Parenting opens your eyes to perspective. I’m not talking “sweat of your brow”, “hardest thing you’ll ever do” sort of perspective. I’m tired of those tsking glasses-on-the-nose type of lectures. No, I’m talking about how unbelievably eye-opening just listening to your children’s perspective on what they see in the world can expand your own worldview. Case in point: deforestation.

A word with a lot of baggage, yes, but when you live smack-dab in the middle of the forest, to get any living done, some trees have to give their lives for the cause. There is a lot of argument just how much cutting needs to be done, but for some developers, the easiest road is to just cut it all down. No fuss, no muss.

Such was the case with a densely-forested patch we drive by on a frequent basis. Just last week, lush, tall, green and dark. Now, barren, treeless and ready for building. I knew of the impending “for lease” signs that would go up, and I had my own mix of emotions from “glad I don’t live nearby” to “I wonder if [insert name of recognizable brand] will build here.” But coming up the street in our car with both kids in the backseat, two very different reactions were had:

Boy: Elation. Because the major lumber had already been trucked off, the land was being cleared by two huge bulldozers. He sees the buzz of industry, work and growth and gets excited. Boy would be a good contractor someday.

Girl: Abject sadness. She worried that our world had just “lost some beauty and some clean air”, and a few minutes later, started quietly sobbing in the back seat at the loss of those “gorgeous trees”. Greenpeace had better get ready for their new President (although she probably shouldn’t be too forthcoming about her tree-cutting brother).

So there you have it. Two sides of the same coin, and the person holding the coin is me. And all I can think about is if there’s going to be an ice cream parlor opening a little closer to our house or not. We make a fine bunch. Too bad Dylan wasn’t with us to round things out, he would probably wonder if the wood was worthy of a guitar.

This week I would like to prove to my constituents and enemies (but mostly myself, which could be argued is really both constituent AND enemy) that yes, indeed, I do things outside my comfort zone. Travel would squarely be outside my comfort zone, but no one would know it because I am a world-class bull$#!tter. Just the other day, someone started talking about all their travels, and I chimed in with random observations on their list of destinations, sounding all the while like someone who had been there, but the reality is, those observations are cribbed from reading books and watching television – both things that are firmly entrenched in my comfort zone. Real travel, like luggage, itineraries, passport stamps and patdowns are all completely foreign, terrifying concepts.

So it was a large leap of faith that last week I ventured to a city I know nothing about (Chicago) by myself to visit my Brother & Sister in Law. After donating my nude photo to the TSA (you’re welcome), and a few glorious uninterrupted (!) hours on the plane listening to music only I would enjoy, I arrived. Chicago, a town I only knew about from reading gangster, pizza and blues books. And what a city! From the train, from a taxi, from the street, from a car, and best of all, from a restaurant table, I learned why they love it so much. Their pizza is alien in concept, and completely insane in execution. Their people diverse and interesting. Their love of baseball is religious and completely intimidating. It was an adventure I will never forget. Oh, and it was great to spend time with my family.

I haven’t completely warmed up to the idea of travel (I do quite enjoy my little corner of the country), but I will continue to venture out periodically and make sure I can still see my shadow. The only way to confirm your home is to leave it sometimes. And of course, I will post it here, as proof, when I start denying things this discomfiting actually happened.

I’ve found a new way to confound the youngsters. CB Slang. Trucker talk. A buddy of mine gifted me a small stack of “CB Slang” trading cards from a generation ago. They are hilarious.

For reference, you can check out: cbslang.com to start building your favorite phrases.

I’ll catch you on the flip-flop, keep an eye out for Smokey, and remember there’s two miles of ditches for every mile of road.

And for those of you who need video to go with your reading:

You know those moments when the birds are singing, your children are behaving, no one is hungry and chocolate has no calories? It’s like every once in a while, the stars align, the world pauses and everything is wonderful. Hitting those high moments is euphoric. They make you reflect on your life with gratitude and hug your neighbor a little tighter. But because time marches on, the apex passes and everything starts moving again. Chaos rules and then a twig comes up and snaps the rear derailleur off of your bike.

We were on the annual market ride bike ride. People meet at designated places, and bike en masse to the Farmer’s Market downtown. We have reached some sort of workable cycling situation with various bikes/trailers/helmets to travel together, so we packed up and headed to our nearest meeting place to join the group heading downtown. It was 65 degrees (which is basically summer here) and the kids were buzzing with the promise of Farmer’s Market treats (don’t worry, our children aren’t weird enough that they were looking forward to a bag of kale – we have a very naughty bakery that sets up shop and sells dinosaur gingerbread cookies). We headed off, bringing up the rear with our caravan of wheels. 1.7 miles later, I heard a metallic crunch and upon looking down at my bike saw the derailleur hanging uselessly. It being one of the most expensive parts of the bike, I saw dollar signs hanging there, but the kids saw dinosaur shaped cookies hanging there while we turned around and walked back to the car, dejected and defeated. The culprit? A 1/8th-inch thick twig. Our morning was killed by something smaller than a pencil. ARGH.

We spent the rest of the morning determined to fix the situation. Four bike shops later, we had the correct part (luckily with some creative bending, the derailleur would live to derail again, and all was needed was a mounting hanger). We made a dinosaur gingerbread detour and had a delicious sandwich whilst sitting in the sun. But the whole day we were battling the bad-buzz fairies after the fateful bike breakdown. Such first-world problems, I know, but I think the real lesson for me here was going with the flow is much more interesting than trying to line up the ducks and forcing them to enjoy themselves. We learned more about our bike by having to fix it. And the delicious sandwich wouldn’t have been consumed had we not parked our car in a place we don’t usually park. Fun can be had even when things seem completely ruined. The sun was still out, the dinosaur cookies were warm, and the bike still works. I’m ok with chaos. And when things do seem perfect in the future, I will be on the eagle-eyed lookout for angry twigs.

Yes, I could think of nothing else to write about. You’re welcome.

Girl has taken to making her own breakfast every morning. I usually do the cutting, but she makes her own toast, mixes up her oatmeal (this kids LOVES fiber), and has a large hand in making her lunch. I have died and gone to heaven. I’m a crank most mornings (even after a workout, which means that my crank is hard-wired into me and has nothing to do with chemicals as endorphins don’t help at all), and making breakfast for small people who hate just about anything consumed in our house, it is a task I find particularly difficult. Come to think of it, endorphins wouldn’t really help make “THIS LOOKS GROSS! EW! and YUCK!” seem positive and loving, so I guess my crankiness has nothing to do with it. But I digress. Girl has become so excited about her recent culinary tendencies that she took my large binder of cooking recipes/failures/aspirations and slipped this little number in. I will leave the spelling errors in because they are so cute. I mentioned a misspelling the other day and she snapped back “My teacher said we were to sound it out and spell it how it sounds, even if its wrong.” Hmmm… Sounds like someone knows a little too much.

Otemele (oatmeal) Soup by Girl

1. Put foul (full) cup of otes (oats) into a bowl.
2. Put haf (half) of a cup of brown shogr (sugar) into the bowl.
3. Put some watr (water) in the bowl ontil (until) the otes (oats) are all wet.
4. Put it into the uvin (oven) for 1 minit (minute).
5. Put milk in it.
DONE.

Now before you go thinking she eats an entire cup of oats followed by 4 ounces of brown sugar you are mistaken. They haven’t learned volume yet in 1st grade. I’m expecting the chemistry comes a little later.

The best part of this recipe is the end. From now on I will declare this loudly every time I finish preparing a dish.

DONE.