My Frugal Foodie Manifesto or Putting My Money Where My Mouth is

So, apparently we're in the middle of the biggest financial crisis since the Great Depression. People are loosing their jobs, their retirement and obviously their minds. Fear is such a great motivating factor for human beings that we will do the most unbelievable things in its wake. I'm not trying to belittle the situation but when my father-in-law starts lecturing to his kids about how he could feed us for a short time but not everyone for a long time then I feel like things have gotten a little out of hand. Being prepared for an emergency is one thing but these are not the end of days, people. I believe in having a substantial food pantry in my own home for the same reasons my father-in-law does: I want to be able to feed myself and family in the event of catastrophe or financial hardship. But we also do it because it makes financial sense. Food is not a place to economize in the family budget. Cheaper food means less quality which means less health and I am not in the business of compromising my family's health so that we can have a few extra dollars a month for what, going to the movies, or buying more clothes? What else is there if you don't have your health? Eating is to me one of life's greatest and most simple pleasures. It is a glorious thing to take the stuffs of nature, create magic in the kitchen and serve it at a sturdy table graced with family and friends. Roast chicken, buttered squash, homemade bread, fluffy rice, red bartlett pears, dark chocolate and a glass of full-bodied red wine. A spread worthy of saying grace, a meal to honor my family and the time we spend around our small table. It sounds expensive and labor intensive. I understand the feelings behind people's reasoning to buy "convenience" foods. They are too busy to spend 2 hours in the kitchen. I ask then, what is worthy of those 2 hours? TV, driving the carpool, that second job to pay for all the evenings spent eating out? Nonsense.

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then is not an act, but a habit." Aristotle

So I thought I'd write a short manifesto on stretching the food dollar since Lord knows we are raising a family of four on a single income.

1) Let me repeat this again: Food is not a place to economize in the family budget.
Middle class Americans spend only 9.9% of their disposable income (what is that anyway? who has money to throw away?) on food compared to the German and French rates of 14-17%, almost double the expenditure. We put our money and our time into what we value most and if we're always looking for the cheapest meat, milk and meal we will continue to get the garbage of the industrialization of our food systems that have brought us E.coli in our meat and spinach, growth hormones in our milk, (not to mention the melamine in Chinese milk), high fructose corn syrup, pesticide laden fruits and vegetables, oh, and did I mention the overabundance of cheap fats and sugars that has made diet related illnesses the #1 cause of death for Americans.

2) Invest in a freezer
Find the space. They aren't that expensive to run and a brand new upright will cost around $400 the expense of which will be returned to you in the first year alone. (If you save $8/ week you'll pay for your freezer)

A freezer will allow you to buy in bulk (viva la Costco) and shop the sales, the easiest ways to economize on meats and other items. Don't know what to do with those fruit trees in the back yard? Put it up in your freezer and enjoy nutritious, summer ripened fruit all winter long. Can't believe that whole chickens are on sale for $.69 lb? Buy a shopping cart full of them and enjoy that favorite roast chicken recipe for six months. For the more adventurous consider buying your beef from a local rancher. Local meat is often higher in lean muscle and has less fat which means it tastes better and is better for you. The best is if you can find someone who finishes their cattle on grass, the animal's natural diet, instead of the towering corn wastelands of American subsidized beef. Cows aren't meant to eat corn, which makes their stomachs distend to the dangerous point of making them extremely sick, hence all the antibiotics in their feed. We are being fed sick animals. There are drugs in the feed so they can keep the poor beasts alive long enough to slaughter and maximize the profit. Yuck. Buying from a smaller local rancher enables you to skip out on this bogus operation and protect your family from the high levels of fat and disease present in this kind of meat. Find a friend, go in halfsies, or two or three. You get the idea.

3) Read your Junk Mail
I know, I know. This sucks, but you need to become a student of the ways supermarkets cycle their inventory and sales. You need to know if chicken on sale for $.69 lb is a good deal or not. The easiest way to do this is study those annoying junk mail circulars from the grocery store so you know when chicken is on sale and if it's worthy of buying.

