When we last tuned in to Salty Besos...

The Sandburg School Garden was forthcoming, Ella’s very first ballet recital was imminent and the back half of our garden was pure quack grass. 

Today, the Sandburg School Garden is firmly installed, complete with raised cedar beds, rich black soil and hand painted signs.  Read the press we got on the event here: http://madisoncommons.org/?q=node/1282

It turned out to be a great day.  The weather cooperated, we had about 40 people show up and it was a tremendous success in terms of community building.  Two families who live nearby but who have never volunteered with the school before came out to help with the garden, just because they thought a school garden was a great idea.  Every new parent we engage is a success. 

Last week during my regular volunteer time at Jay’s school, his kindergarten class came out to the garden and together we planted radish, zucchini and broccoli seeds.  We talked about the differences in the seeds (what size are they?  Are they all the same color?  What shape are they?) and we talked about what the seeds would need to grow (right answers: water, sunlight, and soil.  Wrong answers: boogers.  I can get them outside, but I can’t make them not be kindergarteners.) 

The day after we installed the school garden, Ella had her very first ballet recital.  I caught it on video, but it was from very far away and we were prohibited from using flash photography, so most of my pictures from her actual performance are pretty bad.  To save some space on my blog, I will help you recreate the photographs I captured from her dance recital.  Do this.  Put both hands over your eyes and then rub them vigorously back and forth.  There.  This is what our pictures look like and now I don’t have to load them online.

I can tell you she danced beautifully and Chris and I are tremendously proud.  I cried through the entire thing, as I watched my little girl up on stage in front of hundreds of people like it wasn’t a thing.  She nailed every step and was graceful and beautiful and lovely and totally rocked her sweat pants while the other girls in her class wore leotards and matching tutus.  She never got stage fright and never faltered and I was so incredibly proud of her.  

When we enrolled her in classes at the YMCA two months ago, we did it almost on a whim.  Classes were inexpensive, we thought she’d enjoy them, it would give Chris a small break, etc.  What I didn’t realize is that Ella had come to think of herself as a real life ballerina.  Over the last few weeks, I’ve seen her quietly practicing her dance moves in the mirror or performing her ballet stretches, but it never really registered to me that she was taking it seriously.  We even missed a few classes, because we were out of town or because- once- Chris even forgot.  But we received a notice a few weeks ago announcing the recital and decided that we should probably go. We hoped she would go up on stage, but I didn’t have expectations beyond that. 

So I was not at all surprised when five minutes before her class was set to take the stage, I heard her erupt from the other side of the auditorium.  I followed the sobs, sprinting over to try to quell the tears.   I knew exactly what happened.  Clearly, she had developed a case of stage fright as the reality of the performance sunk in and she was frightened.  Through her tears, I could make out, “I… I… I…”

I held her tight and stroked her hair.  “It’s ok. sweetie.  It’s ok.  What’s wrong?  Are you scared?  You don’t have to go on stage if you don’t want to.  It’s o.k.”

Her cries continued, “I… I… I… MISSED MY SHOW!”

I was dumbfounded. 

Then it dawned on me that her teacher, Ms. Ari, who has multiple classes, had led a group on stage that included many of the same girls from Ella’s dance class.  Ella had assumed that Ms. Ari had simply decided that on performance day Ella didn’t make the cut.  She was completely crushed. 

Ms. Ari speed walked over to assure her and us that no, Ella was still slated for her performance.  Ella’s cries turned into tiny hiccups and then to a calm smile.  She took Ms. Ari’s hand and went back to the line of dancers.  Then Ms. Ari led the tiny ballerinas on stage and they danced their hearts out. 

Then it was my time to sob.  I was so proud of her.

Here is the lovely Ella with her teacher, Ms. Ari, post performance:

In other updates, our garden is still mostly quack grass.  Eh.  You can only do so much. 

This weekend will see the tilling up of the quack grass, the creation of a trellis and the planting of companion plants (Borage!  Marigolds!  Thyme!) and the planting of broccoli and potatoes.  Check back soon for pictures.

Life is Good.

Crazy. Fast. Complicated. But good. Very good.

On any given day, I feel rushed. And stressed and completely overwhelmed and out of my league. I talk about it here on my blog. I talk about it to others. But mostly I worry about it quietly to myself. I worry that I am not doing enough of this or a good enough job of that. I worry that I can’t get it all done and when I do that it won’t be good enough. I worry about events in the past and I worry about the future and I worry and I worry and I worry.

