With the unprecedented social media blitz raining down on Planned Parenthood as we enter the latest way-too-long election cycle, I figured it was time to pipe up. It comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me that the hashtag #istandwithplannedparenthood would be one that I support. But for anyone who found their way to this blog via our Pare Down Facebook page, or a recipe on Pinterest, and who now wants nothing to do with Pare Down, I invite you to give this a read.
First, a little about me. I am a mother of two wonderful boys who were planned (kind of, they showed up more on their schedule than mine, but you get the gist) and wanted. My husband and I welcomed them into a home that was well stocked with clothes, diapers, a grip of baby gear, and hugs and kisses to spare. I loved setting up the nursery, and then adapting it to welcome a second son, almost as much as I loved the babies themselves. Almost. But come on, this was cute!
How lucky were we? Our boys were healthy. We had the means to support them. We had the emotional maturity to take care of them (insert booger joke here). I am grateful that I never had to face the choice of what to do in the case of an unwanted or unsafe pregnancy. But if I had, I would again feel grateful to live in a country where this very painful, very personal decision would have been both safe and legal. Because let's be straight on this one topic, when abortions were illegal they still happened. Rich women traveled to obtain them safely, and poor women resorted to more dangerous measures, but abortions were still being performed. There is a great short documentary from 1992 called When Abortion Was Illegal that is currently streaming on YouTube. Let those women tell you themselves how illegal abortion affected their lives, because unlike me they lived through it.
Again, I support safe and legal abortions. You don't have to. I don't have the ability (or desire) to change an anti-abortionist's stance on the issue any more than they could change mine. But that's a moot point, because abortion is legal. Signed, stamped, out-of-the-alleys-since-1973 legal. People can protest all they want, it's their American right, but like it or leave it abortion is here to stay.
What we do stand to lose is universal access to Planned Parenthood, that often vilified baby-hating abortion factory. This is where I take issue.
While I have never had an abortion, I have certainly taken advantage of Planned Parenthood. When you wonder what kind of woman would go there, the answer is me. I used to go there. A lot. For five years, while I was fresh out of college and struggling with an acting career, Planned Parenthood was my main source of health care.
When I lived in Chicago, Planned Parenthood provided yearly pap exams and discounted birth control. (Not that I was having sex. Are you kidding? My parents read this blog.) Even better, when I was living in Los Angeles and among that city's throng of nearly homeless acting hopefuls, my healthcare at Planned Parenthood was free. Yes, you read that correctly. At a time when I couldn't afford a latte, I could still see a doctor for any number of lady problems, and good ol' generic people problems, without having to cough up a dime. Granted I had to get buzzed in through a bullet-proof glass entryway to get there, but once inside it was just your average doctors office with crappy old magazines and daytime TV in the lobby.
It's odd that no one is talking about the other services that Planned Parenthood provides. Sure, a standard pelvic exam won't rile voters the same way that an inflammatory video does, but it's just as big a part of the story. Statistically, it accounts for the majority of the story. My own husband grew up being taught that the only service PP provided was that of abortion. This is untrue. Let it be known: For many of the nation's poor, and for those not-so-poor who may not have great reproductive coverage through their standard insurance, Planned Parenthood is a gateway to receiving quality, affordable healthcare. That's it. By threatening to steal their funding and forcing a number of their doors to close, we are denying many of this nation's men and women their right to receive basic exams, prescriptions, and yearly checkups.
So thank you, Planned Parenthood, for all that you provided me in the years when I would have had to go without ever seeing a doctor. Thank you for enabling me to take control of my body and make well-informed reproductive choices. I am so grateful for the care, and happy to report that my planned journey to parenthood has been a success.
I make no secret of the fact that I live in a lovely community suffering from a longstanding invasion of ignorant asshats (see HERE). So, I should not have been surprised by the most recent local activity but it has indeed caught me off guard. Why did I expect more? Because this issue involves the children in our county and their health.
Graphic courtesy of http://www.schoolnutritionandfitness.com/
Douglas County School District has become the only district in the state of Colorado to opt out of the Michelle Obama-championed new federal student lunch guidelines at the high school level. What a distinction! While I love the general idea of bucking the system and taking a stand, this opt-out represents one of the worst decisions that our should-have-been-voted-out-there's-always-next-time school board has had a hand in.
In response, I had a whole blog planned on the history of school lunches, the current guideline updates, and ways to embrace the healthier changes and fight childhood obesity while teaching our kids to enjoy a balanced meal. I'm going to skip that though, in favor of a Q&A, in which I cast the school board/naysayers in the roll of Inquisitor, and myself as the Voice of Reason. (This casting is totally biased, of course, but that's a perk of writing your own blog.)
A quick background and some resources, if you are into things like research and fact checking:
INQUISITOR: The government is overstepping its bounds by dictating the composition of school lunches. What's next? Will we be forced to investigate and evaluate the sack lunches kids bring in the door?
VOICE OF REASON: Public schools are subject to government oversight. With government funds, comes government accountability. This is why DCSD lost its eligibility to be reimbursed for free and low-cost school lunches when it decided not to participate in the new school lunch program. But you know that. And I'm sure you weighed that estimated $167,000 yearly reimbursement (not too many poor kids in Douglas County!) against the $3M a year in revenue that the school district takes in from its in-house Subway franchises. Nope, not even Jared and his giant pants can make Subway sandwiches worthy of our kids in the eyes of the federal guidelines, so losing those fast food chains would have been a hit to the ol' pocketbook.
What was the other part? Oh yeah, government oversight of kids' sack lunches. That's kind of an inflammatory argument based on nothing, right? Did Rush put you up to this? There is no precedent or law that prohibits parents from feeding their kids a bucket of Cheetos if they want to. Being food stupid, on a private level at least, is totally in alignment with federal regulations. Phew!
INQUISITOR: The guidelines are too strict. Our chef made a pizza that adhered to the guidelines and the kids hated it. And his burrito had to be created in miniature in order to comply. What do you say to that, huh?
VoR: Who decided that our kids need foods like pizza, burritos, cheeseburgers and fries in their daily lunch? Because they like them? If we based our children's diets on what they liked, my kids would eat nothing but macaroni and cheese and Whoppers malted milk balls for dinner. Stop luring kids to the lunch line with empty calories covered in melted cheese. Here's a crazy thought: don't serve pizza. At all. The menus aren't set by the new regulations, just the guidelines. So, and I'm just spitballing here, what if the PTO sponsored a school-wide recipe contest, kids and parents could get involved, and there could be a taste-testing night to raise money for the school? Winning recipes, with nutritional information, could be handed over to the district chef and/or school lunch supervisor and incorporated into the lunch menu. Too crazy? You'd rather stick to selling wrapping paper? Okay, then take ten minutes, harness the power of social media, and call out for help from the world of food and mom bloggers. Provide them with information on cost stipulations and nutritional content per serving and see what those wacky kitchen creatives come up with. Or google it. Someone has probably already done this.
