Organic + Conventional - Big Box Store > Shopping Local = First World Problems

Move over Mommy Wars. A new divisive parenting battle royale has hit the supermarket aisles near you. Welcome to America. Land of the free range chickens. Home of the brave souls who brought you high fructose corn syrup. Where you can get it your way or opt to buy 1/4 of a grass fed cow straight from the farm. Where organic produce and conventional produce live side-by-side in poetic harmony at your local food co-op, or in the well lit aisles of a big box store. Well, semi-harmoniously...

I live in Vermont. Vermont is beautiful, green, lush, healthy and amazing. Vermont protects and preserves its natural surroundings. So much so that there are no billboards anywhere in the state. That's right. You want billboards? TOO BAD. Billboards are illegal here in Vermont. In addition to the beauty of the state, I love its people. Vermonters are passionate and strong. They not only talk the talk, they walk the walk. Vermont lives green, they pour effort into public health consciousness, there are food co-operatives throughout the state and local farms, local cheeses, local breads, local produce and local meats are a huge part of our community. We live in a state with a lovely cornucopia of healthy, quality food. I am fortunate to live here and have easy access to its bounty. As a result of our location, my children are being raised more food conscious as well. They are aware of our area's local ties to the food we eat. It is a budding relationship. I hope that as they continue to learn, they gain a deeper appreciation for the food they eat and the process of how food makes its way to their plates.

As with everything in life, every sweet must have its sour. So, here's the whole sour "thing". People can be downright pretentious about the food their neighbors are eating. This haughtiness extends to not only what you're eating, but, where you are buying your food. To this I say...lucky us. Lucky us that we have moved so far past our basic needs for shelter and food, and are now so fat in luxury that we can now look upon others with moral superiority because we have purchased free range eggs. Lucky us that we can turn up our noses at the mother giving her child a juice box. Lucky us that a cart filled with organic, grass fed,  all natural, no preservatives food items can make us feel like a better parent. Lucky us. We are the luckiest S.O.B.s on the planet.

When I go to my local co-op and the cashier asks, "Are these bananas organic (happy voice) or conventional (voice drops two octaves and storm clouds appear over my cart)?" I want to grab the cashier, hug them and say, "Isn't it amazing that we can get our organic cotton knickers in a twist about bananas? Isn't it amazing that we have so little to worry about that you can judge me by the bananas in my basket? Aren't our healthy kids so inspiring? (Still hugging) Oh, yes..the bananas are conventional."

Just under my skin, the food judgement infuriates me - Who are you to judge my berries! In my heart, it saddens me - Parents already have so much guilt to navigate. We don't need one more thing to make us feel like we could and should be doing more. In my soul, I am grateful.

I am grateful that my cart is full of food. I am grateful that my children have never been truly hungry. I am grateful that I can buy my organic spinach at Walmart or walk to the co-op and buy local strawberries. I am grateful for the ridiculous guilt I feel about my conventional produce, non-organic milk and occasional processed goody. I may have worries about what my children are sometimes eating, but, I'm never worried that they will not eat. I am ridiculously and utterly grateful.

And, I'm grateful for the organic snobs. I'm grateful that your children are so well fed and healthy. I am grateful that you have nothing else to worry about. I am so grateful that you are helping support the local farmers even if you are being a total biddy about it.

So, no matter what you buy or where you shop, can we all just agree that we are damn lucky? As we give thanks for our plenty, I wish organic love and conventional wisdom to all my Co-op ladies and gentlemen, my Walmart mistresses and misters, my Free Range fellas and fillies, my Grass Fed guys and gals, my local lasses and lads and my Supermarket sisters and brothers.

See you at the Farmers' Market or, in the Burger King drive-thru.

Organic AND cheesy! Cheesy, Indeed.

Is You Is Or Is You Ain't My Baby

Get it? GET IT? It's my belly button!

Since late 2011, right around the time I became grotesquely  pregnant with our 4th (see above), I have been telling, well, spit riddled screaming to the world that we are done popping out babies like a Pez dispenser. "Nope, 4 is great! We are done. D-O-N-E. DONE!" I tell random strangers, people I see out and about, grocery store cashiers, our trash collectors and my ovaries. I particularly pour on the panicked, high pitched insistence of our brownchickenbrowncow festivities being purely non-child creation focused to the eyebrow raised inquirers (insisters), "So, you're done...right?" Those people, in particular, cause my inner people pleaser to jump triumphantly forth and ensure them that, "Yes, we are done!" When really, I want to say, "It's none of your damn business! Why don't you lower your brow before your face freezes that way!" Then I imagine kicking dirt on their freshly pressed white linen pants, giving them the full cross armed F U and speeding off in my minivan leaving them speechless, covered in peel out dirt and with a trail of Dodge fumes all up in their grill.

Word.

Instead, I match their smiling, eyebrow raised, not even hidden judgment with a saccharine, knowing look and judgment swallowing statement that confirms what they want to hear so that I can walk away and feel less like a giant, tower climbing, city destroying uterus. All I have to say to myself is, What the freakin' WHAT? As my two year old so eloquently once said, "Why I do that?" .

Why, Indeed.

I have no explanation for smiling and laughing at the SEA HAG kindly, older woman who saw me out with my children, held the door open for me as I struggled with the pack, stroller  and the older two holding my pockets and then said, "1, 2, 3, 4...that's enough!". Wahhhh Wahhh Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. As my husband would say in a sing-song voice, "Dick punch!"

I have no explanation for my quiet, meek acceptance of the douche-baggery that occurs every time I deign to walk outdoors with my ducklings in tow other than the cold, hard fact that I would not do well in prison. I'm not Martha Stewart. I can't just go to prison and bounce back with several multi-million dollar deals. Also, I don't know the first thing about shivs!  My favorite comments on the brain to mouth vomit spectrum are:

1) "Are those all yours?"

What I say: (with a smile) "Yes!"

What I want to say: "Can you show me some I.D. before I answer this question?" (After I.D. is shown) "Oh, thank God you're not law enforcement. Wait, are you undercover? SHIT!" Then, I'd ditch my shopping cart full of groceries and run as quickly as possible in the opposite direction.

2) "You should think about investing in cable!"

What I say: (forced giggling) "You're probably right!"

What I want to say: "Do you have statistics handy to show that people without cable have more children? No? Well, I'm willing to wait here with my screaming kids while you pull up that data on your iPhone. Sir? SIR...WHERE ARE YOU GOING? I WANT FACTS!"

3) "Are you running a daycare?"

What I say: (still smiling) "Some days it sure feels like it!"

What I want to say: "Yes, this is a daycare. Today is field trip day and, I think, and you will agree random stranger, that nothing is more exhilarating than taking small children to Walmart. In fact, you caught us just in time. As you can see, we are in the toilet paper section and we are just about to learn the difference the number of plys make. Good thing you caught us at this pivotal point of the learning experience."

Once, while in the library, pregnant with our fourth, a woman came up to me (who knew my husband's family) and said, "What does your husband do for work? Is he a (description of a job that makes a lot of money)?"

Me: "No, he's a (description of a job that makes far less money)."

Her: "Oooooohhhhhhh." And suddenly, my pregnancy was her business and open for judgement.

What I said: (with a smile) "We make it work!"

What I wanted to say:"We make it work. We have everything we need. We love them. They love us. That might not be good enough for you, but, it's everything to us."

And, here are my personal feelings on the subject of children. Will you love them? Will you care for them? Will you feed them? Teach them? Nurture their independence? Teach them about kindness? Will you do the hard work to release excellent humans into the world? If the answer is yes, you can have 1, 2, 5 or 25. I. Don't. Care. It's not my business and kudos to you for doing the work to make this world a better place filled with quality humans.

And, if you have a problem with me and my four amazing children, here is what I have to say:

We make it work. We have everything we need. We love them. They love us. That might not be good enough for you, but, it's everything to us.

Oh, and shove it.

January 3, 2012, the day I became "that lady who should invest in cable".




Look at how AMAZING they all are. I can't imagine life with "less". Great, now I want more. See naysayers, BACKFIRED!









Keeping Her Faith

When it comes to religion and faith, I have lived my life with self diagnosed Religious Schizophrenia. My Father was raised in a Jewish household. My Mother, with inactive Protestants. Both left their childhood faith in young adulthood and became Mormon. After my sister and I were born, disenfranchised with the Mormon faith, they both left the church. From that point on, aside from sporadic trips to church with well meaning families wanting to save our flailing  Jewish, Protestant, Mormon souls, we didn't attend church. Organized Religion was a sore subject for my mother. The feminist in her couldn't get past the diminished role of women in most forms of organized faith. And, for me, regardless of the church I attended with friends or other families, the experience left me wanting. The porridge was always too hot or far too cold.

In high school, I dated the son of a minister. The church was a Born Again sect called, Christian Renewal. As a shining example of the divine wisdom of high school girls, I went to church with my heart pounding for the son of the preacher man and not the son of God. I attended weekly. I studied their movements, I learned the songs. I so wanted to be touched by whatever power was touching this congregation. It did not touch me.  I started to wonder if I was missing something. Where was God? Is it possible that I was born unable to feel faith? The biggest question of all; What does faith feel like? How do I find it? Will I know it when I've found it? Will I go through my entire life without it?

I married a devout Catholic. He is a wonderful man. I know that his faith is part of what makes him so amazing. He was raised Catholic in a large, respected, church-going family. His faith is multi-pronged. It is familiar, but, he also has a strong, independent desire to nourish his faith and spiritual relationship with his church outside of his upbringing. While I fully acknowledge that this faith helps make him a wonderful husband, father and human being, I do not feel the connection to Catholicism. I feel the community in the church, I appreciate the devotion of the congregation and I marvel at the faith of the man I married, but, sadly, faith is not transferable. I want to feel the call. I want to feel the pull. I do not. My husband and I discuss, quite frequently, his faith and even, his interest in the Priesthood. Ultimately, his desire to marry and have children was stronger, but, if The Catholic Church ever allows men of the cloth to also be husbands and fathers, he would consider taking those revitalized vows. All of this is great, but, it leaves me dubbed, The Agnostic Wife of a Catholic Man. No one has written a song about that...yet. I'm assuming I should attend Agnostic Anonymous meetings where I would start with, "Hello, My name is Bethany and I don't know what to believe, but, I do know all the lyrics to George Michael's, Faith!"

When we had children, we agreed that he would take the lead on matters of faith and that he would raise our children as Catholics with my full support. Who was I to argue? He has something I desperately want and admire. Clearly, he was the obvious parental choice for spiritual guidance.

Picture our oldest drew of her going to church with Daddy. Mommy? Not pictured...at home in PJs.

All four of our children have been baptized. The two that are school aged attend Catholic School. My only request has been that they be allowed to explore their own feelings of faith and that, if, at any time, they wanted to explore outside the faith of my husband, we would be supportive and encouraging. We would recognize that it is not his or my choice to make. We would support their individual decision to participate in a faith that speaks to them. Their faith would be theirs. He agreed. See, an amazing man.

My son is in pre-school. Matters of faith are new and come home in the form of songs and coloring pages. He is not feeling the faith; He is learning it. My daughter is in Kindergarten. This is more complicated. She is exploring her faith. She is asking hard questions. She is having feelings that lead her toward prayer and, she is asking me what all of it means. Of course she is. I am her mother and her primary care giver. I am the adult at home when the questions in her brain beg to be asked. I answer her questions using my background in the ONE World Religions course I took in college, life experience, the tidbits I've gathered from my husband's religious knowledge and well, faith...in myself. The questions she asks are huge and loaded. The answers I give? Entirely based on my love for her and with respect for her personal journey. I am supportive and gentle in my responses, but, I know I do not have the answers she's looking for.

Christmas Morning 2011. She started drawing the nativity scene on the playroom chalkboard...on her own.



More unprompted home drawings of religious figures.

A: "Mommy, when we die, does our spirit stay in our body after we're buried? Does it go straight to Heaven? Will I see Grandpa there? Will my family be there?"

GULP

Me: "Well, some people believe that your spirit...what makes you, you and me, me leaves your body and goes to Heaven. Some people believe all our loved ones that died before us are there waiting for us."

A: "Cool! I wish there was a book I could read about that!"

Me: "There is."

A: "AWESOME. Mommy, do you believe that?"

This is when I start asking if anyone wants a frozen lemonade. That works, for now. What I want to say, what I want to say more than anything is that there is absolutely nothing I'd love to believe more. I want to say that the thought of this being all we have, the thought of only having this one lifetime of unknown length to be with her and love her is so heartbreaking that every cell in my body needs to believe that this can't be all there is. That, yes, absolutely, I will be waiting for her and that Daddy will be there too and that we will be a family, always. I can't promise that. So, we get a frozen lemonade and save this talk for another day.

I am not completely devoid of awe and wonder. I have had profound moments with feelings of  "connectivity bliss". I felt it at the birth of all of my children. The blinding feelings of love, fear and joy. In those moments, I am aware of a power bigger than me. I am praising the universe. Is that feeling faith? Is that what is being felt in Holy places of worship?

Right now, when it comes to faith, the only truth I do not doubt is my faith in my children, my husband and the love for my family, those still here and those gone. As far as my personal journey, I still haven't found what I'm looking for, but, I refuse to stop searching.

'Cause, I've gotta have faith, faith, faith...

