Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where there is not enough time in a day to do all the things one feels one should, so one ends up choosing what one should do with ones self, and in the end, the house stays messy and the laundry goes undone.

We are suddenly over winter. Snow does not excite us. We wish for dry trails and days off. We dream of warm weather. We talk of moving, as we do every year at this time. We have gotten through our next-to-last winter here many times already. I say next-to-last because we never have quite enough money to leave this year, and care too much about our boss to just spring it on him that we are leaving without a long notice and one season of training replacements, but there's always next year- if we work hard and save every dime we make, we might have enough in the bank account for a fresh start somewhere else. And we can always do just one more- as long as it is only one more.

Work is never ending. No day off this week. We have gotten spoiled this winter by forcing ourselves to take one day off-usually Tuesdays, since that is the slowest day of the week. But President's Day Weekend started the rush that will not end until after Spring Break season, so it is possible that we will not get a day off for another six weeks. I have cut my hours at the ski shop to only three 7:30am to 11:00am shifts per week, and rush from one job to the next, and Andy gets a walk maybe once a week these days. But that will change. Next year. After next season.

We have spent almost a decade in Summit County. We have grown as people and we have been through some wonderful times and some horrible times in the shadows of the Gore and Ten-mile Ranges. Buffalo Mountain watched over us our first years here, it's twin slide paths stark white. We watched the light from the sunrise creep down her and the sun set behind her as we learned to know each other, shared a house as newlyweds with other people and let the worst of ourselves finally be shown to each other. Then we moved, and the Contenintal Divide stood over us as we stabilized in our own relationship, then excluded the world and our circle of friends shrank. Then we moved again, and Red Mountain looked down on us, offering all the beauty of the Eagles Nest Wilderness out our back door, a door that was revolving with friends and roomates while the two of us grew apart and forgot to care. The trails into the Wilderness overheard our fights as we tried to decide what to do with ourselves, then witnessed us finding out, all over again, how much we meant to each other. And now we live under the watchful poses of the twin beauties Guyot and Baldy, in a comfortable place, an entire house to ourselves. The trails accomodate two, and we agree with each other, and it feels like a good place to be in. Buffalo Mountain's slide paths are no longer as stark white in the winter, the trees have come back and have grown higher than the snow that once covered them in the winter. Pine beetles have moved in and trees have died by the millions. Death and rebirth and almost a decade of watching it happen.

I have grown as an individual. I am more self aware, and more independant than when we moved here. I am more confidant. Even the tourists recognize me as a local. Maybe it's all the duct-taped gear. Summit County feels like home. But maybe something is broken, because most people do not want to leave home, do they?

We talk about how our lives are flying by us at whirlwind pace, how we are knocking on thirty, how moving up here was a grand adventure, but now, it feels like every new adventure is just another variation on adventures already had.

There could be kids, yes, as almost every person we know is happy to point out. A new adventure. And it's true, to see the world through my child's eyes would be a new adventure. Dirty hands and sticky faces and leggos and dolls and impossibly short skis with adorably boxy ski boots. But the truth is, I see that, and I see parents interacting with their children, and while it all seems very sweet, it does not fill me with longing. It doesn't open up an aching hole where my heart should be, a hole that could only be filled with my own offspring. Yes, I want to provide grandchildren for our parents before they are too old. I want to hold family together with children. I totally get the miracle of looking at something that is half you and half the person you love, that perfect, tiny piece of the future, and feeling as though you have done what you were put here to do. I get it... in my head. I can imagine those feelings almost as vividly as the real thing. I get all the conventional thinking, that the only way to be truly blessed is by having kids, but this odd tug at the edges of my conciousness asks me, in ever louder whispers, if this is true, why does my entire world not revolve around it? Why do I feel whole when totally alone under a mountain sunset? Why does being alone with my husband so often feel like just the medicine I need? Why doesn't being around other people's children stir some primal maternal instinct inside me? I can adore them for what they are, tiny humans, distinct personalities, open minds, but tiny, pudgy hands and pug noses, rosebud lips and big eyes do not necessarily trigger some sort of gushing response.

Due to some unexplained glitch in my body's normal functioning a year and a half ago, I thought I was pregnant for a few days, and I went from "oh, no" to "halleluja" in about 12 hours. I felt part of something bigger than me. I felt all glowy and in love with the world because now I was part of a legacy. I felt infatuated with the thought that there was another human being growing inside me, and honestly, a little infatuated with myself. And then all the tests came back negative and I took some progesterone pills, the symptoms went away, things started functioning again, and I had a good, hysterical meltdown and convinced a confused, shellshocked Bobby that we should try for real. Which we did, for all of a month. And then one morning, I took the dog for a walk, went mountain biking and had a drink with a friend, came home and cuddled on the couch with my husband, and felt like myself again. As suddenly as they had come, the desparate feelings were gone. Try as I might, I couldn't get them back. We talked about making a baby, and I felt a pang of fear that we might be successful. I couldn't make myself feel like I had when I thought I was pregnant. I couldn't make myself want it anymore. I wondered who that person was.