INQUISITOR: Just because you give a kid an apple, you can't make him eat it. We have the healthiest trash cans in the state - the kids are throwing away more than they eat!
VoR: Until healthy lunches are the new normal, there is going to be a learning curve. Remember turning 21? No? That's because you were blackout drunk. A natural reaction to your new access to the magical world of booze. But your liver couldn't keep up with that kind of routine for the rest of your life, so you adapted and started to drink in moderation at least most of the time. So it will be with our kids. As booze is to a hangover, so too is trashing your lunch to hunger. (Bonus lesson: This will also teach kids a natural consequence that is a direct result of their actions!) It will also help when you stop trying to feed students pseudo-cardboard, non-fat pizza. Again, pizza is now a treat in this new world and not a school lunch staple, so it can be delicious, gooey and full of fat outside of school bounds. For the school day let's find some new recipes, like hummus/cucumber/pita sandwiches for instance, and teach the kids about cucumbers. Involve them in the school garden. If there isn't a school garden, plant one! Seeds are cheap and the child labor is built in, which is part of the reason I myself had kids. I'm sure an inventive biology teacher can adapt a lesson on Mendel's genetics to be taught outside while the ninth graders weed the pea patch. Torn away from their classrooms and textbooks, the kids may actually listen and (holy shit!) become inspired.
INQUISITOR: For some kids, this is their only guaranteed meal in a day, and it is being wasted.
VoR: A truly hungry child will eat the healthy meal. A truly hungry child, who may not have access to fresh produce on a regular basis, will eat the apple and maybe take a second one as well. A truly hungry child needs the nutrition provided by the new guidelines, since a standard piece of pizza may fill their stomaches but leave them nutritionally starving.
INQUISITOR: Well what about our cooks? They aren't allowed to give seconds, so extra food goes right into the trash.
VoR: Come on, work with me on this one. Lunch rooms must adhere to strict food and cleanliness guidelines, which makes them perfect candidates for donating extra meals to churches and soup kitchens. All that takes is a little coordination and a phone call. If you are lucky enough to live in the Denver area, check out We Don't Waste. I'm pretty sure they'll take the call.
INQUISITOR: When I grew up, school lunches were delicious. Can't we leave well enough alone?
VoR: When you grew up, school lunches weren't competing with fast foods, and you only had 2 options daily, Take It or Leave It. "Foods" that can be found in current high school cafeterias weren't even invented when you went to school.
INQUISITOR: But what about a parent's right to choose without unnecessary government -
VoR: Enough! Enough with the justifications and the inflammatory what ifs. The Voice of Reason is going to lose her mind! Seriously, where is the common sense? Even the schools adhering to the guidelines are lobbying to get french fries to count as a vegetable and pizza sauce to count as a serving of tomatoes. If you used all of this loophole energy and transferred it into trying to make the system work, we could have nutritious foods in our schools, kids who have a greater knowledge of where food comes from and how it affects their bodies, and parents would have an ally in the age old battle of getting kids to eat broccoli. Is the new system perfect? Nope. But let's try it and then when we encounter hiccups work towards a logical solution rather than writing off the whole system as broken and tossing it away. Let's not make this about economics and politics and instead refocus on the real message of raising a healthy generation of kids. If we as a community are going to unite and take a stand, let's work together to introduce our children to exotic vegetables and a new variety of spices instead of reaching a point of mutiny to protect their access to a five dollar foot long sub.
Damn. Being the only voice of reason in the discussion is exhausting. And angry-making, apparently. This issue makes me nuts. What do you all think?
We all have a button, some kind of trigger, that immediately catapults us back in time to a moment from childhood. One of mine is peas.
For two glorious weeks in the summer, nature aligns and a garden will give you all of the sweet peas and new potatoes you can ask for. As a kid, this occurred during summers in Idaho at my grandparents' house and all I have to do is see a pea on the vine and I am transported. Nothing tastes like a young pea, straight from the pod.
When we put in the garden four doors down, my mom's sole request was to plant peas and potatoes. She's making memories with my boys, much like her own mom did with my brothers and me, teaching them how to pick the fattest pods and split them down the seam with their thumb to reveal the perfectly straight row of plump peas hidden inside.
And this weekend, we finally sat down to a meal of new potatoes and peas. What was once a staple on my Grandma's summer table has made it to my own weekly menu.
It's a great option for Meatless Mondays and a simple way to show off produce from the garden or farmer's market. And, if you're lucky like me, it will take you right back to being a kid.
New Potatoes and Peas - a loose recipe (the kind I hated when I first started to cook)
To serve a family of 4 with leftovers I dug up roughly 30 new potatoes of various sizes, and as many peas as were ripe. You can never have too many peas, so pick more than you think you'll need.
Wash the potatoes, quartering the larger ones, cutting some in half, and leaving the littles whole. Boil in a pot of heavily salted water until easily pierced with a fork. While the potatoes cook, shell the peas.
When the potatoes are done, turn off the heat and add the shelled peas to the hot water.
Make a roux. I used 4 TB butter and half a cup of flour, mixing over medium heat until it was a golden brown. Then whisk in whole milk - taking care to smash the flour chunks - until you have a thin gravy. There should be enough liquid to act as a sort of soup when combined with the potatoes. Liberally salt and pepper the gravy to taste.
Drain the potatoes and peas. Put in a serving dish, pour the gravy over the top, and serve.
So, like all good parents, we decided to take McDonald's away from the kids a few weeks ago. Kids love that!
No, we didn't do it because it is so gloriously unhealthy. Let's face it, sometimes we all need a fat burger and some fries. We did it because we felt like hypocrites when we were feeding the chickens organic fruits and veggies and allowing our kids to consume the flesh of a thousand sad cows in one filthy bite. And, that's how I sold Jude on it as well.
I talked to him about the difference between happy animals - like our chickens, and the cows we see in the fields around our house - and the cows and chickens who live their lives like this:
Harris Ranch feedlot
"Free range" factory farm chickens
And I have to say, I'm proud of Jude's response. He didn't freak, like I'd anticipated. Instead he wanted McDonald's to change their policies so that he could return to their burgers and, more importantly, their toys. He asked if we could go home, after our stop at animal-friendly Good Times (free range beef and Humane-certified chickens - it can be done!), and write Mr. McDonald a letter. He wanted me to put it in his mailbox. So, by the power of the internets, let's see if we can get it there. (He was dictating, hence the reference of himself in third person.)
Dear McDonald's,
Jude and Mama don't like your food because you be mean to your cows and chickens. Please be nice to them because you guys be really mean to your chickens and cows. Jude misses your toys and Jude loves animals. He cares for them very much. And when we get goats Jude will be very nice to them and not be mean so they don't head butt him and kick him in the face.
