Facebook or Soapbox?

Have you recently found religion or abandoned it altogether?  Have you watched a movie or read a book that has changed your life and your way of thinking? Do you have a social or political cause that riles you? I think it is amazing that you have found something that incites passion in you. I really do, but pardon me if I ignore your attempts to proselytize. It's not you, it's me. I like you; I just have no interest in jumping on your bandwagon, especially if you use fear mongering or insinuate that those who don't ascribe to your beliefs are either close minded, ignorant, or going to burn in hell.  

Last year I wrote an entry about Facebook, my dirty lover whom I love to hate.  That still hasn't changed.  Although I rarely post myself, I do scroll through my feed usually once or twice a day, (more if I am stuck in the purgatory of a waiting room).  I love being in some kind of contact with friends and family that I would have otherwise not been able to maintain without the advent of social media. It is an odd form of communication though. There is not the typical personal give and take like there is in conversation. You are apprised of brief moments in a person's life, where they have been, who they were with, what they find funny, what interests them, and what makes them upset, but it is not the same as actually talking to a person. When you talk to someone, if they broach a subject which you find either offensive, or just plain not interesting, you can artfully steer the conversation to more neutral ground. On Facebook, you do not have that opportunity.  

I have a few Facebook friends that feel very strongly about topics near and dear to their heart and they want everyone they know to hear about it and perhaps change their wicked ways, opinions or beliefs. I'm all for free speech, but just because I respect your right to share your thoughts doesn't mean I want to listen to them.  If you post pictures of aborted fetuses to support your pro-life stance, videos of abused animals to further your animal cruelty cause or in support of your new found veganism, memes that incite fear with their false and specious facts, espouse far right wing conspiracy theories, if your criticism of our president crosses the line into racist name calling, if you warn that everyone who doesn't believe as you do will suffer the flames of hell fire for eternity, or conversely, insinuate that anyone who is not an atheist such as yourself is feeble minded, I have every right to ignore your diatribe by hiding your statuses from my feed.  Look, I'm sure you and I could find some common ground, you know when you're not acting all holier than thou, but for now, until this insufferable phase of yours passes, I'm going to remain blissfully ignorant of your harangues. Good luck in your attempts to convert the masses, I won't be one of them, and good job on already having so many devoted followers who endorse and encourage your rantings, I mean convictions.

What's For Dinner?

It starts shortly after my kids leave school in the afternoon.  After the pleasantries of, "How was your day?" are out of the way, it begins. First with the boy, whose school day ends shortly before my paid work day ends. It continues with the girl a mere 30 minutes later. The next words out of their mouths after the small talk is out of the way are always about what I am going to make to put in those same mouths in a few short hours. 

 "What's for dinner, Mom?" 

Soon the man will send a text, if it is one of the nights he doesn't have pool, and ask what I am planning for dinner. 

 I don't know. I rarely know. I stopped making weekly menus years ago about the time it stopped being fun and started being drudgery. I like to cook. It used to bring me joy to be able to create something for my family that not only pleased them, but nourished them as well. Over time, that satisfying sense of pride has diminished until it is just another chore like laundry. 

I have one diner that is extremely picky and really only wants to eat things found on any children's menu, like nuggets, grilled cheese, pizza, pasta with butter, macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, or hamburgers.  I have another eater that doesn't like cheese, and is not a big meat eater. The other mouth to feed doesn't eat sugars of any kind, flour, grains, or carbohydrates. 

I often end up making at least two separate meals a night, and sometimes three. I eat either whatever someone else is having, or a combination of the meals. I resort to making scrambled eggs for dinner at least two to three times a month as it is the one thing they all will eat although I am not a fan of eggs myself. 

When there are limits to what you can do with your creativity, it stops being fun. It starts being work. I don't have the time or energy to locate recipes that tick all the boxes of my family's likes, wants, and needs. I wish I was June Jetson and could enter the meal choices into a computer, only to have them promptly delivered by a robotic arm to my waiting family around the dinner table. 

Ugh.  Here they come again. 

"Mom, did you decide what we are having for dinner?"  

Looks like I am ordering one cheese free pizza, one cheese pizza, and pulling a steak out of the freezer. 

It's Not Easy Being Green

There was a time when I did not think twice about what I ate. I bought packaged foods, and ate whatever I wanted.  I felt no repercussions from indulging in Taco Bell, pizza, fries, and ice cream.  I used mixes and cans of condensed soup to put together a meal, and truly felt pride in creating a "homemade" dinner. Although we grew a lot of our own food when I was a growing up, I did not think about the sources of the other food I ate.    