And then all of the sudden, time and the universe collapse into one single, perfect, stock still moment and I realize that life is good and I wouldn’t change a single thing about it. Not a single thing.

Like yesterday when I crawled into bed at 4:32 in the afternoon with a fussy baby Jack and a good book and the two of us hid out under the covers and nursed until he drifted off to a peaceful sleep. Or this morning when Ella asked me to help her take off her “Pah gee jays”, and get her dressed into play clothes, or when she asks what Jack’s “knick-knack name” should be because we call her “Ella Bella” and we call Jay “Jaybird” but we just call Jack, “Jack,” and I think about how wonderful it is that she still mispronounces things. Or when she chased me down the hallway as I was heading to work for a second hug and kiss goodbye. Or when I drop Jay off at school and ask for a hug goodbye and two or three of his classmates wrap their arms around me in response. Or when I wave goodbye to him in the morning after helping get him settled into his kindergarten class and he looks utterly in his element in the classroom. Or when I pull two loaves of fresh homemade bread out of the oven, or when Chris and I play a late night game of cribbage and he beats me by a single point yet again. Or when I am hastily prepping for a community garden meeting and then I realize how lucky I am to be part of the movement that is making urban agriculture a reality. Or when I am frazzled at work and then realize how lucky I am to go to work everyday and feel proud that what I do helps make the world a better place.

I get it. I am lucky. And life is good. (o.k., and a little crazy… but I wouldn’t change a thing.)

Making Lemons Out of Lemonade, or whatever.

I am sitting in the Denver airport, flying home after a three day meeting and my flight, I have just been informed, has been cancelled. Not delayed. Not rescheduled. Cancelled.

Cancelled, they tell me, for weather related reasons, out of Denver. As I sit here brooding, two hours after my flight should have left, I am looking out at clear skies. In the distance, the Rocky Mountains frame the horizon. United Airlines put me on another carrier’s flight, about four hours after my original flight should have left, but with no guarantees that I’ll get home tonight. We’ll see if it goes out, they tell me. This flight to Madison is the only way home tonight, and if they cancel it, they won’t even comp my hotel room. It’s weather related, you know, they remind me. I stare out the window at blue skies and I smolder. Rar. And also, grrrr.

This is the first time I have been away from Jack since he was born (shout out to Grandma who flew out to my annual conference in November so Jack could travel with me on that trip). First of all, let me say, this sucks rotten eggs. Second of all, the Denver airport has no effing place to pump breast milk. As I sit here, all of the milk I have pumped over the last three days sits thawing out in my carry on suitcase, no doubt making a gross milky mess of my Smartwool socks and whatever else I crammed in there to try to up the insulation factor. And I get pissier by the minute. So naturally, I turn to people watching.

Why is that woman wearing such ridiculous high heels? Why is that man talking so loudly on his cell phone? Why is that lady speaking that way to her kid? They are eating THAT? What is that guy reading? Why is her bag so… pink?

Why is it that when we are unhappy we begin judging other people?

There is this really unfortunate tendency that I think we share as humans to start judging others and ourselves when we are unhappy. I have no doubt that it feeds back into itself- we judge ourselves and others, which makes us unhappy, then we judge others to make ourselves feel better. We can always find someone that we can compare ourselves favorably to, right? That stranger, that co-worker, that neighbor, that friend, that cashier who totally didn’t know what she was doing on the cash register at the drugstore. Good thing we are not as bad as THOSE folks. Right?

I suspect this explains the ratings for the Jersey Shore.

It is always a good time for mindfulness, but as I sit here brooding, anxious to get back home and to my family, it is a particularly good time to practice mindfulness and loving kindness. To stop the angry judging, to stop the irrational and unloving inner sniping at myself and others. To take a deep breath and perhaps, even, maybe, enjoy the next hour or two as an opportunity to read, write and meditate.

You know, make lemonade out of lemons… or perhaps butter out of thawed breastmilk…?

And Just in Time for the Holiday Season, We’re Better!

Just wanted to report that we are all better, so you can invite us to your Christmas party now. We promise not to infect you like we did my entire office suite this week, or Jay’s classroom or my family members on the East coast who somehow contracted conjunctivitis virtually and who now won’t even answer my phone calls for fear of us transmitting some other germ fest.