Gabe and I celebrated our 6th wedding anniversary yesterday. That was one great party...from what I remember. I look really happy in the pictures. It was just such a blur - show up, pull on fancy dress without ruining makeup or hair, walk down the aisle, put the ring on the wrong finger, cut the cake, dance a little, and suddenly we apparated in a hotel room and found ourselves ordering Silver Mine Subs and high-fiving each other for pulling off such a grown up act.
In honor of that high five and the six successful years that have followed, I'd like to share six lessons that have served us well. I'm not saying that we practice these 100% of the time, but I can say that life is better when we do.
Life is better when...
...you assume that your partner is always on your side.
...you don't bother with whose turn it is to do something, like change a diaper or do the laundry, and just do it.
...you do little things to make each other's day better, or easier, without attaching the price tag of being acknowledged.
...you regularly take time alone, sans kids and responsibilities, to remind yourselves why you like each other and wanted to start all this madness in the first place.
...you discuss a problem immediately rather than letting it stew and intensify.
...you can laugh, often, at yourself and each other.
I crossed a parenting milestone this week when Jude, 4 years old and urged on by the deaths of five of our chicks and my grandpa last fall, asked me if everyone dies.
This is one of those moments when the world stops and you know your answer will have lasting effect. I am about to shape my child's first impression of death.
"Yes buddy," I say, "everyone dies."
His face crumples as he says in a tiny voice, "Oh no, even me?"
My heart shatters. I want to say, "No, no not you. Never you. By the time you get old they'll find a cure for death and you and me and Daddy and Aidan and your Granny and Grandpa and all of your family will be together always." I want to cure death so that it doesn't keep my son up at night. I want to avoid the upcoming trips in the car, when he is at his most open, during which he'll ask if his best friend Sammy will die. As endearing as it is I don't want to be present when he asks if Barack Obama will die and then, upon my answer, sobs out the words, "But he's my favorite president!"
This is when other parents are able to turn to Heaven and let their children know that if they are good, and go to church and say their prayers, then after they die a loving God will welcome them to Paradise and they'll all live happily ever after, amen. I want Heaven to be real now, just as I wanted it to be real at my grandpa's funeral when family members spoke of my grandparents being reunited in Heaven and dancing together for eternity. I want to be able to tell my child this story too. I want to believe.
But I don't. The best I can do is save my son from the devastation of growing up and thinking that I lied to him in this moment when he needed me most. I step away from the temptation of the story that I know will stop his crying and I carefully revisit the narrative that began a few days prior with the death of our first chick.
When we die, our bodies turn to dust. This dust then turns into dirt, and the dirt becomes a tree. Or grass. Our bodies help new things grow. He asks if my grandpa has turned into a fruit tree and I feel no qualms with skipping over the blasphemy of caskets and embalming and tell him yes, Grandpa Cyril is a fruit tree. Probably apple. For the moment this calms him, and he sleeps.
The conversation does not end here, and I am certain we'll be revisiting the topic for a while. In classic Jude fashion, he has declared the Circle of Life dumb. But I feel my shoulders release just a fraction when he tells me that even though he hates dying, he loves that he will become a tree. I love it to. I realize that talking through death with Jude, enlightening him on this grander scheme of decay and renewal, makes me more comfortable with the idea as well.
I promise Jude that as he gets used to the idea of dying it won't seem so scary and he won't think about it as much. I also promise that I'll do my best, years and years and years from now, to make sure that my tree is planted next to his tree and that our leaves will always be touching. It's a picture that we both need to hold on to.
Some people think that Atheists don't believe in anything. This is untrue. I believe in easing my son's pain while still telling him the truth. I believe in the Circle of Life, as dumb as it may be. I believe that death seems far less terrible when our bodies give way to new growth. I believe in cremation and in taking these fertile ashes somewhere special to scatter, or bury, and thereby create hallowed ground through regeneration. I believe that my children can grow up to view death as a natural progression of life, to cherish the time that we are together, and not to fear our eventual demise. I find comfort in these beliefs, and I hope that Jude will too.
We brought home 9 baby chicks on Friday...and have lost a chick a day since. I'd heard plenty about the high rate of chick mortality but assumed that with extensive research and a fastidiously clean brooder I'd beat the odds and take all 9 chicks to maturity. My first weekend of homesteading has been eye-opening to say the least.
This year, we are starting our flock with Buff Orpingtons, Black Australorps, and Ameraucanas. These little fluff balls steal your heart - Jude wanted to name them everything from Cutie Cutest to Cutie Fluffy Cheeks. In an effort to combine our pet-based love of animals with a farm-based mentality I decided to name by breed and all of the girls would have the same name. Forever. So the names were important!
Jude named the Orps Sunshine, which I love. The Australorps are Sadies and, after I revoked my husband's naming rights, the Ameraucanas went from Ligers to Ellas.
Sunshine
Sadie
Ella
(This particular Ella asserted her right to top of the pecking order by pecking each of her sisters in the eye the moment they were introduced to the brood box. She's got some moxy.)
Our first loss was an Ella. One moment she was fine, and an hour later we had a dead chick. Jude and I both cried. After reading a million chicken postings online, I think she had fowl pox as her eyes and nostrils were wet.
I couldn't stand the thought of throwing her away, so I placed this little Ella, still warm and limp, out on the property so that she could feed the earth like nature intended. It also made it much easier to comfort Jude by explaining how Ella would turn to dirt and then become a pine tree. In all honesty, it comforted me as well.
On Sunday one of the Sunshines was lethargic and wouldn't stand. Chicks sleep in tight little balls, whether standing or lying down, and this Sunshine was splayed out and unresponsive. Her breathing was also labored and her nostrils were wet as well. With supportive care, chicks with fowl pox have a 50% mortality rate. I separated her into a small box within the brooder that kept her close with her sisters but didn't allow anyone to touch. Even though I gave her water and hand fed her, she succumbed at the end of the day. This little Sunshine will also become a pine tree.
And then this morning, in order to even out the numbers, one of the Sadies went the way of the pine for no apparent reason at all. Strange how quickly I've moved from devastation to acceptance of nature's seemingly cruel way of ensuring species survival by culling the flock.
Also surprising is the speed with which my sadness in the face of death has turned to the practical worries of starting off with such a small flock that egg production will be lower than our family needs. As adorable as these cutie fluffy cheeks may be, their primary purpose is feeding our family. We'll be returning to the country feed store this weekend to replenish our numbers in the hope that a slightly larger chick count of 12 will increase the odds of a full flock of adult hens.
The moral of the story? No amount of preparation or hubris can cheat death. Thank you chickens, givers of eggs, life lessons, and pine trees.