When I was pregnant with my first child, it began to dawn on me that I had the tremendous responsibility of making sure I ate healthy because my choices no longer affected just me. Once I had my daughter, I decided to nurse because I knew that was best for her. I continue to be mindful of what I ate out of my concern and love for her. When she began to eat solid foods, it became apparent that she had a serious allergy to dairy and a life threatening allergy to peanuts. Because of this, I began to make more and more meals and baked goods from scratch as it was the only way to ensure that the food she ate was safe for her.  

I have definitely fallen off the wagon on trying to eat clean using whole food ingredients now that it is only me I have to consider. I was a stay at home mom when my kids were younger, and now that I work, I find that I don't have the time or energy to make balanced meals, homemade bread, and homemade cookies for snacks and school lunches. I admit, I purchase fast food or pizza at least once a week.  I have gotten in the habit of just scanning labels to make sure there are no peanut warnings, without checking to see if the item has nutritional value and free of additives, preservatives, and high fructose corn syrup. I have backslid into familiar habits. 

Over the Christmas break, I watched the movie "Food, Inc." It affected me and made me think about where my food comes from and how so much of it is factory processed. It made me hate corporations like Monsanto and Smithfield who have turned farming corporate and made it nearly impossible for the family farms to survive. The message of the movie was that if you think this is wrong, you can vote by choosing to buy local and organic from family farms. I took this to heart.  

I looked online and found a grocer specializing in local organic produce and meat from small independent farms. Even better, they deliver.  So I ordered one whole chicken, kale, chard, parsley, organic whole grain bagels, sweet potatoes, a cabbage, and mushrooms. It was $77.00.  The chicken alone, which came frozen by the way, was $30.00, five times what I would pay for a name brand chicken at the supermarket.  If I had ordered hamburger, that would have been $8.99 per pound, double the cost of grocery store meat. 

One of the scenes that stuck with me the most from "Food, Inc." was the story of a family who could not afford to buy fruit at the supermarket because that would be the equivalent of one snack, yet cost more than a meal from a dollar menu. Fast food and unhealthy food is subsidized which makes it cost less. It is more affordable to buy McDonalds than it is to buy whole foods from the store. I can afford the occasional $30 chicken, but it is not practical for me to spend that much on one component of a meal on a daily basis.  

At our local farmer's markets, the prices are no better.  I want to be able to support small businesses and independent farms, but when I purchased one heirloom variety tomato and a small watermelon that was the size of a large grapefruit at a stand last summer, my price was over $8. At many of the stands, produce is two to three times the cost of the same items at the grocery store. I understand that the farmers need to make money, but these costs are prohibitive for many people. 

I do not know what the answer is, nor do I think one person or even a large group of people can make a difference.  The large corporations are too powerful and their lobbyists are too adept at influencing our lawmakers. I will try to make healthier choices for me and my family, but the ease of packaged foods and the lure of fast food can be hard to ignore. Kermit was right, it's not easy being green. 

Ice, Ice, Go Away

   For the first half of my life, I endured snowy, icy winters.  It was a part of my existence that filled me with dread.  I did not mind the cold and snow; it was the treacherous ice that I feared the most. I have a mild form of brittle bones disease, so even a simple fall for me can mean a fracture. I live in mortal fear of the slip and fall. 

    In Michigan, sidewalks and parking lots are salted which helps melt the ice. I would strategically plot out my walking paths if the salt had not yet worked its magic, cut through the grass, walk through that snow drift, hold on to that fence for stability, while I carefully granny shuffled along.  Other kids could gleefully slip and slide past me, while I worried about what would happen if they lost control and knocked into me. 

    When I lived in Seattle, often the temperatures did not dip that low for a solid freeze, and if it did, I could usually manage to get by with walking through snowy patches or just staying home. One of the good things about moving to Texas was that I would no longer have to live in fear of walking on ice, until today that is. 

     An icy mix fell on the Central Texas area just before dawn this morning.  Other school districts announced delays as Texas and Texans are just not equipped to handle the kind of driving conditions that result from freezing rain. My district was a little late to make that call.  Children were already dropped off at the school when the delay (and subsequent closure) was announced.  I had already slid my truck into a spot and did the granny shuffle with my son as best as I could.  We managed to walk through the grass for part of the way, but once we reached the main drive, we had to cross the icy street. Fortunately, a friend helped us across the street, as in, she stood between my son and I and held our hands until we got to the door.  

