Andrea Chacos

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.

The Treehouse Kid’s Adventure Center in the base village at Snowmass, Colo., was “planted” to serve the ski community. Originally established as a hub for winter guests and a small day camp program, it’s evolved into a bustling year-round daycare and activity center serving Roaring Fork Valley locals and tourists alike.

I easily accept the dog’s limitations, because without opposable thumbs or command of the English language, some chores and conversation are just beyond Jenny’s capabilities. I have a harder time accepting my children’s limitations though.

At this point, some parent walks outside and tells me where my kids are and points to where my dog took an unsupervised poop.

"Want to go on a hike or ski the best powder we've had in years? Want to go to the movies or go out to dinner? Want to get a massage or go bowling?" Lately, the replies I give are all the same. "Meh, maybe another time."

A small, manila envelope recently toppled out of my mailbox. This was not from Amazon Prime nor any other large retailer and didn't shake like a 250-piece Lego set. I was momentarily mystified and eager to open the contents inside.

Let's get in the Delorean and power up the flux capacitor. Someone has to go back in time and be Donald Trump's mother so we can help divert the train wreck we're living today.

Once upon a time when I was a twenty-something, I was a first-chair, hike-the-bowl and pack-my-own-lunch kind of skier.

As she learned how to navigate the mores and behaviors of being identified as a girl, my daughter started to share some of her own observations about equity and discrimination. We encouraged our sons to consider the privileges offered American boys.

In second grade I was placed in a remedial reading class. It was the kind of class where you're carted down the hall with some other awkward kids into a tiny, stinky makeshift classroom that was obviously once a storage closet.