Remember way back to the beginning of this blog, when it was all about simplifying and starting a garden in the suburbs? I was so young. So naive. So unaware that a garden isn't simple and that it would lead me down an increasingly complicated path.
Gardening ignited a compulsion for cooking, and cooking fueled a kitchen-based addiction. My old-timey kitchenware proved to be a gateway appliance that led to a sewing machine. Making things with my hands lit a passion for all things Etsy and Organic and recycled. Which led back to the gardening, but on a more obsessive scale. Then life shifted in a surprising and wonderful direction, and we find ourselves living in the country with 5 acres and bees and chicks arriving in April.
Maybe I got in over my head.
Rachel, of the sage "ounces make pounds" advice from blogs gone by, reacted to this news by asking me if I knew that chickens pooped. A fair enough response from someone who knew me when I used to paint my nails on the weekends and wouldn't go to the grocery store without showering and spackling on a little makeup for show. But that girl is now 2 kids and 2 dogs deep and has dealt with her share of shit. And vomit. And various other messes that would have sent the college me running for the hills with a novel, a thermos of tea, and a picnic quilt in all its picturesque glory. Escapism at its best.
Back here in the real world I am more worried about not getting stung to death. I'm taking a few classes at Denver Urban Homesteading, which has me pretty excited. Honestly, I am in love with the term "Urban Homesteader." My pioneer roots start to throb and I feel the need to chop and cook something. (Truth told, I've got a pot of butternut squash soup in an enameled dutch oven on the stove right now.)
I've been stoking the fire with a bunch of great starter books that I recommend if you are having similar homestead cravings:
So, here goes nothing. Our future farmstead site is currently snow covered, but this time next year I'll be wading out into that mess to check the chickens and give sugar water to the bees. Yes, the stuff of Little House on the Prairie-style fantasy will shortly become my reality. I only hope that no one dies of dysentery or gets swept away when we ford that inevitable river...
We all know that no one escapes childhood unscathed. Even those of use with "good" parents enter adulthood with our own particular brand of baggage courtesy of mom and dad. Reflecting on my own childhood is one thing, though. Knowing that I am now actually messing up my kids in my own special way is a totally new level of hell. It's enough to make me crazy.
My head is constantly full of conflicting advice and parental chatter. For example, when I can't help but kiss Jude 1000 times in a row, will this someday be construed by a therapist as a disregard for boundaries and an invasion of personal space? Because I prefer to carry Aidan in public instead of allowing him to walk, am I introducing a lifelong dependency on his overbearing mother? How long do we let the boys bathe together? One is a better sleeper since we used the "cry it out" method and the other still wants to be rocked to sleep...is that okay? If I let Jude pick out his shirt but force him to wear socks, am I sending mixed messages? Will my boys be vain if I keep telling them how cute they are? If I tell them when I'm proud does that teach them to value my praise above their own feelings? And by taking them to a political rally, will I be ensuring their future experimentation with Republicanism as a form of rebellion?
I need a drink. (Can I drink in front of them?)
It's a lot to deal with. Larkin ends his poem with the sage advice "Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself." Well shit. Since it's too late to exercise my right choose the only option I am left with is to celebrate the highlights of my parents' careers, forgive them their shortcomings, and hope that one day my boys will do the same.
I give you:
Stuff My Parents Taught Me That Didn't Fuck Me Up
(...an ode of sorts)
We are your parents, first and foremost. You won't always like us but we won't let this stop us from protecting you.
If we mess up, we'll apologize. Even if it's years later. We're not perfect.
We will have dinner as a family whenever possible without the crutch of TV, books or magazines, or any electronic device.
From school plays to soccer games, one or both of us will be at all of them.
You are responsible for cleaning your own room. Live like a pig or don't.
Crying is an acceptable response to any situation, even for the boys.
Dark humor is totally appropriate.
If you ask us for help we'll give you all we've got.
No R-rated movies until you're old enough. No violent movies or video games in our house ever.
We don't care what your friends' parents are doing. Please refer to #1.
Until you come of age, you cannot drink in our home. We're not those parents.
If you drink at someone else's home call us for a ride and we won't freak until the next morning.
If you are going to curse, fine, but you better watch your fucking mouth at school and in front of your grandparents.
Graduation from high school is mandatory. After that you can figure out what's best for you.
You can ask us anything and we'll tell you the truth, even if it's painful and ugly.
We have no expectation of your adulthood other than wanting you to be happy and not to hurt others.
Life will be easier if you marry someone who likes your family.
If you get lost and refer to it as an adventure you'll either learn to take things less seriously or develop a lifelong distrust of the word adventure. It's up to you.
What is is. If you can't change it, then you can at least control how you react to it.
A good credit score will help you in life. You'll learn this one way or another.
You can always move home.
No matter what, even if you grow up to be a murderer, we love you.
That last one is a direct quote. Thanks, mom and dad.
When I was younger, and more full of myself and my ideas, I always thought that I would heed Virginia Woolf's advice and never be without a room to call my own. And not just any room. A writer's garret. Some sort of adult feminist clubhouse that admitted only me. My grown up reality is that I am lucky to be able to lock the door and use the bathroom by myself. Most showers are accompanied by an infant in his Exersaucer. I share a bedroom with my husband, and our bed often hosts one or both of our sons. If I am sitting on the couch there is a child in my lap, another vying for my attention, and two dogs trying to woo me with "pet me" eyes. I wouldn't trade any of it for that drafty room of my imagination...and yet... Sometimes I just want to be by myself. And write. Most writers, whether they are willing to admit it or not, have grown up with the notion of only being able to tap into our best selves, our most poignant writing, if we are locked away somewhere in total isolation. In addition to my writing loft, my creative dream was a cabin in Maine. Three months alone in the woods and that hidden novel would surely expose itself! And unless I was able to attain that perfect atmosphere, then who could blame me for not reaching my full literary potential? I admit that I fell prey to Virginia's dashing notion that “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” And that idea, dear me, is bullshit. For starters, I am afraid of being in the woods alone so at least 60% of my time would have been devoted to fantasizing about bears, Bigfoot, and either the escaped mental patient with the hook at the end of his arm or the one who licked your hand in the night pretending to be your dog. Also, I have never been to Maine and know nothing about its actual landscape. And most writers aren't independently wealthy. We are average people with mortgages and medical bills, families to care for and jobs that require our daily presence. In our lives, writing is work. It is not glamorous, it is not better with a glass (or bottle) of wine. It benefits from regular practice and multiple drafts. And it can be accomplished in stolen moments if we are ready to take them. My new creative goal does not involve escaping from reality in order to try and recreate it on paper, but rather to take advantage of the wasted minutes that can be gleaned from a normal day. This way I am accountable for my time, and that novel is allowed to grow in fits and starts instead of rotting by the wayside while I wait for an idyllic writing opportunity to present itself. I keep hearing my best friend Rachel's voice in my head, saying "Ounces make pounds." It's something she used to tell young hikers on Outward Bound trips when their backpacks would become so heavy after the addition of one more book, one more energy bar, one more souvenir rock. That idea, of one tiny river rock being insignificant but an hour's worth of river rocks adding substantial weight to your pack, can so easily translate into time. If I write for 30 minutes a day while the baby naps for example, I may only see a paragraph that one day, but by the end of the week I'll have 7 paragraphs. By the end of a year I could have 70 pages. It's daunting if I think of it in terms of "then it will take me 3 years to write a book!" But how wasteful I feel when I realize that I could have started this project 3 years ago... So, I will squirrel away my idle time. Facebook won't miss me. My email will keep. The dishes will get done, dinner will be cooked, television won't notice my absence and no one in my family will feel shorted. These 30 precious minutes will become my room. And soon enough, I will have a book to call my own.