What I Want to Be When I Grow Up/(Beauty) School Drop-Out

As "Bad Parenting Moments", I love to explore, exploit and enjoy the humor of parenthood. This is my "shit just got REAL" post for the month. I'll return to the funny next week. I promise! xo - Debbie Downer

When I was a little girl, I went through the normal line-up of prospective careers: Rainbow Brite, Princess, Veterinarian, Doctor, Lawyer, President, Ballerina, Actress on, "Hey Dude!". The usual. Then, I grew up. Well, I partially grew up. I did well in school. I was fortunate to be given a scholarship to college. Before college, I narrowed down my career choices: Lawyer and Rainbow Brite. Sadly, UGA did not offer advanced degrees in Rainbow Brite or the option to minor in riding horned unicorns over rainbows. Hey, no school is perfect. I settled for pre-law. My freshman year was a disaster. A total disaster. I was a mess. I was immature. I was afraid. I did not know who I was or what the hell I was doing. I was 18. I would like to say that somewhere deep down inside of me, where I knew I could be and do whatever I wanted, that I channeled my inner She-Ra and pulled through. Not the case. After a year of failing, I failed myself and quit. The broken pieces of my paper bag princess hopped a Greyhound bus from Georgia to Los Angeles, California (another blog for another time) and I never...ok, I rarely looked back. I started working and built an excellent career. I started at the bottom and worked my way up the "old fashioned" way. I met a boy, fell in love, had lots of babies, moved to a small town in New England and put my ideas of what I thought I wanted to be on the back burner of the extra stove you keep in the basement. What I wanted to be when I grew up was irrelevant. I was living the dream. Happy, healthy family. My greatest career? Mom, of course! Babies and joy and chaos. There was no time to examine the 18 year old I was or the Poet/Lawyer/Warrior Princess she wanted to be, but, who cared. I. Was. Living. The. Dream.

I have written about this before. The quiet need of a mother to find and/or retain who she is amidst the joy and chaos of parenthood. I write about it because I have no earthly idea how to manifest this idea in real life. A mother finds little outlet in the day to day, in the "thick" of parenting to nourish herself, EXCEPT, through the growth, happiness and nourishment of her children. That is spectacular and gratifying, but, is it enough? I don't know.

Some would label me unhappy or ungrateful for even having this thought. Guess what, I am scared to have that thought. What kind of mother am I if I say, in print, that being a mother may not nourish every fiber of my being to satisfaction. What if, I dare to say that I may need my own childhood dreams of being my own super hero fulfilled outside of the confines of "mom"?  And, my biggest fear, what if I am not the best mother I can be because I do not know who I am outside of their mother. What if I fail them like I failed at 18. Because, like stepping into the world at 18, I am afraid and, on most days, I still do not know who I am or what the hell I am doing.

Here is the difference; my complete, heartbreaking love for my children will not allow me to quit. They make me want to truly examine the desires I have to become not just their mother, but, a woman they can be proud of. In quiet moments, I imagine my adult relationships with my children. In all of these imagined scenarios, they are always happy. We are always laughing. I do not know if they will be ballerinas, doctors, lawyers, veterinarians, paleontologists, Broadway actors, college grads or college drop-outs. Are they happy? Are they fulfilled? Do they know who they are? Do they know that it is never too late to figure out who you want to be in the world?

And, what's next for me? Well, it is never to late to figure out who you want to be in the world. I don't owe Rainbow Brite or college for that piece of truth. I owe my children for that life lesson.

Easter Can Kiss My Keister!

(Warning: Ranting/Rambling of a non-religious person forthcoming. If you are offended, I sincerely apologize in advance. If you continue reading, don't say I didn't warn you!)

Every year since we started having children, the scene has been relatively the same. It goes something like this:

Catholic Husband  (Thursday before Easter): "I don't know what you have planned for the kids for Easter on Sunday, but, I'm going to take A (our oldest) to mass with me."

Me, Heathen Wife: "CRAP!!! CRAP!!! Easter is THIS Sunday. You are joking me? How late is (fill in the name with any super sized bargain store) open?"

Easter! You did it again! You are one stealth holiday, my frenemy!

It is not just that it always sucker punch's me in the face and then while I'm recovering, kicks me in the stomach. It's the whole shebang. It confuses me. SO, let me get this straight, Jesus came back from the dead (WHOA...that is AMAZING. Note to self: DVR The Walking Dead) and we celebrate this by buying green plastic grass, hiding eggs in bushes and perpetuating the (terrifying) myth that a 7 foot tall rabbit is breaking into our homes to bring us diabetes?

The egg hunts, the wearing of fancy clothing, the dye, the egg massacre in my kitchen, the candy, the 2:00 p.m. tantrums, the serious lack of alcohol to make any of this palatable. It is my least favorite holiday.