Selfish. That is the automatic response when I try to articulate these feelings. I am selfish. I have no thought for the future. Do I not want people around me when I am old? Do I not want to create a soul for all eternity?

It's true that I am a selfish person. But in this area, I don't know. If it was ever proven beyond just our grandparent's view on children- that it is a selfish way to live, to not have them- I might bite. But I can't help thinking about it from angles that are more intellectual and less instinctual. No matter if I agonize over the decision and finally have a child or two or a half-dozen, the couple down the street will still have their 9th. Some middle-aged mother on fertility treatments will still have quintuplets. Some drug-addled mother in the inner city will have a deformed child that will never know love. AIDS babies will continue to be born in Africa. Eastern European orphanages will still overflow with children hoping against hope that every visitor will be the one to take them home. In view of that, it honestly seems more selfish for me to want that moment of mommy-glow that comes with seeing your own child, the one you just pushed out of your own body that nobody has damaged yet. To look at it harshly, this child is a genetic experiment that every person is hardwired to want to have- they want to see themselves in their child.

There is only so much food in the world. In order for me to feed the darling, sweet-smelling, innocent, perfect, silken-skinned tiny version of myself and my life mate, I am taking food out of the mouth of another child who already lives, already knows cruelty and hunger and pain and neglect. I am spending money that, if I had any real awareness of the rest of the world, I would have gladly shared, doing my part to help a child who's life is now just a tiny bit more bearable. And if I can't feel whole unless I am a caregiver, there is nothing less selfish than taking a few of those unloved children into one's own home and loving them and letting them know they are yours, only yours, and by choice, not because they were the next best option after you found that you were unable to have your own.

I am sorry if this seems like a judgemental tirade to those who have a boatload of their own kids. It isn't. There comes a time when matters of the heart take precedence over matters of the mind. When to hold your own baby in your arms is the most important thing to you, and something you will never feel whole without. It is okay. You are not dooming society, at least not any more than everyone else already has. I do not judge you. But I would judge me if I were to give in to what everyone thinks is best for me, instead of listening to what my heart is telling me. And what it is telling me, I do not know yet.

Bobby admits to feeling a bit of curiosity, a bit of adoration for that unborn tiny version of him or me, and says it is an experience he would feel a bit cheated out of it it were to not happen. But in the next breath, he says he does not yet feel like the type of person he would need to be for that adorable unborn human. He is not yet enough in love with him or her to make a drastic change to accomodate the new addition. And if the time should pass for us, he understands my want to help those already in the world over creating more humans and would gladly adopt.

And now, whew! This post has taken an unexpected turn. I did not plan to expose myself and my twisted thoughts on conventional wisdom. I did not plan to be so harsh. My thoughts just took off an their own after about two paragraphs and unbidden, my fingers kept time. And now it is time to go to work, make the money, pay the bills, and maybe, just maybe, plan the great escape.

Hello and welcome to An altitude Problem, where it is...
•Adopt A Rescued Rabbit Month
•African-American History Month
•Low Vision Awareness Month
•American Heart Month
•American History Month
•Bake for Family Fun Month
•Berry Fresh in the Sunshine State Month
•Black History/Heritage Month (Canada)
•Chocolate Lover's Month
•Creative Romance Month
•Deaf History Month
•Fabulous Florida Strawberry Month
•Festival of Camellias Month
•From Africa to Virginia Month
•Great American Pies Month
•Greek-American Heritage Month
•Human Relations Month
•International Boost Self-Esteem Month
•Irish-American Heritage Month
•Library Lovers Month
•Marfan Syndrome Awareness Month
•Marijuana Awareness Month
•Mental Retardation Awareness Month
•National African American History Month (Black History)
•National Bird Feeding Month
•National Black History Month (African American)
•National Boost-Your-Self-Esteem Month
•National Canned Food Month
•National Care About Your Indoor Air Month
•National Cherry Pie Month
•National Children's Dental Health Month
•National Chronic Fatigue Syndrome Awareness Month
•National Craft Month
•National Dental Month
•National Grapefruit Month
•National Hot Breakfast Month
•National Laugh-Friendly Month
•National Mend A Broken Heart Month
•National Multiple Sclerosis Education and Awareness Month
•National Parent Leadership Month
•National Pet Dental Health Month
•National Senior Independence Month
•National Snack Food Month
•National Sweet Potato Month
•National Time Management Month
•National Weddings Month
•National Women's History Month
•North Carolina Sweet Potato Month
•Plant the Seeds of Greatness Month
•Relationship Wellness Month
•Return Shopping Carts to the Supermarket Month
•Spiritual Wellness Month
•Spunky Old Broads Month
•Sweet Potato Month
•Wise Health Care Consumer Month
•Worldwide Renaissance of the Heart Month

(Thanks to about.com for that list.) I must admit, I am loving some of these. I mean, I had no idea spunky old broads got their own month, granted they have to share it with most of the rest of the world- African-Americans, potheads, sweet potato farmers, dogs with bad teeth and people with bad eyes. And What's Marfan Syndrome? In honor of it's month, I googled it. It's a genetic disorder in which connective tissues don't do their job. You get really tall and then pretty much fall apart. Okay, so that's oversimplified a bit, but google it yourself if you want to know more.