4)Meet your Farmers: Get down to the farmer's market or join a CSA
I know you're already down there on Saturday mornings sipping your latte and watching the old guy on the fiddle while the dogs sniff at the cash in his case. Eat in season, eat it fresh, and eat organic. The food was picked ripe, that morning, at the height of its taste and nutritional value. The food didn't have to be transported from Chile, using oil imported from some other economy that pollutes the fresh air you're trying to enjoy while the kids chase that sniffer dog. It's a win win. Most farmers practice sustainable, organic practices even if they aren't certified. Sure it's a little more expensive (not always) but remember, we're not going to be cheap on the stuff that matters here.

Since I have small children my favorite way to opt into the local food economy is by joining a CSA. (Less hassle) Community Supported Agriculture is the farmer's way of actually making a living off the food they grow. Instead of earning only 20 cents per dollar spent on their product they are able to take home the maximum allowable profit. The producers and middlemen are cut out. In exchange for your subscription up front in the spring when farmers are in need of the most cash to get seed and fertilizers, you receive a weekly "box" of fresh picked, in season veg, fruit, herbs and sometimes flowers. Most often you'll be given things you would never think of buying for yourself (kohlrabi anyone?) thereby expanding your palate and nutritional repertoire. You are putting your faith in the farmer and supporting them regardless of the kind of growing season that year, tying yourself to both your local food producers and the land. It feels pretty dang good. Trust me. I'll never forget shaking the hand of the man and woman who were growing my food and saying, "Thanks. The fennel was to die for."

5) Participate in local food buying clubs/co-ops
Search them out. They're on the rise. Simple economy of scale. The more people who buy in, the better the price. Check out ours in Salt Lake. The bread from Stone Ground is legendary, fair-trade coffee is quite nice and there is a nice selection of meats, fruits, veg and grains. Ours is powered by volunteers so there is another opportunity for you to get involved in the local food chain.

6) Learn how to cook
It had to be said didn't it? All of these steps necessitate you knowing your way around the kitchen. The whole foods your body requires can't become consumable unless you become somewhat skilled in the art of transformation known as cooking. (That raw chicken breast and dirty potato on your plate don't look too appetizing do they?) Don't be intimidated. Take a class at Sur la Table. Visit your local library and sample the wonderful cookbooks, invest in those you love. Your kids will have the yummiest kitchen on the block. You'll become a celebrity and heaven have mercy on your fridge when your son starts bringing home his teenage friends.

7) Learn to menu plan
Having a realistic plan makes the entire package come together. You can cut back on impulse buys at the store since you only buy what you need with your well thought out list in hand. I make a simple chart at the beginning of the week with meals that I'd like to make. I check the recipes quickly for any ingredients I don't have on hand and base my shopping list on that. I save time and effort during the week knowing the answer to the eternal question, "What's for dinner?" I never get halfway through a recipe only to find out I don't have any lemon juice, I can shop the sales (this is key), and I'm able to vary my family's diet more since I can plan ahead.

8) And Finally, Grow your own
There is no cheaper and more satisfying way to feed the family than to have a family garden. Kids learn about where food comes from in a direct way: how it's grown, what it takes to make a juicy tomato, what it doesn't take. The food is right out your doorstep, it's fresh, and you know exactly where it's been. Not to mention all the great exercise and sunshine you'll get this summer by tending your monster squash plants. (Note to Amanda: Plant less squash). You'd be surprised where you can fit in a few plants. You don't have a big backyard you say? Ask your apartment manager if you can turn that wasteland of a parking strip out front into your own edible oasis. Search out your local community garden programs. The plots are often free in exchange for a harvest donation to the needy or can be rented for a small fee. Once you've gone this far you might even be converted to the land of food preservation. Yes, we're talking canning, drying, pickling, freezing. The land of our Grandmothers. It feels good, doesn't it?