     I was so terrified not only for me, but for my son to whom heredity was not kind and inherited brittle bones disease from me. I had to fight back tears of relief once we made it back inside.  I had hoped that the temperatures would increase and melt the ice by the time we left, but that was not the case.  I left the boy on a dry patch of sidewalk while I turned into Columbus, navigating and plotting out the safest path to my truck, nearly slipping more than a few times along the way.  The most treacherous part was right in front of my car door.  I opened the door, grabbed the wheel with a vise-like grip and raised myself up, losing traction as I did so, but tumbled safely inside. I was never so happy to pull into my own garage before as I was today. 

     I had hoped the temperatures would raise up enough today as my weather app promised, but from the looks of my patio, they did not.  So now I am fearfully fretting a replay of today for tomorrow and, I am scheduled to be outside tomorrow morning for car rider duty before school begins, helping children get safely from the cars and into the building.  I am terrified and yet embarrassed that I am worried about such a small thing that would not phase most people. I worry about my own son, can I get him inside safely? Will my daughter safely make it inside her school? 

     When they were younger, I would stick right by them at the park.  I would let them try anything they wanted, but I would spot them if they started to fall.  When my daughter's primary school had their annual roller skating unit in P.E., I would volunteer and hold her hands the whole time. I had other well meaning parents, who did not know our diagnosis, try to encourage me to be hands off, let my kids take chances, and I heard the label of "helicopter mom" being whispered. I don't feel that I have a choice in the matter.  As much as I don't want to fall and get hurt, my desire and need to keep them safe is stronger.  They get angry with me sometimes because I am forever reminding them, "Watch your step!" or pointing out, "That slab of sidewalk is higher than this one. Do you see it?"  I'm a mother though and it's my job to get them through childhood safely. It is my most important responsibility. 

     I'm hoping that the ice is gone by tomorrow morning, but I'm pretty sure that since the high never got much above freezing today, that did not happen. Wish me luck and good traction and balance for tomorrow as I am sure that there will definitely be school. 

     

   

    

     

Writer's Karma

I can't say that I have ever really believed in karma.  I know I have hoped for it on many occasions, but rarely have I actually been fortunate enough to witness it. This past week though, karma reared its ugly head on me, and bit me on the ass for something I did over 10 years ago.  

It all started when we moved to a new development out in the country, east of Tacoma shortly after our daughter had turned one years old. Before long, I met a neighbor who had twin girls the same age as my daughter. She informed me that she organized playgroups in her home with other families she had met.  We soon became regular fixtures at her playgroups. 

Every new mother is prone to those self doubts about whether you are doing this whole parenting thing right.  You worry about your child meeting those all important milestones on time. You can't help but look at other people's kids to gauge whether or not your kid is at the same level. You wonder if you should be doing something differently to nurture your baby's development. 

My own daughter had unfortunately inherited a mild form of brittle bones disease from me, and therefore she had more than her fair share of leg fractures and casts until she mastered walking. She was delayed in her gross motor skills as a result, but received weekly physical therapy to help her. So of course, I had my worries about her and my own self doubts about my abilities as a mother.  Linda was no different from me in that respect, however, unlike me, Linda would actually make comparisons of the kids out loud. I don't think for a minute that she meant it in a mean way.  I think she was just taking comfort in her observation that her twins had surpassed my child (and others) when it came to some developments. When her children became old enough to make such observations themselves, they did so, not only to my daughter, but to me. Needless to say, Linda and her brood got under my skin quite a bit, but because we were neighbors and because our kids attended the same preschool, I just silently endured her and her offspring. 

Linda had a strong personality, and when we mothers sat around talking about our challenges, she was the first to interrupt with her far superior way of doing things, or much worse, would dismiss the issue and shut down the speaker by proclaiming that she NEVER had such problems with HER girls. 

On one occasion, she was telling us how she bought her girls two new pairs of shoes each from Payless, and she encouraged the other mothers to check out the sale.  I mentioned, not meaning it in a haughty way, but I suppose in retrospect that was the way she perceived it, that I usually bought my children shoes when Nordstrom has its sale. I went on to say that I liked the way the sales people took the time to measure the kids, and that I preferred to buy Striderite because I knew it was a good shoe with plenty of support. She blanched, then sulked, and said nothing more about it until the next time we met.  The first thing out of her mouth after the pleasantries were out of the way was that she had talked to her pediatrician, and he confirmed that it was a waste of money to buy expensive shoes for kids and that the Payless ones were just as good.  She went on to ask if I had heard of their SmartFit shoes for kids and how they have excellent support.  To this day, I can't believe that she actually felt the need to discuss my shoe store and brand preference with her pediatrician. 

