alarm.  It gave such a lovely chirp all night long.  In response, we (a) covered our heads with pillows, and then (b) successfully removed it into submission.  We even found, during breakfast preparations, that it works wherever we place it.

Fourth, the lights.  Our dining room lights don't work, so we've seized the darkness and now enjoy intimate candlelight dinners.  When the bathroom lights broke, we simply moved in a lamp.  And although I spent hours hanging lights outside, when the plug stopped working, we just moved the lights to the tree.

Maybe in another blog, I'll recount lessons to the kids on being proactive, placing important phone calls, developing practical skills, speaking up.  But, this post, and this time, is all about adapting.

Alone Time

I recently had some alone time.  With June, that is.  When each of our kids turn 5, they get a special hotel night with mom or dad.  This time, it is June's turn.  Here's what we did:

• Biked to her favorite dinner spot - Larkburger.  She giggled the whole time. 

• Rode across a full Boulder Creek to a no-waste hotel with a great pool.

• Checked in and organized our stuff.  Big.

• Swam.  A lot.

• Got hot chocolate from the bar and played with stickers.  (The whole impetus here was to repeat the lore from Clara's hotel night.  It was a strange combination: rock band, sticky beer floors, and little smiling June, ordering up.)
• Painted toenails, played the matching game in bed, and read fairy tales.
• Woke the next morning and headed straight for the pool.
• Ate breakfast poolside and then biked home.

It's something special to have one-on-one time.  There was no competition, no fighting, no tears, no waiting for attention, no taking turns.  June glowed. (Can you tell?)

It feels right, here and there, to give our kids a time when they can shine, all on their own, and to let secret parts of them come out from the shadows.

First Haircut

I put shears to John's shaggy locks this morning -- for the first time. It added about 5 months in 2 minutes. Now he's a little boy. (A little boy with a jagged Mom-cut, that is.) June keeps saying he looks just like the boy in the Nutcracker, who (poor thing) also had a bowl cut and blond hair.

But he's beautiful. And goofy. And growing. And oblivious, thank goodness.