Bigger, Longer, and Uncut

I don't know if a lot of people are paying attention but when people talk about cosmetic surgery I always smirk and grimace a little. It's a loaded subject, no? There are a lot of people who would probably love to do it. You know, bigger boobs = better sex = happier life! Isn't that how the equation works? Or there's the, look younger= look better= happier life line. I think a lot of people subscribe to these kinds of ideas but there's also a little bit of a social stigma. She may look great in a bikini but the minute people find out they're fake it's as though her value instantly depreciates. Cheap ho. Materialistic. Shallow. Low self worth. For me I just think it's kind of sad. People put so much value on outward appearances that I feel like no one is paying attention to any other part of human beauty anymore. I fantasize about places inhabited by old men like Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, where women become sexier with age because they are buoyed by life and the elixir of experience. To have a history with a woman, a feeling of knowing... Someone to dance with on the veranda to an old tune that's infused with memory... This seems so much sexier to me than big, giant titties.

But I digress, there's another kind of cosmetic surgery that I'm usually bristling about when people bring up the subject and it's the kind that we do to baby boys. Circumcision was finally in the news this past winter with shocking reports that the procedure can prevent HIV. The December 24, 2007 issue of Time headline read "Circumcision Can Prevent HIV." The magazine even honored the news by awarding the claim the top spot on it's annual list of "medical breakthroughs."

My God! Parents across the world must have been thinking either with fear or with relief. Thank goodness my son is circumcised, now he won't be at risk of contracting HIV. Phew! Or, Oh Hell, I've put my son at risk by leaving him intact. I was driving on the interstate when I heard the story on NPR and I have to admit my heart raced a little. We've left our dude intact and plan to with any future sons we may have. I think it's one of the best decisions as a mother I've made and I try to let as many parents know that I meet that we did NOT circumcise our son. We love his little elephant trunk of a penis and cringe every time we see little cut baby penises. It's so sad. They look shockingly exposed like naked baby birds in the cold. But here was the media, flashing a medical study claiming to prove that circumcision could reduce the risk of HIV infection in heterosexual men by 53 to 60 percent.

I took pause, however, because the study from Africa seems too damn good to be true. If circumcision can reduce the risk of HIV by over 50 percent then reason would lead to believe that heterosexual men in the United States would have some of the lowest infection rates. We have one of the highest rates of circumcision (and are the only Western country to cut the majority of infant boys) so the spread of HIV in the US is low, right? Wrong, we have one of the highest rates of HIV infection.

Circumcision has always been promoted with a cup full of fear ever since the medical community in the 1800s started promoting it as a way to reduce masturbation which was thought to cause disease. Since then it has been a catch all used to guard against the scariest diseases of the day. In the 1800s masturbation, in the 1960s during the sexual revolution it was touted to stop the spread of sexually transmitted diseases. More recently it has been pushed as a shield against urinary tract infections (which are extremely rare in men anyway), and cancer. All of the above, then, should be rare in a country that has had circumcision rates as high as 85% in 1965 to the current rate of around 56% and falling.

The American Academy of Pediatrics stated in 1971 that "There are no valid medical indications for circumcision in the neonatal period." In 1999, the most recent statement was issued in which the Academy summarized: "Existing scientific evidence demonstrates potential medical benefits of newborn male circumcision; however, these data are not sufficient to recommend routine neonatal circumcision. In the case of circumcision, in which there are potential benefits and risks, yet the procedure is not essential to the child's current well-being, parents should determine what is in the best interest of the child." (author's emphasis) I am critical of this statement because it reeks of the kind of bureaucratic powerlessness that plagues so many organizations that are supposed to help us navigate the ocean of science and opinion. Leave it up to the parents. I am grateful to have a choice but I'm disturbed that so many choose a nonessential procedure they would never consider for their daughters. Why should our sons be any different?

Education is the way to prevent the spread of HIV and stop AIDS, not foreskin amputation.

(and yes, that's my little baby Miles. cute, oui?)

Never the Martyr

I try not to engage in what the media so lovingly refers to as the "Mommy Wars". I think it's petty, divisive, and simply deconstructive for women- for mothers- to second guess one another and participate in the nasty-looks-across-the-playground-I'm-better-than-you gossip that we were all subjected to in the 5th grade. To stay home or to work. That is the battle ground isn't it? After the pregnancy test it's the first real decision. Both are sacrifices we're told. Stay home and sacrifice your financial and professional life, go kamikaze on your Social Security and retirement. Go to work and sacrifice your kid's emotional life and have one of those anxious preschoolers whose play is overly territorial and takes on that eager-to-please-the-teacher approach to learning way too early in life. Not to mention the conundrum of going back to work as a mother. We make less than our single female counterparts and are more likely to be passed up for promotions and challenging projects. Single mothers fare the worst.

Then there are the perfect mommies. Those women who seem to somehow find a perfect balance of career and home, preferably career from home. They're able to contribute to their family's financial well-being and personal sense of accomplishment while still being as involved and engaged in the family home life as a full time stay at home parent. It's the dream isn't it? I know it's mine. To be known by my first name AND Mama. To somehow feed both psyches now that my heart and mind are irrevocably split in two by the process of becoming a mother. Since I've just born my second son I'm in full mother mode. Always fulfilling someones needs before my own, putting plans on hold to let the baby take a nap, nursing the baby while the dinner I've spent two hours preparing gets cold. Foregoing sleep, for God's sake, to make sure the baby is fed, and loved, and happy. And this is what makes me happy. Seeing that baby grow fat, the first smiles spread across his face like the morning sunshine. I am all instinct and hormones. I will do anything for this tiny creature who clutches at my breast and sucks hungrily. But right before he was born I started to get a whiff of that other self. She was tugging at my skirt saying, "Remember me?" The one who loves to make dance, wants to write a column, and put in hours at the community garden. The one who even luxuriously entertains the idea of going back to school and finishing her MFA degree in dance or more practically pursuing the doctorate in physical therapy. But to even write about her is a strain on my mental energies. Back on vacation she goes for another 3 years. (That is if I don't have another one!) But when do I get to indulge her? When the baby is two and the diapers are finally put away? After I've been out of the work force for 6+ years?

I know these aren't the right questions. The right questions are Why do I live in a society that doesn't value women's work? Why is my labor in no way measured in economic scales or tracked as an asset in my country's GDP? Why is there such a prominent division of labor among the sexes? Why does equality make me look shamefully like a man? (The fact that Hilary Clinton has cleavage was enough to give the fashion police the vapors. I mean big time.) I wish I could even imagine a society that truly valued its children because then I think I would see neighborhoods built in a courtyard fashion with central green space for children to play while being monitored by many eyes. I would see family friendly policy promoted by my government that would ensure every child access to health care, quality education, and higher education without debt. The workplace would support mothers by providing financial assistance for leave to care for an infant while keeping her job secure. They would support fathers by offering paid leave as well. Our entire society would be built on the goal of raising happy and secure human beings instead of it's current goal- to make a lot of money.

Instead I'm expected to be a martyr. A nurturing saint who fills her basket with kisses and cuddles. A glorified nun who suppresses all of her needs for the sake of her children and then says that the emotional rewards far outweigh the costs. Well I'm no martyr. I want to teach my children that all members of the family have needs and that it's the family's job to support each and every member, Mama included. I don't want to put aside my desires to contribute to the financial pot and feel some measure of financial independence should something happen to my partner. I want to be recognized outside my home for the many talents I have that are unrelated to child raising and homemaking. Why not? The home in America is often socially isolating, lonely and repressive. The advent of technology and convenience goods have taken much of the challenge out of the art of making a home. I don't have to spend hours chopping wood to boil water to scrub the clothes by hand and hang them on a line while bouncing the baby on my hip and praying that the toddler hasn't run off to the river and been swept downstream. Boy, am I thankful, and how. But there is something missing in this recipe. I am proud of the work I do and the care I provide my family. I love them and my work is a simple and direct expression of that love. I believe strongly in the idea that women can have it all, but probably not at the same time. But this will be a short chapter in my life and when the page turns I want there to be someone left who can write the story.