Kidding. I do not know why they won’t answer my calls.

Kidding again. I suspect they don’t answer my calls because I don’t actually like, call, and stuff. And this reminds of something to complain about.

Kids and phone calls. Why is it that every time, EVERY time, the phone rings, the kids seize upon that very moment to:

-Break something
-Kill each other
-Fashion a weapon
-Break something else
-Decide it is high time to try rappelling off of the third floor balcony
-Whisper forcefully to me, as if whispering somehow makes it possible to hold two different conversations simultaneously
-Jump on their beds (They have bunk beds. Think about the physics of this.)
-Spill something
-Bite the dog
-Cry because the dog bit them back, and WTF, mom?
-Need their butt wiped
-Find something gross to step in, put their fingers in, put into their mouths, or rub into their hair
-Run around the condo at top speed (we have a 1000 square foot condo. Think about the physics of this)
-Slam into a wall at top speed
-Spill something else
-Sing “Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I LOVE YA, TOMORROW!” while spinning around wildly and careening into furniture
-Try furtively to repair broken stuff with pounds of Scotch tape and the sash from my bathrobe

So, friends and family, if you’ve ever wondered why I am more accessible on Facebook than on my cell phone, there you have it. I am still trying to get the tape and bits of lampshade off of my bathrobe sash.

So, um, can we come to your Christmas party or what?

I have been thinking a lot about toxics lately.

And revolutions. And toxic revolutions. I have been wondering what my best next step should be. Yes, DuPont has faded into the background since I kindly invited them to get the fuck off my blog. They have not made many, if any, more visits to my blog.

And you know what?

It kind of pisses me off.

I start to wonder if they have dismissed me or the fight that I am waging against their products and the toxins they contain. I wonder if, once they insulted me on my own blog, they have turned to the next Mommy blogger who disparaged them or their products. I wonder what it will take to get their attention in a very real, very visceral way.

Because, dude. Believe me. What they are doing, and what they are not telling us publicly, is fucked up.

This is not exclusive to DuPont, but I have developed a bit of a grudge against them in the last few days, so I will use their name as a metaphor for the epicenter of evil chemical industry corporate practices. They know that their products, like Teflon and Scotch Guard, contain likely carcinogens. But, they say that they try to teach folks to use their products “safely.” Which to them, means in very small print on page 30 of their instruction booklet making some mention of not cooking Teflon pans on high heat. You know that booklet that you toss in the recycling bin with the rest of the packaging? That booklet that no one reads? Because who needs an instruction booklet for a frying pan? Yeah. That one. Next time you come across a non-stick pan, read through that booklet. And then send that shit back to DuPont with a request for your money back.

And instead of acknowledging this fact of consumer nature and either being very upfront about the dangers of PFOA, or (God forbid) removing these toxic chemicals from their products, the company remains belligerent and unrepentant when we call them on it.

So here’s what I did today.

Step one. I joined the Safer Chemicals, Healthy Families campaign. I told them my DuPont story and joined the thousands of other parents and loved ones who are concerned about toxic chemicals in our households and in our environment. Now I am asking you to do the same thing. Please check out this campaign to reform the Toxic Substances Control Act, because you know who ELSE is trying to reform the Toxic Substances Control Act?

DuPont.

And not in a good way.

Dupont and their other friends behind the American Chemistry Council, a powerful industry lobbying group, are fighting hard to have legislators oppose efforts for producer responsibility bills. Which means that even though they acknowledge this stuff is dangerous, they would really not like to have to take responsibility for it. That would, like, totally cut into their profits and be pretty inconvenient and stuff.

Step two. I called my people and have started to strategize with them about how we are going to band together, as a movement, and turn the tide against these invasive, ubiquitous chemicals on a legislative front.

Step three. I shared my story with you. And I hope that you will share my story, and yours, with others. We do not have to live in a world where we can not eat canned beans, or stir-fry Tuesday night’s dinner on high heat. We can do better. Join up with me at Safer Chemicals, Healthy Families and tell DuPont and their goons to stuff it. Help create a revolution so that years from now, you can tell your granddaughters that you fought the good fight.

And won.

A letter to Dupont

After my most recent entry, I received a comment from the fine folks at Dupont, emphatically arguing that Perfluorooctanoic Acid (PFOA) is not actually all that bad and maybe the people who read my blog would like a little more education on the subject. Ross, the Dupont representative, indicated that they would (in their kind, unbiased, industry authority) be happy to provide more information to all of us. In the meantime, he advised we should know that "no authoritative body has designated PFOA as a human carcinogen." If you'd like to see his response for yourself, check out the comments on my last post.

