Andrea Chacos

During eight savory months at home with my children, I became a homeschool mom multi-tasking at the kitchen counter, in the car, and worse, while hiding in the bathroom. I spent 243 days baking muffins and filling the pantry with snacks while expertly navigating 5,840 dicey hours weathering the emotional tornado that is three juveniles with nowhere for their hormones to go.

October ranks as one of the most beloved months of the year for a multitude of Americans. This year, however, many are filled with that sweaty, uncomfortable feeling, like the one that creeps up on you after drinking a 20-ounce pumpkin-spice latte with no available bathroom in sight.

My parents have been following my brother and me around the country for years now. They’ve tried to be nonchalant, but I’ve seen through their shady reasoning and flimsy alibis. I’m not buying, “There’s better property tax in your state” or “We were just looking for a warmer climate.” They’re hunting us kids down to get to the grandchildren, and worse, they’re trying to be our adult friends.

At some point, we’ve all skimmed the classified section of the local newspaper looking for ways to make extra money. During these unprecedented times, however, most jobs still look unfulfilling enough to dust off the resumé and apply. However, here’s a real heroic job with six-figures for an open-minded, passionate individual. Applications are now being accepted to be part of a High-Performance-Family (HPF) as their Family-Life-Coach (FLC) in a confidential mountain town (39.1911° N and 106.817

As the saying goes, opinions are like that unspoken, timid body part. Everyone has one. And as an opinion writer for a couple of local newspapers, I stick mine where the sun doesn’t shine every month. And although opinions are the lowest form of human knowledge, I love sharing my intellectual laziness on a variety of topics.

In recent days, however, I’ve reluctantly transitioned conversation about life and death yet again. This time it was more abrupt than I ever imagined and much too soon for my taste. And since there’s no real delicate way to talk about what’s going on in the news today, I decided to be blunt.

Political leadership today is causing quite a partisan dogfight. This goes far beyond the current incoherent briefings, rotating merry-go-round staff appointees, and subjective rhetoric. We can accept some presidential vices and excuse moral failure, however, our commander in chief is pushing the boundaries of ethical leadership to new levels. In the long run, I fear we may all end up suffering for the implications of his behavior.

COVID-19 is causing the social disruption I’ve been yearning for since watching the early 1960’s television show “Leave it to Beaver” as a child. And it’s not for the ability to clean my house wearing a dress and pearls like June Cleaver, but it’s for the new normal I want to embrace on the other side.

One of those annoyingly rational environmentalists said I probably couldn’t handle public transportation’s obvious ease and practicality. With a dare dangling so fruitfully low, I figured I could easily tolerate being in an uncomfortable petri dish for two hours a day.

Some say I’m a snowflake; condemned to be an activist with no platform, a rebel without a cause, a delicate flower with little resiliency. I’m pretty sure these aren’t compliments, even though flakes are scientifically spectacular, each ice crystal creating a unique path toward the finish line.

When you’re a kid, trying a new sport or hobby is what you’re expected to do. Parents layer you with all the right gear and say all the right things with such forceful enthusiasm that you may have once joined the chess club, tried your skill at figure skating, played soccer, volleyball, or even spent time in a dojo.

Gun talk is passionate, and I eagerly awaited responses for my recent column on the topic. I heard from some privately while others posted publicly; some stated views on parenting in an age of gun saturation while other responses proved irrational, no matter how many times I reread for clarity and understanding.

As a mother of three, I’ve spent a lot of time observing the esoteric connection children have with guns. A stick, a broom handle, or part of a cardboard box can be magically transformed into rudimentary weapons. Then, as my children got older, and their dexterity and imagination grew, I watched them make expertly shaped pistols out of rolls of duct tape and play elaborate games of war.

I grew up in the densely packed, humid East Coast with frizzy hair that looked similar to the Broncos running back, Phillip Lindsay. I moved to Colorado right after college and never looked back.

I boarded a flight smelling faintly of Pine Sol and headed on a two-week trip leaving my family at home. Admittedly, I was skeptical what would become of my impeccably tidy home upon my return. I knew the kids would be OK, but that my home would take a beating. Obviously, the latter had me hesitant to leave.

How to mix the perfect FAC 2 parts exasperation, stress, fatigue or need — depending on market availability 3 parts personality 1 part flair (for decoration purposes only) Dash of organization Pinch location 1-16 oz. beverage of choice Mix well and measure for taste. Enjoy responsibly.

My behavior on the road is akin to an overtired trucker, swilling an extra-large fountain soda from an oversized straw while snacking on bags of whatever will keep me awake.

I was a conservative traveler when I first put on a backpack 25 years ago and trekked through Europe with my husband. We were awkward and clumsy. We’d break a sweat stuffing luggage into overhead bins and break our backs wearing expedition-sized backpacks.

I yearn to have meaningful moments with my family, especially when we can just focus on fun. This summer I’m stumped.

Over 14 years ago, I started work at a bustling startup. Now I’m about to get the ax.