Taking Class

So they do let Mama out once in awhile and tonight I was privileged to spend an hour and a half basking in the energy of the powerful Mr. Eric Handman. What more is there to say. His pedagogy is excellent not to mention that he approaches dance with a style and intellectual curiosity that never feels old. Movement seems new and fresh to him every time and he offers the material to his students in a way that says, "There is so much in here for you, and together we can unlock the secrets."

Big and embracing. The potential the body has for expression seems to know few bounds in his approach to movement. The form or technique is a skeleton to hang real people and real bodies in motion on. Never one to get caught up in what it's "supposed" to look like, he takes the known, programmed and the disciplined and asks the dancers to bring themselves.

What more could one ask for in art?

Forbidden

I live in my parents home, a girl child, and I'm sitting on the floor of a grotesquely pink bedroom with red shag carpet. Caught between the never ending dilemma of right and wrong I'm stewing in a pit of delicious guilt trying to consider if I'm a bad girl or not. So, I like the attention afforded me by being a cheap broker for my dad's porn chest but I feel sleazy for letting these boys come in my home and get their fix. I can only imagine the massive ruination of tube socks and disappearing jars of Vaseline across town tonight but that's not really my concern. To be honest I'm too selfish to even consider the consequences of my actions. To consider if I'm opening up the door to female exploitation for these horny little boys or if I'm perpetuating sad ideas of women as sex objects- bald as babies from the neck down, mammaries the size of boulders to suckle even balder men. To consider the affects being a ringmaster to the porn chest might have on me and my budding sexual identity. No, instead I wonder if I'm a bad girl because I, too, like looking at these women, legs spread apart with the f*** me hard look in their eyes. I like that the boys want to come to My house, are paying some small measure of attention to Me, and if I'm so lucky, are imagining my face on the naked bodies they're imagining in bed tonight while they ruin another pair of tube socks.

Oh sure, I knew I was a good girl. Isn't that what all the adults around me were constantly intoning over and over again. "Isn't Charlene such a good girl?" "Aren't your parents so proud of you?" If they weren't fawning over my report cards full of A's they were referring to my general ability to excel at what all "good girls" do- obey. I had a severe case of this do-as I'm-told disorder that I'm still recovering from in my early 30ies. The truth is that I craved attention. Isn't that the modus operandi of adolescence? Who likes me and who doesn't? Who's looking at me and who isn't? All of my measures were weighed against the stereotypical female subplots of boys and physical appearance. It took me a few more years and a few more trips to the library with armloads of Betty Friedan and books with titles like Cunt: A Declaration of Independence to be able to attract attention and value it in different ways but there, on the red shagged bedroom floor of my parent's 1970's split-level I craved it and the only ways I knew to get it were by having boys want me. And of course by offering library cards to my dad's extensive porn collection.

Oh, he had it all. Big 'Uns (how did those women walk upright?), Small 'Uns (there were a lot of these to my surprise until I remembered my mother's own tiny breasts), the classy Playboy and the raunchy Hustler. My heart would pound with adrenaline as I sat crouched in their bedroom after school and studied their hairless bodies, winced at the sharpness of manicured red fingernails pulling and prodding at places I was always careful to only inspect with freshly clipped nails. I stared blankly at cartoons way beyond my understanding and in general marveled and basked in the full frontal dirtiness of the adult world. So this is what it means to be "sexy", I thought. Or mental note-these are the types of faces one should make when experiencing sexual pleasure. I was a focused study.

But even still, the issue of being a good girl still disturbed. There seemed only to be two options, the good girl I practiced for the adults in my life, and the bad one I pretended to be in my bedroom when no one was home. There were so few real female role models for me. There were of course my teachers (good girls) and the women who taught me dance (very good girls). There were the mothers of my friends (good girls to my knowledge) and my own mother whose naughty naked Polaroids I had found in my dad's chest (bad girl). There she was, standing with one leg atop the infamous chest with freshly sharpened manicured fingers spreading such a small and tender little place for the unforgiving instant camera. I remember cocking my head a little at the look on her face. My own mother seemed to have so little in common with the other women in the magazines that I had seen doing the exact same things. Hadn't she just cooked me Campbell's minestrone and a grilled cheese sandwich? Their faces were so... magazine. They looked like they were enjoying themselves, wanted You to enjoy yourself, and were generally having fun. You know, like they were going out for ice cream after and you weren't. But there was something different in my own mama's eyes. Sadness. Fear. Overexposure. A lack of light. As a grown woman today I would love to hear her side of the story. Whose idea were those pictures mom? (My dad's.) Did you like doing them? (I'd never get the truth here.) Did you feel powerful or powerless when they were taken? Are you proud of them? Did you do it for him or for you? I wish at that moment that I had the courage to ask those same questions of the women who I looked at in the magazines. But I had neither the maturity or intellectual muscle to even sniff in that direction. It would take me years to question the link between my father's affinity for pornography and the violence he committed against my mother. It would take me even longer to heal my own sexual identity with the help of my best friend and years of a healthy marriage under my belt.

As for the porn chest, it had it's run. If I thought it was popular with me and my friends I obviously was too busy to notice the traffic it received from my brother and his friends. Oh, we were the house of smut and pubescent enlightenment. I laugh now at my parent's blind trust or complete naivete. I can't imagine they would have approved of us romping through their pornography, it wasn't exactly pulled out at the dinner table nor was it among the choices of bedtime stories. But there it was, unlocked, with its white poster legs and fuzzy yellow top, inviting all to partake of its cheap entertainment. Apart from the damage it caused I still think of it fondly. A treasure chest of sorts. All good treasure offers something a bit more colorful than gold. Something fuzzier and grayer than black and white. Something more complex than the good girl story vs. the bad.

Faith

"You had him where?!!" I usually smile and laugh and nod with my eyes coyly turned down. I mean, what do you say to that? To the exasperated looks of disbelief and head shaking that goes on when I tell people I had my son in the car. "So, did the police come?" That's my favorite, as if my little son, Miles, was breaking the law by entering the world. "Were you on the news or something?" Yeah, I'm a local celebrity for opening my legs and doing the only thing I could possibly understand at the moment, let my baby fall out. My mother-in-law said that when she told our story to her eighty-something year old dad that he started to cry. This one I didn't understand at all until she explained that he was overwhelmed with emotion imagining our courage and steadfastness to have the baby unassisted in the car. My close girlfriends, all of them mothers, have asked if I was afraid which is the funniest question by far. Fear never crossed my mind. I don't think I really know how to be afraid in the moments of childbirth. I feel so strong and capable. Giving birth has afforded me the two clearest moments of my life when I've felt the most authentic power. Not "in Power" as in control, mind you, but power with a little "p". The kind of warm ribboning force that streams through me, connecting me to every other woman who has dared the task and work of bringing another life into the world, connecting me to every other soul who has stood up and been present for the work that needed to be done.

But I was lucky too. I never want to underestimate lady luck. Especially when it comes to babies. What a strange world we live in that babies come into this world under circumstances so fraught with uncertainty. Before our techno phallic age the entire process was fully of magic and mystery. I can barely imagine living in a world that didn't entirely understand how babies made their way into the womb. Even the lovely elderly woman across the street laughed at the thought of being able to look inside the womb to see the gender of the baby before it was born. The entire process has always been about having faith. Faith in the strength of the female body, faith in the unborn child, faith in the community to support and protect both in their vulnerability, faith in the unknown. And I think that's the clincher for a lot of people. The thing that makes having my Miles in the car seem so brave or unbelievable. There are a lot of unknowns when it comes to bearing and raising children and we live in a world that barely tolerates not knowing what's coming on next on the tv. Science has taught us that we can predict when the baby will be born, (or schedule it if convenience need be.) What the gender of the baby will be (heaven forbid their gender identity not fit) Science makes us believe if it's broke, we can fix it and above all that we are in control. But we're never really in control of anything. Not really. And to imagine so robs many women of the real experience of power to be found in childbirth... the power of letting go.

