I love, love, love Telluride. I could not, however, live here, for several reasons:
1. Money: As in, I don’t have enough. We rode the gondola from Mountain Village to Telluride with two of the most obnoxious, pretentious couples I have ever encountered. One couple was debating buying a yacht based in Greece. In Iowa, we are comfortably well off. In Telluride, I think we qualify for food stamps.
2. Maintenance: I am admittedly high maintenance. I mean, we had to check a bag to accommodate my toiletries. Since we’re on vacation, I’m doing my “no makeup” makeup look; this still requires ten minutes & multiple products. In Colorado, lipstick is not mandatory. That’s cool: I wish I possessed that much confidence.
3. Shoes: I packed several pairs of ballet flats for this adventure, ‘cuz that’s how I “rough it.” In Telluride, sneakers are an acceptable form of footwear. Also, the locals seem to favor Keens. Were we not flying home tomorrow, I would even buy a pair.
4. The school system: no one is “from here.” They all seem to have migrated to Telluride from elsewhere in the lower 48. Therefore, no one is able to speak to me about the local public schools. Are there local public schools? Or does everyone ski & hike in lieu of formal education?
5. Speaking of skiing & hiking…I was visiting with a local on the gondola the other day. He asked if I skied or hiked. I burst out laughing: “Neither,” I said. “I don’t really belong here.” He laughed in agreement. I don’t even bicycle. Would they even accept me as a permanent resident?
Don’t get me wrong…I have thoroughly enjoyed our stay in Mountain Village/Telluride. I hope to return some day soon. To those who live here year round, I salute you. I want to be like you. I’m just not.
When I found out I was expecting, I quite literally bought half the books in the parenting section at Barnes & Noble. I immediately subscribed to several parenting magazines, clipping & filing interesting articles for future reference. I felt well prepared for parenthood & perhaps a little competitive. No way would MY child be walking around with a binkie at four years old. (Per their advice, John was weaned from the pacifier by six months & from the bottle at 12 months.)
Then it was time to potty train. I purchased an adorable potty chair, a supply of “big boy” underwear featuring an array of “Sesame Street” & Disney characters, & several books showing big boys using said potty chair. I figured he’d easily be trained before beginning preschool. I had read all the books, after all. How hard could it be?
John turned four in May & is poised to begin his second year of preschool, yet the big boy underwear remains folded in a dresser drawer. Thankfully, he stays dry all night & goes on the potty during the day as long as I remember to take him every two hours. If I am at all lax, he’ll approach me, tell me he has to pee, then stand there with a funny look on his face before happily announcing, “I peed. Change me, please, Mom.”
Poop is another matter entirely. He can identify when he has to poop. “I have to poop,” he calls as he heads for the kitchen table. Yes, my son, boy genius & apple of my eye, sits under the kitchen table to poop. I’ve tried grabbing him & heading straight for the toilet. This results in hysterics & constipation. I’ve found it better to allow him to get it out, so to speak, under the kitchen table. [Side Note: The character of Curly Bear hides under the table to poop in “Elmo’s Potty Time.” Since John lives & breathes his books & television programs, I have to believe this is what started his under-the-table pooping.]
Following such incidents, I lovingly suggest we poop in the big toilet the next time. “Okay, Mom,” he happily agrees…yet the next time nature calls, he’s right back under the kitchen table.
Friends tell me potty training will eventually “click” for John. I know they’re right, but I can’t help having visions of moving him into his college dorm with a box of Pull-Ups.