As another tragedy rips through Colorado, I feel heavy with the weight of loss. My heart breaks for the families who lost a loved one. I hurt for a community who will understandably second-guess a trip to the movies, or the grocery store, or the mall. I am overcome with anger and sadness and fear.
My anger quickly focuses on our nation's loose gun laws. How any informed citizen can possibly believe that the Second Amendment, drafted in the 1790s, blindly authorizes the modern-day purchase of firearms as powerful, precise, and dedicated to destruction as the 3 guns carried by James Holmes on Friday morning is beyond my comprehension. I am shocked by the opinions being expressed by certain Republican congressmen and average American citizens - some of them my friends - who feel that the number of lives lost in the Aurora theater could have been reduced if at least one of the theater patrons had been armed and able to take down the shooter. The confusion, smoke, darkness, and panic in that theater created a combat zone, and I am of the opinion that most gun-carrying citizens are not trained to keep a level head, let alone a steady aim, in such a situation. My sadness falls on the victims, their families, and the survivors who will be imprinted with this tragedy for the rest of their lives. The stories of loss and heroism coming out of that theater gut me. My grief extends further though. I feel an excruciating pain for the mother of James Holmes, and this is where my sadness gives way to fear. Before he became the mastermind behind Friday's massacre, "Holmes" was simply James. Maybe his family called him Jim. Or Jimmy. He was an honor student, an attractive young man, a boy who regularly attended church and was a counselor at a camp for underprivileged children. Even further back, twenty years ago, he was a darling little boy showing no indication of what was to come. It is too easy to look at James' picture on the news and speak of his cold eyes, his diabolical intelligence, his malicious intentions. That makes him "other." It insulates us as average citizens, normal everyday parents, from the idea that he could have been son to any one of us. My intention here is not to excuse the actions of James Holmes - far from it - but to open a dialogue on how we can protect our own sons from this tragic fate. Because it is always the sons, isn't it? The boys who grow into men that funnel their brokenness into mass destruction. James Holmes is the latest iteration of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. Of Jared Loughner. Of Seung-Hui Cho and Nathan Dunlap (no, we haven't forgotten). There are more, of course, but this short list represent 67 deaths and that number contains enough loss to prove the point.
And my point is this, how do we save our sons? How do we teach our boys to find outlets other than violence for their pain; to seek help before it is too late? Because this is my greatest fear. Not of being the victim of a random act of terrible violence, but of raising a son who is capable of carrying out such an act. I am a realist, and I can only assume that the mothers of the young men listed above used to look at their sons with the same love and adoration that I feel when I look on my own. Before they were monsters, they were little boys just like mine and yours. So what are we, as the mothers and fathers of sons, to do?
I don't pretend to have answers. I expect the antidote to this nationwide infection of violence will be multi-layered, involving a combined effort of stricter gun regulations, increased awareness of and access to men's mental health care, and collectively analyzing our country's common use of death as entertainment. On a grassroots level, I believe that parents are the first line of defense in preventing future tragedy. I don't say this to lay blame on the parents of the shooters I've mentioned above, but rather to place an active burden on myself and the other parents of young boys across the country. We can make a difference. We can honor all of the victims of violence in America by doing our part to raise emotionally intelligent men. Here is my plan:
No guns in our home, real or toy, period. Does my 3-year-old turn his wooden hammer into a "shooting machine"? Yes, and I let him. I adhere to the idea that "boys will be boys" and do my best not to overreact and make guns enticing by way of making them taboo, but I can't in good conscience aid and abet his introduction to realistic toy weaponry. And on days when he plays superheroes and "makes all the bad guys nice" instead of shooting them I feel like we are making a positive impression.
I will closely monitor the amount of violence that I allow into our home. My husband and I don't watch adult TV shows while our children are awake - even the baby - because we want to limit their exposure to adult situations as much as possible. And we are constantly adjusting our guidelines based on how our toddler reacts. Recent, seemingly innocuous, cartoons that have been taken out of rotation include Kung Fu Panda, Tom and Jerry, and SpongeBob SquarePants.
I am going to teach my sons that it is okay to cry. Tears are the easiest, most basic release that our bodies offer for strong emotion. My dad is a great man who can get choked up at the mere mention of his children or his grandsons. I love this about him. My husband can cry tears of both joy and pain, and this was one of the primary reasons that I knew he would make a good father. In our house, we will never tell our boys to buck up and stop crying.
My husband and I will strive to see our sons as they are and (hopefully) not as we want them to be. We will not hide our own fears, failures, or imperfections from our children in the hopes that they won't feel the need to hide their perceived shortcomings from us.
We will watch over the emotional health of our sons with the same care that we apply to their physical wellbeing. Just as we monitor a cold to make sure it doesn't become an ear infection, we will keep close eye on a temper tantrum to ensure that this lack of control doesn't become a way of life.
We are stocking our parental tool kit by reading. Not online chat room reading, but actual books written by authors with credentials to help us in our endeavor. Currently on the nightstand you can find "Becoming The Parent You Want To Be" by Laura Davis and Janis Keyser, and "Raising an Emotionally Intelligent Child" by John Gottman, PhD.
We are increasing the emotional tool kit of our toddler with books as well. The classic "Hands Are Not For Hitting" by Martine Agassi, PhD and "When I Feel Angry" by Cornelia Maude Spelman are great in that they teach valuable lessons on acceptable responses to strong feelings. These books open up a dialogue with children while you read so that talking about anger couldn't be easier. Most importantly, both texts emphasize that feeling like you want to hit or hurt someone and actually doing it are very different, which is a key lesson at any age.