Here, then, is my response:

Ross, Ross, Ross. Thanks for your interest in my homespun blog. I guess it is an honor to draw the attention of DuPont's googlebot. Your argument is careful and well articulated. It is also steeped in industry rhetoric. While it may be technically true that "no authoritative body has designated PFOA as a human carcinogen," let’s talk about what it would entail in order for us to prove, conclusively, that PFOA is a human carcinogen.

It would entail the deliberate and rigorous testing of these chemicals on humans over a period of several years in a clinical setting. It would entail deliberate exposure of human test subjects to these chemicals in measured amounts to see if it, well, killed them. It would entail observing any deaths, without interference, to test the hypothesis. And then running a statistical analysis of these deaths to see if there was a strong enough correlation between deaths from cancer and exposure to PFOA.

This sort of testing, last I knew, was illegal.

So let’s be honest. No authoritative body has designated PFOA as a human carcinogen because the bodies are not stacked up outside of DuPont’s laboratories. Interestingly enough, the bodies ARE stacking up outside of DuPont’s manufacturing facilities. In Parkersburg , West Virginia, where most of DuPont’s Teflon is manufactured, PFOA is now present in the drinking water of residents. These include families with young children, Ross. Just like mine, Ross. Maybe just like yours.

Families and individuals in Parkersburg have been enjoying higher rates of birth defects, prostate cancer, autism, and asthma. Perhaps courtesy of their enhanced drinking water. Drinking their water and filling up their baby bottles is now dangerous, because, and here I’ll quote the same authoritative body that you did, according to the EPA, PFOA is a “likely carcinogen” (Read more here: http://www.epa.gov/oppt/pfoa/pubs/pfoarisk.html)

It is in our best interest, and the best interest of our children that we follow the precautionary principle, which in layman’s terms means better safe than sorry. Yes, we have not conclusively found that PFOA is a human carcinogen. But I will not allow my kids to become human test subjects. Will you offer up yours?

Thanks for your interest.

I love bullet points

• It’s as if I don’t have to organize my thoughts or even be particularly concise because there is this small circle at the beginning of my sentence and this is all the organization and consision I need (I made that word up, but I kind of like it, so let’s roll with it). Looks like I could be in the military .


• I finally did get the sand box done and the pictures are in my camera. But I can not show them to you. Because my camera is broken. It is … clogged with sand. I wish I were making that up.
  
  God, the irony.


• We are going to Alaska in three days. I have not mentioned this before on the blog because I have not thought about the trip since I booked the tickets two months ago. It is not that I am not excited. I just can’t think past dinner.


• Does anyone know a good acupuncturist? How do you tell the quacks from the nonquacks? Do they help make stabbing, shooting pain running down the entire back of your right leg go away? How much would it cost for just the stabbing pain to go away? Is shooting pain more or less expensive to treat than stabbing pain? Can needles even make stabbing pain go away? Does it work like a double negative in Algebra? When, if ever, does self administration with a knitting needle make sense? Do I send myself the bill? Will I have good magazines in my waiting room?


• This is what I devolve into at 4 pm on a work day.


• It is raining here, again. Good for the (now) sixty plus tomato plants that are taking up residence in our no-till plot. We had twenty plants in already, but were given an entire flat of tomato plants yesterday for free and, well, we love our Friday night pizza tradition.

  We were also given celeriac. Which I assumed was the misguided giver's poor attempt to spell "celery". It wasn't. I planted four plants before it dawned on me that maaaaaaaybe this person didn't have such a precarious grasp of spelling. Maybe there IS such a thing as "celeriac". And maybe it is not just a word that sounds like a treatment for a mental disorder.

  I just hope it doesn’t taste like ass, because it is taking up precious real estate from my beloved tomatoes.
  
  Also, we discovered asparagus in our plot! This new section was plowed into garden plots just this spring. Prior to that it had been a neglected baseball field. After I fenced off our plot this year, I noticed asparagus growing along the chicken wire. Woohoo! I noticed it too late for us to harvest this year, but next year we’ll have some fresh asparagus.

• I'd like a couple of book suggestions for the trip.

• I will probably not read the books.

