More With Less

I'm on a mission to write for 15 minutes a day, every day. Let's see where I end up.

This is a part of streamlining my life, making it more about what I want and who I am and less about what others want for me or who other people think I should be. I found some of my journals from high school. That's an eye-opener for sure. As naive and cheesy those entries seem to me now, I can see so much about who I was then and what was important to me. I can't throw them away. I want to write more about my life now, because it feels good and clears my head.

I feel simpler now. I'm not trying to be a perfectionist. Over-analysis comes naturally to me, and it is something I really try to keep in check now, because it affects how I feel about myself. 

Being able to make a decision and trust yourself is an enormous asset. I can research and think something TO DEATH, but all that work and stress is worth nothing without action. So, I am on a mission to put more action in my life. Down with procrastination. Life is too short. Down with over-planning. Enjoy the ride. Do what you can do with the time you have, then stop and enjoy it.

I've been breaking my day down into 15 minute chunks and it is really helping me to get more things done. Fifteen minutes is not a long time to focus on anything, but it is amazing what you can get done in that short time. Yes, I have a timer and yes, I use it. 

However unimportant my journal entries were in high school, and however unimportant my blog entries are today, it is the essence that I enjoy. Reading those entries is like visiting with an old friend. The old me. She is me before college, marriage, kids, friends have come and gone. It's nice to hear what she was up to then, what worried her and what pulled at her heart. It was years ago and we are still best friends, but sometimes we fall out of touch--me, myself, and I.

Paint Colors

Why is choosing a paint color so difficult for me? I am relying on my sage, Martha Stewart, to guide my decision using her color swatches from Lowe's. Now I have 4 neutrals taped to my wall that I'm pretty sure no one can distinguish, and I'm trying to decide which one I can live with for the next year. I've got to get rid of the garish pink/orange in my kitchen. Really, I had the best of intentions with the paint, but something went askew along the path between conception and execution. It may have been all the beers. Yes, that's likely.

But how much fun is a painting party?!

I'm leaning towards Coastal Dune Grass right now. Check it out at Lowes.com in the Martha Stewart paint section.

Blogamarole

Guess I'm going to do it. But first I have to muse on it. Is blogging writing? Real, legit writing? Just because you have internet access? 

The predominant issue I meet is the popularity contest inherent in the blog world and its representation to the outside world. I have a really good friend who, even in our 'tween years, would discuss politics, religion, and other hot topics. Instead of posing a thoughtful argument, she would always seemingly "win" by means of expelling the carbon dioxide. I mean, she would get so wrapped up in what she was thinking and promptly saying (without much internal edit) that her volume and urgent cadence would completely shut out her opponent. 

She's in law school now.

I mean to say editing is good and expelling hot air is not. If opinions are like-- well you know the old saying--then isn't the blog world just a gigantic porcelain bowl of...?

Now I am going to link myself  to someone 4 months blog-older than me on the subject. Here you go.

Guilt in a Bottle--made of #7 plastic

My head is spinning. I think I'm going crazy. Oh, don't mind me, I'm just a mom with internet access and a chemical conscience.

Here's a list of what's bugging me (so much that I spend perverse amounts of my life on the internet researching it). 

BPA--just Google it and you'll know what I mean

other forms of plastic--now I know what #1, #2, 3, 4, 5, and (gasp!) #7 means on the bottom of literally EVERYTHING

gas prices--and their relationship to food prices, and its relationship to my financial future and home life

parabens

sodium lauryl/laureth sulfate

propolyne glycol

the future of the honeybee

ethanol

wasteful packaging

The possibility exists that I have too much time on my hands. I don't want to be the person who brings my own stainless steel camping plates to a cookout (whah whah whahhhhh), but I do have a certain compulsion to research and take action on issues that will likely affect me and my children, no doubt my grandchildren. Instead of "Gee mom, why did you smoke and drink when you were pregnant with me?" the new questions will be, "Why did you feed me canned ravioli and infant formula out of bPA-leaching polycarbonate bottles?" The answer will be the same: "Well honey, you see, we just didn't knooooow back then."

Guilt guilt guilt. Maybe it's the emotion, for women at least, that truly leads to change.

A Party at the Farm

Today the whole family traveled 30 minutes North to the farm which grows our vegetables. We joined a CSA farm for the first time this year and today they had a party to kick off the season. 

What an important lesson to show your kids where their food comes from! I loved walking through the 3+acre garden with the children and showing them how broccoli grows. There is a disconnect in their minds between the food they see in the grocery store and the food growing here. I want to connect all those images for my kids. Instead of a bag of frozen broccoli that's purchased at a huge sterile store,  steamed up, then tossed in the garbage, I want them to see the plant and how little of the whole plant they are actually eating. And how the rest of the plant can be composted or used for seed. 

Seeing food as a means to an end has become epidemic in this country.  Instead of quantifying food by Weight Watchers points or carbs or whatever, think about the process involved. Think about the by-products and consequences of your food choices.

I pay money to the farmers, they invest it in their farm, grow food, and share a portion with us.

Seems direct enough to me. 

And they grow the most delicious beets I've ever tasted.

Oh Max, You Were a Good Dog.

I cried on and off all day Sunday. I tried to do laundry, shred old files, and write to-do lists. I cooked and cleaned up after 3 meals, read a couple pages and took the littlest one to the potty at least 12 times, but it's all a fog. Grieving is exhausting work.

Rest in peace, Max. You were a good dog.

I had to research how to tell Declan about death. Here's what I came up with:

It's Monday afternoon. I'm driving. The kids are in the backseat.

Me: Remember how mommy was sad yesterday?
Declan: Yeah. What were you sad about?
Me: Well, I was sad because Mom-mom told me Max died. Do you know what that means?
Declan: Yeah. Well, actually, not really.
Me: It means that Max's body doesn't work anymore. That means he won't be at Mom-mom's house next time we go. We won't be able to play fetch with him or take him for walks anymore.
Declan: Oh.
Me: Mommy is very sad because I remember Max when he was just a puppy, and I loved him very much, and I'm going to miss him. And he was a good dog and a good, pure, friend.
(silence)
Are you sad about Max?
Declan: Not really.
Me: Well it's okay to be sad, and it's okay to not be sad, too. If you do feel sad, I want to you talk to me about it, okay?
Declan: Okay, I will.

I was scared to talk to my kids about death, but it actually helped me. As much as I try to tell myself death is a natural part of life and all that, I can only perceive death as an earth-shattering occurrence. Never fails. To Declan, our dinner of tofu ravioli and lima beans was an earth-shattering experience but this introduction to death was just something to ponder.

I think I handled it well. I want my kids to cope with death better than I do. It helps to have to be the strong one, to choose one's words carefully, clearly, gently.

He was just a dog. But inside the big picture is the little picture where Max was a great friend and a beloved pet and a wagging tail on a bad day. And I desperately want to believe that one day I'll see his big, goofy, slobbery face again. 

I'll save that talk with the kids for another day.

O bento, my bento.

My first bento lunch. I made 3 of these, one each for Declan, Jillian, and myself. Contents include: turkey breast, carrots, string cheese, whole grain melba toasts, plums, kiwis, animal crackers, and jellybeans.

Three odes to bento, in bastardized American haiku format, of course:

Tiny little lunch,
to nourish body and soul
and keep the earth green.

Kiwi and turkey
almonds, cheese, carrots, crackers
and jellybean treats.

Bento o bento
your Engrish makes me to smile
happy grapes for lunch!

I'm obsessed with bento boxes, and I think you should be too. I spend the better portion of my day thinking about the next time I will be able to use my bento box, what I will put in my bento box, and scouring ebay to find ways to make my bento even cuter and more efficient.

Here's why I'm in love with them. Bento boxes are Japanese. Oh, that's not enough reason for you? Well, with two small kids, I love being able to pack their lunches. I hate ziploc bags and saran wrap. It's such a waste of plastic. I love miniature things, and bentos are miniature. I like that the portions are small (by American standards) and that I'm training myself to eat proper amounts of food. I could fill the top tier of my bento with jellybeans and cookies, but better yet I fill it with 10 jellybeans and 2 cookies and still have room for yogurt and granola. Did I mention that bento is inherently super-cute? My bento boxes have amazing Engrish on the front. My bento is by the brand "Lube Sheep." No kidding.

I love that Declan calls them "mento boxes" and is very proud of his healthy lunch and his trendy (even though preschoolers don't know or care what trendy is) lunchbox. Just wait, this trend is going to blow up...and I hope it does. Then maybe 6 year-olds won't be passing around Berry-blue-blast high fructose yogurt tubes and snack size bags of Doritos at lunchtime.

Ahh yes, in my dreams. Until then I will walk tall with my bento.