We are redoubling our effort to actively listen when our oldest son is upset and to help him voice his feelings. We've recently been introduced to the idea that it is much more beneficial for a child to validate a fear of the dark, for example, and help work through it than to simply tell him there's nothing to be afraid of and go to sleep. This is an oversimplification, but the idea is to listen to a child's words and not dismiss or belittle their feelings based on our grownup understanding of the world.
Finally, I will always allow my sons access to mental health professionals if they have problems that are beyond my ability to help. Together my husband and I will teach them that asking for help is a sign of strength and not weakness. If they cannot ask for help, we will ask for them.
Yes it's a long list, and I expect that as I continue to learn it will continue to grow. But it's worth the effort. It represents a promise not only to America but also to my boys and the men they can become.
Two nights ago I took off my bra and half a french fry fell out. Par for the course with my monstrous baby-induced rack. It hoards things. But I'm not alone, right? Every mom has a collection of day-to-day moments that humble her. If you show me yours, I'll show you mine. I'll even go first...
I wash my hair so infrequently right now that it actually started to dread. I had to cut a piece out.
I was on a conference call last week when Jude got my attention, and everyone else's, by yelling out "Mom! Booger!" so that I could wipe off his picking finger.
Gabe went in to give Aidan an open mouth baby kiss and our son picked that exact moment to spit up. (Fatherhood is humbling too.)
Along those lines, Gabe once caught Jude poop with his hand during a middle of the night changing when he didn't have a fresh diaper at the ready.
Continuing on the poop train, I looked down yesterday and discovered fresh poop on my finger. I still have no idea where it came from though I am quite certain it didn't come from me. (Honestly, I don't know if that would be better or worse.)
Finally, and I'll leave you with this one, I went to rinse out a diaper this morning, pointed the sprayer the wrong direction, and full on bidet-ed myself in the face.
It is 4 minutes until noon. By the time you read this, I'll be drinking. Cheers.
Remember being a kid, when fireworks used to mean something? Growing up, the Fourth of July was synonymous with all-day barbecues, staying up late, huddling together as a family on our quilted picnic blanket, and watching the once-a-year spectacle shoulder-to-shoulder with the entire neighborhood, oohing and awing in unison. Pair the show with a local band or a synchronized radio broadcast, and even the most jaded teenager would be stunned into a patriotic silence. Collectively we were part of something bigger, something great.
I fear that my own kids won't have this experience.
In my Littleton neighborhood, which I adore, it seems that almost every community event is capped off with fireworks. Last week's Main Street Block Party actually had two shows - one at 8:30 PM and a second at 10. Awesome, right?
Not so much.
What was once special has become commonplace. Instead of a reason for excitement, these too-frequent shows have become a nuisance that wakes my sleeping children and causes my dogs anxiety all summer long. I don't understand the reasoning behind it. Is it our supermarket-conditioned mentality, where seasons are rendered meaningless and anything we could possibly want is available to us at all times? Is it a collective fear of unassuming moments, where it's not enough if the capstone of a gathering is as simple as seeing our favorite barista freed from the coffee counter and out with her family? Do we always need to wow, to awe, to inundate with the most sparkle, the most noise, possible? Or maybe it started as a singular idea - let's add fireworks to the Western Welcome Week festival! - that grew in popularity until the number of firework displays offered in my city has spiraled out of control.
Whatever the case may be, in my community or yours, I would like to take a stand and reclaim fireworks for monumental occasions only. A presidential inauguration, the final game of the World Series, the celebration of our nation's independence. Since most cities host neither of the former events, let us reserve our fireworks for the latter. I extend a challenge to my city, and yours, to suspend all scheduled fireworks between this Fourth of July and next.
What would fill the void?
Let's start by talking financials. Assume that the average non-Fourth of July fireworks display costs $3,000. Instead of a local credit union sponsoring the fireworks at the next neighborhood chili cook-off, for example, they could come up with an "in lieue of" donation. In lieue of fireworks, ABC Credit Union has renovated Main Street USA Park and donated a new jungle gym. Or perhaps they would rather buy a parcel of land and gift it to the local Open Space holding. Or maybe they would want to award a scholarship to a local high school student, or pay to renovate a local business or historical building in need of a facelift.
What if this idea caught on?
Local businesses would compete over who could come up with the most creative and beneficial use of their previously allocated fireworks budgets. This electric spirit of giving would catch on within the community and people would start submitting their own ideas for consideration and participating in the discussion concerning this new distribution of funds. Invested citizens might even start looking for opportunities within the local community to donate time and money of their own...
What if, and this is the big one, our year of firework abstinence resulted in a renewed sense of community and culminated in a Fourth of July exhibition in the summer of 2013 that got the neighborhood excited again? After a year of smaller, more intimate, gatherings we'd be ready to come together en masse and make some noise.
Can't you see it?
We gather up our families, pack the blue Igloo coolers that look just like the ones our parents had, stake an early claim on some prime sky-viewing real estate at the park on the hill, and then while away the afternoon throwing a frisbee, eating hotdogs, and psyching ourselves up for an event that we have been denied for a whopping 364 days. Even the adults are little-kid giddy with anticipation. It takes forever for the sun to set, but as it finally gets dark and the first whistling rocket is shot into the air, we look to our left and right and see that the America we are celebrating tonight is the America we can find right here in this park. As the first color-filled explosions light up the sky, casting their purple and green glow onto the upturned faces of our children, we swell with pride and gratitude for the life we are able to claim as our own.
I want this. I want this moment that is unique enough to make a memory. What do you say, Littleton? Are you with me?
I am a horrible future-dweller. It causes me a lot of anxiety. I often find myself caught up in what could happen and my brain goes off in a terrible spiral of doom. This is especially true when I wake up in the middle of the night and my logic brain is still sleeping. I find myself at my most vulnerable at 2 am, when the likelihood of dropping one of my children into the Grand Canyon while on vacation, or being trapped in my car after driving into a river, or Gabe being attacked by a mountain lion while out on a suburban trail run are not only plausible but actually probable.
Welcome to Crazy Town, population of 1.
Crazy Town held a parade last week in anticipation of Gabe's latest checkup with his cardiologist. It has been eight months since his mitral valve repair, and every echocardiogram leading up to this one has resulted in bad news ranging from disappointing to devastating. Needless to say, I spent a grim Tuesday morning penning my husband's eulogy in my head, figuring out how to bravely raise two boys on my own, and working my body into a state of nauseous panic.
Fun fact - your body does not know the difference between imagined tragedy and actual tragedy. So, if you have a particularly vivid imagination, you can wreak havoc on your body by causing physical reactions to things that have never happened. The mayor of Crazy Town has mad skills in this arena.
And yet...
Despite all of my nutso mental preparations, the sky did not actually fall. I am happy to report that Gabe's fabulous, wonderful, strong-in-spite-of-it-all heart is pumping away like a champ. This week was a win. Turns out I made myself sick over nothing.
I'll cut me a little slack due to the gravity of this particular situation, but even if we had gotten bad news worrying would have accomplished nothing. It doesn't help, it doesn't stop the bad, and it in no way prepares us for dealing with actual life turbulence. It is an absolute waste. And the bitch of it all is that I can get equally caught up in something as trivial as a fake argument that will never happen based on a slight that was never actually received. I am quite adept at working myself into a frenzy over money troubles that have yet to manifest themselves. I have also been known to freak my freak, as my mom so wonderfully phrases it, about which kindergarten to send Jude to even though that actual decision is almost two years away.
I get so lost in what might/could/will happen that I ruin the here and now. It's a sickness. I need to fix this for myself, but I also feel compelled to address this behavior before I pass it on to my children.
Let's use now as an example.
It is 8:41 pm on a Sunday and I am stressing over the Q2 taxes that are due at the end of the month, the fact that I may or may not have a freelance gig after next week, and we need to call plumbers to bid on what I fear will be an expensive upgrade to our house's water main by order of Denver Water. All of these events will play themselves out within the next few weeks, but I have no idea what will actually happen. And seriously, what could I possibly do about them right now at 8:44 pm on a Sunday? Absolutely nothing.
The best trick in my bag, and the one I don't seem to utilize enough, is to root myself firmly in the present moment.
And right now, everything is okay.
Right now, at 8:46 on a Sunday, this is what I know:
Gabe is giving Jude a bath.
Aidan is practicing his new "ka-ka-ka" sounds in my lap.
Belle, our Boston Terrier, is snoring beneath a pile of blankets at the end of the couch.
Our lab Rocky is passed out at my feet.
My house is filled with the people I love most.
We are all healthy.
We are all safe.
I don't know what will happen in an hour, or a day, or next week, but it is now 8:48 on a Sunday and right now, right here, I am just fine.
***
It is 8:49 on an average Sunday. No one is home in Crazy Town. The sole occupant is currently vacationing in the present moment. Someday she hopes to move there.
I am a compulsive starter of projects. It has been a problem my whole life. I am addicted to the thrill of a good idea, but the problem arises when I try to complete them all at once. I work faster and faster, spinning into madness, until I finish a fraction of the projects on my list and the rest get washed away in the deluge of my resulting breakdown. And then it starts all over again. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Right now my addiction is at an all-time high. Quitting my job has freed up ample time to think of a million wonderful new things to tackle!
Currently, I have plans in the works for 3 TV pitches, 2 books, a screenplay, a non-profit, a real estate investment idea, this blog, my upcoming Etsy store, a new writing gig, and 2 potential job opportunities that have blossomed out of freelance producing. Oh, and I still have my lovely boys to raise, dogs to play with, a husband who deserves some of my attention, a garden to plant, and various home projects designed to welcome summer.
Reading this list makes me tired.
Just yesterday a girlfriend described me as "ambitious." This was in the midst of a lunch play date where our toddlers were rapidly declining into a pre-nap freakout, my baby was crying in his Exersaucer, and I was trying to clean up a delightful lunch I hadn't yet had time to eat while simultaneously beating frosting to top the homemade cupcakes I'd pulled off that morning. Yeah, I don't think "ambitious" was a compliment. I think it was a euphemism for crazy.
Jude has an indoor trampoline we bought him to help with the pent up physicality of the winter months. Every time he starts to go a little nuts we send him to the tramp. He knows the drill, and on a recent afternoon yelled out "Mom, I gotta jump on my trampoline! I feel some crazies comin' on!"
Maybe I should try this. When I get that buzz of a new idea, instead of pulling out the albatross of my idea book I should shut everything down and head to the trampoline. I can burn a few calories (bonus!) and distract myself long enough that my fuzzy new-mom brain will eat my fledgling idea before it has a chance to fully form.
I'll tell you one thing. Next time I have a play date, we're doing cold cuts and hoagie rolls. What was I thinking?
Do you ever wonder, when you hear the stories of old people giving their credit card information to perfect strangers and then falling victim to a scam, who can possibly be that stupid? Me too. But the mystery is solved.
It's me!
I am that stupid. I am the future retiree who will lose everything to a grifter with a Crest-white smile. To illustrate my point, I have written the following one-act play entitled "Welcome, Please Steal My Shit."
WELCOME, PLEASE STEAL MY SHIT
a play in one act
Danielle is home putting the baby to sleep in the basement when the doorbell rings multiple times. The frazzled mother ignores the incessant chiming - it's probably just that nosy neighbor again! - and continues rocking the baby. Suddenly we hear a large dog frantically barking. We can later assume it is because an attempt was made to open the front door. Danielle, oblivious to the danger and cursing at the dog, finally hauls her ass up from the couch to walk upstairs. She looks out the front door. Two women are texting in a beat up white sedan parked outside outside the house. Danielle's nonchalant shrug says "No big deal - their car probably broke down and now they're calling AAA. La la la la la. Let's go back to sending email and see what's happening on Facebook."
Moments later, Danielle is back in the basement when she hears a bang at the side of the house and once again the dog starts barking. Good dog. Danielle hauls herself upstairs for the second time, only to see the two women on her back deck moving furniture and still with the texting. She touches her hair self-consciously wishing she'd showered and gotten dressed today. Still, something is off.
Danielle: (knocking on the picture window) Can I help you? Why are you in my yard?
Woman 1: (in accented, dammit-why-do-you-have-to-be-hispanic English) Oh! We here to clean.
Woman 2 texts with the speed of a thousand secretaries.
Danielle: Are you with Molly Maids? I don't think you're scheduled today.
Woman 1: Yes, maybe we have a wrong house. What's your name?
Danielle: We didn't order any cleaning service. I think you should leave. And could you please make sure to close the gates on your way out? I don't want the dogs to get out.
Woman 1: Oh okay.
Danielle: Sorry about the mixup - thanks.
The women high tail it out of there, while Danielle makes a fresh batch of coffee and goes to check on the baby. Sure, this was weird but hey, nothing to get upset about right? Their car didn't have a company logo, the women weren't in uniform, there were no cleaning supplies to speak of...and they didn't have a key, which is odd...and one usually doesn't keep a spare for the maids on the back porch but...but... But what you idiot! This is the narrator speaking. You can recognize me by my use of italics. Now pick up the phone, call the police, and report these women! Do I have to draw you a diagram of your house, the alley it backs up to, and the truck that was on its way to cart away all of your worldly goods? Pick up the damn phone!
Danielle: (dialing and then speaking into the phone) Yes, hi, I think I'd like to report an attempted robbery. Maybe.
THE END.
(Author's note: The police did in fact confirm that there had been a string of robberies in the neighborhood fitting this description and Officer Strong - real name - followed up with care and efficiency. There are many things that the author would do differently next time, but the #1 thing that she would do is invite the women in to clean her home and make good on their cover story. The author's home could use a good scrubbing, and it would serve those bitches right.)