• I will probably get them, pack them, feel guilty about hauling them to Alaska and allowing them to replace other things in my suitcase (like Children's Tylenol), intend to read them as soon as the kids fall asleep, try to get the kids to fall asleep, fall asleep myself, wake up to see the kids using them as hats, confiscate them, shove them into my suitcase, forget about them, haul them home and wonder why I even thought I should bring them along in the first place because I never have time to read at home, let alone when I am on a trip with two kids who are bouncing off the walls from all of the excitement and no place to settle them down in, and then leave them in my half unpacked suitcase until Chris decides he has had enough and unpacks everything for me and puts my suitcase away, neatly placing the books on my dresser.

• So do you have any good book recommendations?

  
  

Project Sandbox

We're making a sandbox. Which really means the kids are tearing up the house and fighting while I swear under my breath from the realization that all of my freaking hardware is wrong, wrong, wrong, and I am way over my head with this stupid project. Ohhh, but it was going to be so EASY. Easy. Yes. "Easy."

Just a little project, probably wrapped up before nap time. Heck, probably done before my second cup of coffee this morning. I'll just get some 2X4s, and screw them together, take it to the garden, fill it with sand and we're in business. Piece of cake.

Has anyone seen my drill bit? Jay, put the box of screws down. Why doesn't this end match up to this other end? Why won't these screws tighten down anymore?

Who thought this dumb, stupid project was even a good idea?! Has anyone seen my drill bit? Jay, put that down, you'll break that! Ella, leave that alone! HEY YOU GUYS! No wood screws up the nose!

Has anyone seen my drill bit? Jay stop chasing your sister with the screwdriver!

How is one side a full two inches shorter than the other? It's a freaking box. Four sides. How can this be so hard?

Has anyone seen my drill bit? Ella, DON'T TOUCH THE DRILL. Jay, close the toolbox. Now. NOW!

HAS. ANYONE. SEEN. MY. FREAKING. DRILL BIT?!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!

Somehow, I suspect him:

TGINM

I have read and re-read the same four sentences for the past twenty-five minutes. I am trying to get my reading done for class, but there is a knot in my stomach and a lump in my throat, and a dozen other clichés about dread and worry and anxiety and heart ache, and no amount of coffee or deep breathing has improved my concentration.

Because there is a big red circle around next Tuesday. And today’s Friday. And oh my God.

More significantly, it’s the last Friday of my maternity leave. Ella is now twelve weeks old, and next week, I go into the office wearing big girl pants and a smile plastered on my face, dragging my breast pump and my breaking heart in with me. Next week I kiss Jay and Ella goodbye and head into the office to do work that will pay for our health insurance and our milk habit. I will use big words again and return email. I will go to staff meetings and make small talk with co-workers. And I will try not to cry.

I’ll make no bones about it. Life has been a challenge these past few months as our new and improved family learns a new and improved rhythm; as we struggle to figure out, well, actually, everything. I have lost my temper with Jay. More than once. I have collapsed into tears, because it was just too hard. Everything was just. Too. Hard. I have gone into the bathroom and locked the door so that I could spend just three minutes all by myself, without anyone attached to my boob or clinging to my leg. I checked Ella into ChildWatch at the YMCA the very day she turned six weeks old because Jesus, I needed a break. And a workout. And a break. And really, really, really, a break.

And now, here I am. So wishing I could live every moment over again.

These have been the twelve hardest, most exhausting, beautiful, wonderful, amazing, incredible weeks I have ever lived. I have spent entire days building cardboard forts with Jay and tromping around state parks with Ella snuggled peacefully in the sling. I have eaten lunch with Chris everyday and cooked beans from scratch, stirring them all day as they simmered in the pot and the smell of bay leaves and garlic filled the condo. I have been around to kiss Jay’s owies away and to see Ella’s first smile. I have been here to take Jay to story time at the library and to lay down with him at nap time, or hold his hand as I rocked Ella in the glider next to his big boy bed. I have been here to make peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches with STRAWBERRY jelly, not grape jally, mama, and I have been here to sneak Jay cookies when Daddy wasn't looking. I have been with Chris, Jay and Ella every moment for the last twelve weeks. And though sometimes I swore- SWORE- that it was hell, and please could I just poop ONCE without someone wiggling their toddler fingers through the crack under the door and saying, “Maaaaaammmmaaaaa… what you DOING in der? