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.

Parenting is Like Wearing Yourself Inside-out All the Time

I often try to come up with some kind of metaphor about parenting to give to my friends when they ask me what's going to change when they have kids. To be honest, people don't really ask that of me. It's implied in the befuddled looks on their faces. To ask that question of someone would be to assume that one is not adult or mature enough to face the reality of parenting. Being no expert, I probably shouldn't answer them. But everyone deserves a little fair warning, right? So as not to wreck expectations?

The metaphor du jour is: Parenting is like wearing yourself inside-out all the time. There was a Nickelodeon segment with a claymation boy who swung over the top of the bar on the swingset. At the apex, his skin flipped around and all of a sudden he was inside-out. Cool concept. I'm definitely telling the kids that that's what will happen to them if they swing too high.

Much of growing up is spent building up a skin, a profile, a facade, an ego. The architecture of self is already there, whether ingrained by our own upbringing or etched in our cells is up for discussion. This is not so bad as it sounds. A facade is great. It's something we create of ourselves for ourselves. The materials for our facade are all those things we like in other people and in ourselves that we cling to them--or rather attach them to us.

Today, I am getting over the flu. I'm wearing jeans that have gaping holes in the knees and paint from several projects, not one but two dirty shirts in layers, absolutely no makeup, and my crooked glasses. I'm not sure I would have ever gone out in public like this before. At least not without deciding it was a "cool" statement to make. But I had to go out, to the grocery store, with Jillian.

Taking a 2 year-old to the grocery store is an adventure. She cries. She wants a race car cart but she doesn't want to drive it. She doesn't want to ride in the basket. She's done drawing all over my shopping list, she's dropped the pen. She wants a cookie. She wants "The Incredibles" cheese nips with the extra MSG, so she puts them in the cart. She wants me to hold her cookie. She wants a balloon. She wants to get down. She runs away. A store manager brings her back. I shrug. Her balloon pops. She cries. She's covered in sticky frosting and tears, hair a mess, clothes ready for the bonfire. And it's only been half an hour. In all that time I had to get some grocery shopping done. And if you know me, you know I can't just grab things and get out. I have to use coupons, read ingredients, and think about a menu and budget for the week. It's part of my stay-at-home mom job.

I realize on this outing (and this is what every outing is like) that I have not even stopped to think about myself. Not what I look like. I probably smell. I have a ruddy nose. I must look like the flu virus walking. I am out of whack and my daughter is too. And everyone can see it.

Imagine how people would look at you if you were inside out. All your organs just glistening purple and pink and squishy for people to gawk at. That's how it feels to be a parent. You're embarrassed. Self-conscious and kid-conscious. Even though you know that they look the same way inside and there's nothing you can to do change it, you're embarrassed. People are grossed out. You try to tug a jacket to cover your intestines but, what can you say, there it is!

The metaphor holds for your emotions, too. Kids turn you inside-out. Before I had kids it was pretty easy to keep myself in check. I didn't cry at work, I never raised my voice at anyone. I thought the idea of spanking a child was horrendous. I thought people who gave in to their kids whining were spineless. If I needed more money, I worked more. If I needed time off, I took a day off.

Now; kids. Strike that, reverse it. I'm not saying I do all those things I never said I'd do. I'm very aware of what's going on. There is a temper inside of me I never knew. There is a control freak in me I've never met before. And the mama-bear inside me is so fiercely protective over her young that it scares me what I could do if someone harmed them.

And that's what I mean by inside-out. At the same time total disarray and yet complete thoroughness. These kids have unearthed every ounce of self from inside of me and pushed it to the surface, and this all kind of snuck up on me just today at the grocery store.