I became the editor of the monthly newsletter for our co-op preschool when Linda was the classroom representative for our children's class. Usually when people submitted articles, I would edit them and fix any errors that I noticed before entering them.  However, when Linda wrote a long article in regard to the upcoming bike day, and repeatedly spelled the word "helmet" as "helmut", I left it.  I left in all her errors.  I just clicked and pasted her entire submission right into the template for the newsletter.  I felt a little guilty about it, but not much.  Yes, it was passive aggressive, but it made me feel ever so slightly better for once one upping the one upper. 

Flash forward to present day, and karma has come to haunt me for my folly. I had submitted some information for a very informal publication with a limited distribution. This apparently was not a click and paste job, because I am sure I included commas. I am also sure I wrote the correct name of a school I attended. A song I paraphrased was botched to the point that it was unrecognizable and it sounded like I was a giddy 10 year old girl in writing it. If I send in a correction, to at very least correct the name of the school, I am pretty sure I would sound petty, and like I was taking such a small thing way too seriously when it was meant just for fun. So I suppose I will just live with the embarrassment that the people who read it, which would unfortunately be people I see on a daily basis, will think I am a sort of a dolt. Dang you Karma! I believe in you now!

The One About Pocket Calendars and Grandma

     It has become my custom over the years to go out after New Years to one of those calendar shops in the mall that at that point are selling what remains of their stock at 50% off list price.  I don't need a calendar for January when it's still December, so why buy one early and pay twice as much? Of course the stock is slim pickin's by then.  This year all the Elvis calendars were gone, so I was torn between pubs of Ireland and one with watercolors of fresh produce. I was not excited about either one, but that's what you get when you are a cheapskate who waits until the last minute. 

     While I was there, I picked up a pocket calendar. I don't know why I bought it.  After all, they are pretty much obsolete these days.  Who digs out a paper calendar from their purse, opens it to the correct month, then searches for a pen, all to write down their next dentist appointment?  Most people would just enter the date and time on their phone calendar, or at least take the business card with the date and time sticker on it, and stuff into their wallet. Using one of those plastic coated paper calendars the size of a checkbook seems kind of archaic. 

     I'm no stranger to the pocket calendar having bought many with cute kittens or flowers on them in the '80's and 90's.  When I worked part-time in retail or restaurants, they were excellent for keeping track of my shifts, but once I became a grown up and had a real job, whose schedule did not change, I had no need for the pocket calendar anymore.  To tell the truth, I don't have a need for it now either. But I saw it, I wanted it, and it was $2.50, so I bought it.  

     Looking at the calendar reminded me of my grandmother.  Every year, my grandma would fly up to Michigan from Tennessee to visit us for Christmas.  She spent nearly a month divided between my house and my uncle's. Every year, upon arriving, she would open up her yellow leather suitcase and pull out a bag from Hallmark.  Inside she would have a pocket calendar for each of us that she had gotten for free from the card shop. Even though I had no important dates to record in them, I adored those calendars and reading the inspirational quotes at the top of each month. 

     Like any kid, I loved the month of December because it meant Christmas and Christmas vacation. I had two other reasons for looking forward to it. My birthday fell at the beginning of the month, and December meant my grandma coming to stay. I enjoyed her visits almost as much as I enjoyed going to visit her in the summer in Tennessee. During the holiday break, she would make my sister and I oatmeal for breakfast, and we would watch The Price Is Right. She always had time to talk and listen, she was never impatient or annoyed, and she was never in a rush. I adored her.  

     One thing I never understood, and will never understand to this day, was how she was treated by my mother.  My mother was wonderful in many respects, but not in respect to her own mother.  My mother required and received respect from her own children.  I remember once getting suddenly slapped across the face without warning for "having a tone". Despite her strong opinions on her own children showing respect for their elders, this was not a philosophy she felt pertained to her. 