I imagine if I were religious (i.e. not going to hell in an Easter (hand)basket), Easter would be so much more. Respect. For me, with 4 small kids and a serious lack of religious upbringing, it is the antithesis. It is another Wal*Mart sponsored spending spree that leaves me feeling ambushed and with an additional 5 pounds of candy weight.

The DEVILed Eggs

But, I love my kids. I love them like CRAZY. So, I will SQUEEZE my post-partum body into a frock, hide jelly bean filled eggs, create baskets that would make Wilford Brimley shake in his diabetes filled boots and start downing mimosas at 10:00 a.m. . I'm a mom, it isn't about me! My little heathens LOVE Easter, so, I will pretend to love it too. And, to be fair, they are the four cutest cadbury eggs on the planet.  Sigh, Easter...you win again.

See, I manage to pull it all together.

HOLY cuteness. Easter 2009. This Easter, 2 additional bunnies!

The Bitching Hour

Every day, around 3:30 p.m., my palms start to sweat and a deep seeded sense of dread takes over. My eyes get shifty and I start staring at the clock. I know what's coming, 4:00 p.m., The Bitching Hour.

I do not know what happens in the cosmos at 4:00 p.m., but, at that exact time, EVERY. SINGLE. DAY., my kids go completely bat sh*t crazy. Crazy, like, googly eyed, psycho in a dark alley crazy. Crazy, like, contemplate running outside, knocking wildly on neighbors doors while screaming, "HELP!" at the top of my lungs crazy. I have noticed that my neighbors start pulling shades and frantically pulling out of their driveways at around 3:45 p.m.

When I go to bed, 4:00 p.m. - 6:30 p.m., haunts my dreams. I have feverish nightmares about slow-motion running while covered in leftover fish sticks and boxed macaroni they are hurling at me while laughing maniacally. Please. Send. Help.

From 7:00 a.m. to 3:59 p.m., I love my kids. At 4:00 p.m., cue Michael Jackson's Thriller.

Something's Gotta Give

Something’s Gotta Give

Hi, my name is Bethany and this is my BPM Creator Confession for the week of March 18th.


I am a stay at home mom (SAHM). Before I was a stay at home mom, I had a great career for 10 years in Human Resources. I want to state that because I have been on both sides of the fence. They grass has its green and brown spots on both sides.

The term stay at home mom has always bothered me. First, I feel that the term does not accurately reflect the job. My dissatisfaction with the term may come from my HR days where our copy room employees were titled, "Lead Reprographics Technicians". No, I am not joking. SAHM is such a meager title for such a huge job. And, frankly, on most days, I feel less like a SAHMom and more like a SAHMaid. Well, that is not entirely true. On most days I feel like the EXPECTATION is that I be a SAHMomandMaid. Can you imagine if the only thing mothers that stayed home did was mother? I can not. The world may stop spinning. People would be wearing burlap sacks to work and McDonalds would be the largest and most influential corporation in the world. I can see it now. So, for the rest of this post, I’m going to refer to SAHMs as Directors of the Societal Development of Quality Humans. That is a working title. It has not yet been approved by Compensation.

I find, sadly, that during my day, I feel guilty that I am not accomplishing more stuff (sh*t, really). I am disappointed that laundry goes unfolded. I am disappointed that I have been unable to mop a floor since COUGH. I am disappointed that my home is cluttered, dusty and that my kitchen does not smell of fresh baked goods or Lysol. I am disappointed that I can not find a home for all the crap that “lives” in my house. I look outside and see leaves that need raking, dirt that needs seeding, decks that need cleaning. I struggle to plan and make dinner every night. EVERY night. When dinner comes together, I feel victorious and then, a) no one eats it or b) complains loudly about its (varying degrees of) grossness throughout the meal. Then, I see my happy, healthy kids and I remind myself that their health and happiness is the goal. DUH!

The expectation is too high. We are too hard on ourselves. Society is too hard on us. Sometimes, our partners are too hard on us. Our job is to create and nourish the development of quality human beings. It takes a lifetime and it is hard work. We spend so much time sweating the small stuff at the expense of celebrating the BIG stuff.


So, my new checklist goes something like this.

Did my children smile and laugh today?
Did I laugh at their jokes?
Did we read together?
Did I encourage them?
Did I hug and kiss them enough?
Did I protect them?
Did I really listen closely to the things they were trying to share with me?
Did I do my best to give them everything they need to thrive?

I am the Director of the Societal Development of Quality Humans. The laundry can wait.