It's also Care About Your Indoor Air Month. I would like to point out that not only do house plants lend a healthy influence to your indoor spaces because we humans are programmed to need to be around growing things, and not only do they produce oxygen, they are excellent air purifiers. If you live in an old double-wide, you will be happy to know that that philodendron you keep trimming and starting new plants from is, according to Nasa, one of the best plants in the world for filtering formaldehyde from your air. Benzene? Gerbera Daisies or Chrysanthemums. The Philodendron, Spider plant, and Golden Pothos all use more carbon than normal, so it can't hurt to position them close to your furnace room in case of low levels of carbon monoxide. Finding actual studies that say definitively how many plants per square feet of living space you need to filter out all the toxins within that space are hard to find, but considering the psychological benefits of being around plants, added to what is at the very least a small boost in air purity is a good reason to keep 'em growing.

And in honor of Black History Month, there is much to say. I have been listening, while working or running, to various history podcasts, and it has been a theme this month. Black activists and leaders and businessmen and actresses who found themselves and were successful. If one wants to feel that the world is all good, that in the end, fairness wins, and that one comes from an honorable bloodline filled with upstanding ansestors, one should stay far, far away from history. History is for those who are realistic about life and are okay with admitting that they come from a long line of scoundrels and people who became monsters along with the society around them. I find it hard to believe how enlightened we feel we are, but how close, literally close in years, we are to a time when we considered one race to be master, and one race to be slave, and it frightens me to think that I may have believed all people to be created equal, or I may not have. I may have risked reputation and even life to see my fellow man free, but then again, I may not have. I think about all the swaying arguements I have been taken in by over the years, and how easily convinced I am with just a bit of logic in whatever topic I allowd myself to be drawn in by, and I feel guilty for who I might be if I lived in a time when society's norm was slavery. I feel that if i had lived in such a time, I would probably see the flaws in the system, I would probably strive toward fairness, but I probably would not make any big statements.

Am I the kind of person who would leave water bottles in the desert to prevent the deaths of illegal aliens crossing from Mexico? How far would I go to see to their safety and quality of life, believing that in spite of the legality of their actions and the long-temr effect on our country, they deserve the same chances I have grown up taking for granted? How much would I risk? Am I the only one seeing scary parallels to Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad here? (I have to give a shout out to my girl Harriet, since it is Women's History Month and Black History Month and Spunky Old Broad Month.) The 3,200 people who helped smuggle slaves into Canada knew the cost their actions would take on the American economy, and we now hail them as American heroes. They knew that fewer unpaid workers meant less product and a slower economy. Those who wanted to see the slaves freed knew it would cause many people to lose their mansions and plantations when they had to pay their help. But those who did it chose to see the trees, the individuals who were gaining financial freedom, over what it would do for the forest, the entire economy of the South. When one looks at it from that point of view, there will always be those who are sympathetic over the plight of an individual, and there will be those who believe that the individual matters less than the system as a whole. I suppose it comes down to dates. One century's villain is another century's hero. It makes me wonder who will be the hindsight heroes of today? Will it be Humane Borders? Or the Minutemen?
We live in a time when racism against blacks has become a serious social crime, but have we transfered that old superior attitude to other cultures? We say illegal immigrants take our jobs, pay no taxes, bring drugs and crime and refuse to learn our language and bring down the economy and society in general. But we say this as the descendants of the ruthless crowds from Europe who swept into this country only a short time ago and forced the locals, at knife-tip and gunpoint, to become them, with all of their idiosyncratic ideals and customs, or die. As far back as the Crusades, we of European descent have made our statement to the world, and we have made it loudly and bloodily- become like we are. Look like we do, believe as we do, or else.

Black History Month is about more than one race looking back with pride to those in their ancestry who conquered, more than about their own awareness of their own rich heritage. American slavery is a big, unavoidable part of Black history, so it also reminds us all that we are not so far removed from that ugly time in our proud nation's history as we think we are. It forces us to evaluate our attitudes toward all races.

It is to remind us that we are not as special or superior as we think we are, simply because we were born free and financially secure and, as we see it, morally and physically uncompromised. We are not special because we speak English, because our food comes from the supermarket, because we live in a house with a garage, because we were not born on a dirt floor, because we weren't born with AIDS. We're not special because as toddlers we fell asleep to lullabies instead of machine gun fire, because we have never been truly hungry and have never drunk from a well that made us sick.

We are not special. We are fortunate. We were born free, which puts us in a place from which we can do great good. Did I mention it's Plant the Seeds of Greatness Month?

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where we are considering giving the dog skis. Seriously, it's so deep, the only way we humans can get through it anymore is on skis, and then we expect Andy to posthole through it in his bare feet. It's more like tunneling for him at this point. I say, enough. We humans think we have the market cornered on mechanical transport. I think it's about time to give our furry, four-legged friends ways to traverse great distances with a minimum effort. I say, let them ski!

I can see it now- The Salomon Fido. The K2 Lotta Paws. The Volkyl K9. It's a niche market. Room to grow. Little competition. Sponsorships and endorsements should be easy to come by. Who's with me?