     Every word my grandma said, including and most especially the way she pronounced them, was up for ridicule. Although no words like "stupid" or "dumb" were actually spoken, they were implied with each snort of derision, and verbal challenge. My mother was not alone in this.  It seemed to be a family sport to pick on Grandma. (I must mention that although for whatever reason, my dad never particularly felt comfortable around Grandma, he never once engaged in the verbal put downs to my knowledge.) No one ever put a stop to it, and honestly, Grandma never seemed to be the least bit troubled by it.  I suppose that was just their family dynamic. 

     The first time that it became glaringly obvious to me was one Christmas Eve when family members kept trying to get her to say particular words so that they could laugh at her pronunciations. Instead of saying, "Where is my camera?", she would say, "Where is my Koh-DAK?"  That word alone would just send them into fits of giggles. That was the first time that it hit me that it was wrong.  I felt it in the pit of my stomach.  

     One summer, sometime after that Christmas, we were down in Tennessee visiting Grandma.  We were all outside one evening, enjoying the breeze, and waiting for the lightning bugs, when some neighbors stopped by and decided to sit a spell.  They were a younger couple.  The woman just gushed about Grandma. How they just LOVED her!  She was just so funny, and they enjoyed her company so much. I had never heard anyone say such wonderful things about her.  I had only heard her be a source of ridicule before, not someone to be admired.  

     The fact is, she should have been admired.  As a teen, she spent her summers working in a cannery.  She decided at some point the she wanted to leave her home and family and head north to become a nurse.  Her bags were packed, but just before she left for New York, her future husband proposed. Her parents were against the match and felt her intended's family was not good enough, but she went against them and married him anyway.  A massive heart attack took him when their kids were in their teens.  Grandma had kids to support, so she went to work.  She lived on her own for several years on Detroit's eastside, before retiring and moving back to Tennessee on her own and building herself a rather large house on some property she owned out in the country. She got involved in her community, rejoined her former church, made friends, and even had a few boyfriends along the way.  I can't imagine the courage she had to stand up to her parents, to single handedly support her family, and then to later to start a whole new life all on her own.  She was a pretty amazing woman, and I regret that my mother was somehow stuck in that ignorant adolescent mindset of thinking that her mother was less than the courageous, intelligent, and kindhearted woman that she truly was. 

Yes, I know, I rambled.  I got off topic.  I broke my personal rule about not speaking ill of family members, but these are my experiences, my observations, and my feelings.  They are not things I can bring up in a casual conversation, but I can put them here and get them off my chest. 

It's Not About You, Really.

I have nearly daily ideas for blogs, yet I write only rarely. Mostly because my ideas come from my direct experiences with people I know or the students I see at my job.  If I was anonymous, I could write about these things with impunity, but because someone might read my blog and become offended if they recognize themselves, I refrain. I have some really funny, entertaining stories to write, which kills me to not share.  As it is, people will occasionally think they recognize themselves in my blog and call me out for it.  It's not about you, really.  I swear.  If I think you may read my blog, I will not write about you, although I probably could and likely want to.

Sometimes I have inspiration for a post, but I feel like I don't have four strong paragraphs worth of material, which is the minimum that I strive for in writing a blog. Some ideas I just can't flesh out that far. Others I feel have been done before and likely much better by other writers. With some topics, I struggle to find the right tone. I don't want to come off as negative or self righteous. My goal is to share my experiences and perspective with a bit of humor and maybe a recipe if the story lends itself to it. 

Tone and voice are difficult for me to master in my writing.  I am an introvert by nature, and my inner dialog is often dark and sarcastic.  I think I am hilarious, but when I let one of my inner comments out, people often misinterpret my attempts at humor as sour grapes, mean spiritedness, or negativity. I have learned the hard way that although some people can say the same exact things I do, and in the same tone, they will be thought of as a riot; I will be thought of as mean, bitter, or even rude. I am generally a happy well-adjusted person, and I would never say anything with the purposeful intent of hurting someone, yet for whatever reason, I know I can come off as negative at times and not light-hearted and merely poking fun at a situation. It is a tricky balance for me. If you all could just see inside my head, it would be so much easier.

Lastly, some topics are just too taboo to touch.  I know I can't write a blog about my feelings or beliefs when it comes to religion, politics, or social justice without expecting some kind of backlash, despite occasionally having strong feelings about these things.  Even tame subjects seem to incite some readers to write me with either a complaint or with a desire to share their opposing view.  To that I say, opinions are like noses, (not really what I wanted to say, but keeping it clean), everyone has one, much like blogs these days. If yours is different than mine, I don't care.  Get your own damn blog and proclaim it.  Maybe I'll read it.