The Tummy and a Shower

Thirty six weeks down and four to go. My tummy is as big as it feels like it can get, but of course mommies can always be proven wrong. I'm actually not terribly uncomfortable but I do feel heavy on my feet and my little Leo's insistence on squeezing my belly and loving it to death is getting harder to bear. And the baby. My god the tiny baby in my tummy feels more and more like a little person waiting to come out every day. My baby doesn't kick, it distends and morphs my tummy into the oddest shapes and angles. I honestly look like an alien is trying to escape through my belly button and the stronger it gets, the bigger the show. I've only gained about 21 lbs, though, I thought I'd gain more. That has me a little worried but I do still have 4 weeks to go...

Since we're kind of old fashioned and didn't find out the sex of our baby things are getting a little exciting. I'm really starting to wonder about who this baby is. What color will your hair be? Your eyes? Are you the little girl we've been waiting for or a little brother for our Leo? I finally had a dream about this baby, well the second one I guess. But it was an older little girl, named Ramona. I could just die over the cuteness of the name. Curly dark hair. Gah. Chris would be besides himself if it's a girl. Which is so sad because if it's a boy than there really is a bit of a let down, albeit short lived. A happy little baby is going to be lovely.

And what does a mommy to be need more than anything at 4 weeks out? But to have her most amazing friends shower her with all the love and attention she could ever deserve. They threw me a pamper mommy shower instead of the traditional gifts for baby shower since our little one has plenty and we don't know if it's a girl or boy so... I was gifted with a lovely brunch and oodles of creams and scrubs and soaks and all of the things to remind myself to take some time out for me when it gets hairy around here. It was so nice just to be thought of and to have friends who would take the time to do something like that. That really was the best gift of all, to be reminded of the beautiful friends I've found and that they love me. I guess, as a mother, that's a real challenge for me. To remember to be loved, accept love.

Edumacation

For some strange reason I have in the back of my mind that Saturdays are supposed to be a day "off", but it seems that I'm working all just the same. My feet hurt from being up all day and from the amount of laundry, cooking, cleaning and general dude wrangling I did I feel like I didn't do a damn thing all week. Aren't working parents the ones who are supposed to feel like they catch up on all the housework on Saturdays? I do my best to really put Sundays aside as a day of NO HOUSEWORK because otherwise I would never feel like I had a break. I'm not a religious observer so I don't follow suit here in Salt Lake for any similar reason, I just adore the idea of a day of rest. It's so simple and challenging at the same time. But Saturday? Saturday needs some kind of special designation too. Maybe "try something new day" or "create something day", "activism day" or "volunteer day". I have lofty ambitions, I know, but the activism focus does have a strange appeal for me.

I've never considered myself an activist beyond my own social network. I'm the girl who always has the "well did you know" statistic or bit of information that my very conservative family doesn't know and most likely wishes they hadn't heard from me. Nevermind. I'm always open to hear the opposing opinion and new information but they never seem to have anything new to offer unless it was on Dr. Laura or Bill O'Reilly. Both of whom I appreciate for their uncanny ability to flesh out the fat ignorance of America. Yes, I'm saying it. I think Americans are a stupid lot. We like feces in our cheap meat, lead in the paint on our cheap children's toys, and guns in our public schools. We like going bankrupt over medical bills and giving birth under regional anesthesia. In the 2006 Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD)'s international assesment of student performance, PISA, the United States' students barely made a blip on the map. Were we in the top 20 at least? Oh no. The United States repeatedly performed in the bottom third in literacy, science, problem solving and math. We weren't even average. Who were the top countries? Finland, Hong Kong, South Korea, oh and Canada. Finland is an interesting case for me because here is a country where students rarely have more than a half an hour of homework a night, there are no honor societies, children don't start school until age 7, the same curriculum is taught nationwide and college is free. We seem to do so many of the opposite things. Early childhood education gets a lot of lip service here to the point of wealthy parents seeking help from preschool counselors to ensure proper placement to start their budding genius toddlers on the ivy league track. Kindergarteners have homework and competition for college is fierce. I think it's time to look around and learn a thing or two from the world community. We are not an island of immunity. People are unhappy and it is time for change. It's time to get involved.