I've swiped the title of today's blog from Alice Walker, whom I love, and her book "The Same River Twice: Honoring the Difficult." It's a moving long-form essay on a time in her life when the most wonderful was paired with the most devastating. In the ultimate tribute to grace, she looks back on that tangled period of time with gratitude.
There is an inherent connection, I think, between the awful and awe-inspiring moments in life. Though it's more easily said than done, I'd like to be more like Alice and learn to embrace the difficult. Not just the overtly difficult, but the small disappointments that can build up and drown us if we aren't careful. In my best moments, when I am able to let go of what I thought life would be and simply see it for what it is, I start to glimpse how lucky I really am.
If I can apply some perspective now, when I know what was waiting outside the window after life slammed that metaphorical door, maybe I will be able to more readily wade through difficult waters in the future.
Here goes.
A Letter to My Life
Written with humility, happiness, and hope for the future
Thank you failed acting career. You remain my biggest disappointment. But I learned that there is no shame in throwing in the towel. Sometimes, even though you try your best, things just don't work out. I met Gabe doing a play though, and with the gift of Gabe came the treasure of my boys. There is no sitcom, no Broadway play, no Oscar-worthy movie role that I would choose over my little family. And even though I did not end this journey a star, I cannot discount the small victories along the way. Seeing my name on a cast list, that moment when a character clicks, the feeling of holding an audience captive - these things still happened. Life is long...who knows if or when this path and I will meet up again.
Thank you failed relationships. Thank you Stupid Pete for teaching me how to love someone. Thank you Kirby the Destroyer for showing me that 2 is better than 1, even though you weren't the man I thought you were. If it weren't for the two of you, I wouldn't fully appreciate what I have with Gabe.
Thank you to the four houses that I loved and then lost over the course of 3 months due to bad home inspections. Turns out that the fifth time is a charm! And now that we've left the congestion and noise of the Denver neighborhoods that we were aiming for, I wouldn't trade my big backyard, access to open space, and proximity to my parents for anything. Not even a good English-style pub...
Thank you heart surgery. Nothing puts life and love in perspective more than the threat of loss. Gabe's surgery was 7 months ago, and today it's as if it didn't happen. Except that maybe we appreciate being together a little bit more. And we try not to take the little annoyances too seriously or let the easy moments pass by unnoticed.
Thank you XY chromosomes. I had always wanted a daughter because I am so close with my mom, but this has turned out to be a delightful curveball. I was so sure that both boys were girls! Being wrong has never been more wonderful.
Thank you miscarriage. It breaks my heart to write that, but without you I never would have been honored by the birth of Aidan. And he is worth a million heartbreaks.
Finally, thank you former job for overwhelming me with work and then cutting my health insurance benefits when I was 5 months pregnant. I learned that just because I can function at a high stress level doesn't mean that I have to, and that it sometimes takes an extra push to overcome my fear of change and walk away.
Along those lines, thank you non-profit "dream job" that didn't even call me in for a first interview. I am so happy to be freelancing, spending more time with my kids, and finally being able to work on my own projects at my own pace. I never would have had the guts to land here voluntarily.
And that's maybe the biggest lesson of all.
I don't always know what is best for me. Just because I want something so much doesn't guarantee a success, and success doesn't guarantee that that path will be the optimum one for me. Unexpected pitfalls force change. I wouldn't have chosen any of the aforementioned struggles before they happened, but in hindsight I would not change a thing.
Thank you life. You seem to be working out quite well.
The best thing that has happened to our house since I stopped working full-time, besides the fact that I am no longer a raging psycho of stress, is that we eat well. Like really, really well. There is something to be said for having the Food Network on in the background 24/7 - you can't help but absorb some of the information.
An increase in my overall time to devote to cooking is also a huge factor. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to cook better food when I worked full-time. I often rushed through a dinner prep and turned out something sufficient, but I didn't have time to experiment. To perfect. To play. Now that I do, I can share the particularly successful recipes with other time-crunched parents. I cook for the greater good! (And, it's delicious.)
Finally, quality ingredients really help. A large portion of our weekly budget goes towards food, but we don't do anything anymore (yeah kids!) so we still come out ahead. Not to say that I am not shocked when 2 bags of groceries at Whole Foods tops $125, but the beauty of homemade is that leftovers become lunch. And sometimes dinner again. So, we splurge on pricey organic eats. You get what you pay for. And since I make 90% of our food I don't EVER worry about low fat. That's right. We are a full fat family when it comes to dairy and meat. And I am going to guarantee that we are still healthier than most Americans. The key is getting rid of the processed foods. I bake all the time, and Jude is very familiar with the scent of bacon, but we are in better shape than we've ever been. A valuable lesson from my Grandma's kitchen.
So, without further ado, here is last night's dinner - on the table 30 minutes after I started making it. The leftovers today were even better.
WHITE BEAN STEW
(adapted from Mark Bittman's "Kitchen Express")
Ingredients:
4 slices bacon (I prefer applewood smoked uncured)
chopped garlic (a jar of Christopher Ranch organic chopped garlic is always in my fridge)
1 can petite diced tomatoes with their juice
2 cans cannellini beans, rinsed and drained
2 cups organic chicken stock
kale
salt and pepper
Slice the bacon into 1-inch pieces and brown in a large skillet. Remove bacon and lower heat. Carefully add a heaping teaspoon of chopped garlic (approx. 4 large cloves) to the bacon grease and saute for 30 seconds.
Pour in the tomatoes with juice. Be careful! If your bacon grease is too hot, it will splatter like something crazy. (This is where a sexy apron comes in handy. Save your clothes from the grease stains while channeling your inner 1940s homemaker!)
Add 2 cups chicken stock. More if you like extra juice, less if you want a thicker stew. Add rinsed and drained cannellini beans. Salt and pepper to taste.
Once liquid is simmering add a few handfuls of chopped kale and stir until wilted.
Add bacon back to pot, saving some for garnish.
Toddler tip: If you, like me, have a child who only likes macaroni and cheese you can still make this dish! Puree a ladle of the tomato/chicken stock mixture before you add the beans. Heat this in its own skillet. Add some of the cannellini beans and season to your child's liking. For Jude we skip the kale - he only likes that roasted. (And then only because I tell him they're green potato chips...)
I serve this over baguette slices. Cut them 1-2 inches thick, drizzle with EVOO, and rub with a cut garlic clove. Place under the broiler or in a 350 degree oven for a few minutes until toasted.
The final product, I must say, is amazing, hearty family-fare. And the fat from the bacon allows your body to absorb more of the cancer-fighting lycopenes from the tomatoes - yeah bacon!
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