Learning to Swim

I hate it when people tell me how hard it is to stay home and care for children, as if that makes the struggles I go through any easier or my anger any more manageable. And there's a lot of anger. It's not the seemingly insurmountable stack of crap piled in front of me- my work has no economic value in society; I get little if no outside validation for the work I do; it's tedious and often boring; it's lonely and isolating; there's no clear demarcation between my family and work life so it often feels and is a 24/7 job; I have no financial security through my work; I'm sacrificing a chance to save for retirement or contribute to my social security earnings (if there's any left for my generation)- ok, maybe it is that. No, it's when I start my day with a toddler crying in my ear at 7am that he can't find his pussy cat that he's just let outside for the morning. It's when a girlfriend calls me to vent and my child whines the entire time about wanting to speak and then continues to whine long after she's hung up. It's the ant infestation that has me constantly itching and scratching and finding ants crawling on my shoulders and in my bed. It's the feline who insists on vomiting up his breakfast on my living room floor.

I know I'm experiencing a low point and that I need more breaks blah, blah, blah. But it's not like complaining about any old job. There is a heavy load of guilt dragging behind this anger. Mothering is the first experience in my life where the expectations overwhelm any sense of reason or better judgment I might have. I feel as though I should have this unlimited reserve of love and patience for my son. That I should be able to facilitate his growth and nurture his sense of well being, understand his emotional tantrums and have the appropriate band-aid or encouragement for every imaginable obstacle. I don't have all of these things all the time and it feels as though the only excuse for failing to measure up is a personal one. It all becomes so personal with child raising. Everything is either my fault, my responsibility, or my excellent parenting. There is so little grey in a raging emotional sea of reds, and yellows, and blacks.




Remove myself, my heart whispers. Understand your child's autonomy as an individual human being new in the world who is in desperate need of a guide and translator. I'm there, I whisper back, I see it. Yes, we're separate. The wetness of emotions begins to dry a little in the breeze and I breathe in fresh air. I turn and see him sitting quietly, transfixed even and I realize that it is this quiet that allows me to breathe for a moment and feel again the love and gratitude that overwhelms on a daily basis my heart for this little curly haired lion of a boy. And then I remember that his quiet attention is held by Baby Bear and Elmo on Sesame Street and that in a desperate attempt for a moment of peace I plopped my toddler in front of the idiot box. Great job mom. The guilt creeps up again.

Life is a Bucket of Cherries

The weather here is finally starting to heat up and that means my pregnant mass of a self is suffering a little bit more but more importantly that our cherry tree is putting on a sexy show for us.

When we bought the place last summer and discovered we were blessed and cursed with 2 apple, an apricot and a cherry tree we asked around the neighborhood to see what kind of state the fruit trees were in. A close neighbor with a cherry said theirs was completely infested with worms, to the point of being inedible and that we'd have to spray heavily if we wanted to use them. We're huge fans of spraying poison in our backyard on a regular basis so we thought we'd take the wait and see approach. The tree blossomed beautifully and the cherries are big, red, and shinny. Not a worm in sight. The robins are enjoying dessert on the really ripe ones but believe me, there are plenty to go around. So here is a pic of my first attempt at a home grown, lattice cherry pie. Eat your heart out Martha Stewart!

You bet your sweet ass!

Ta Da! Here I am in the great wide world of blogging with of course, no major objectives or proposed goals. Befitting I think for a girl like me. But before I go any further I would like to pay small homage to comedian Demetri Martin for inspiring the moniker for this blog. He makes me laugh until I squeal with pain and that, is something I love.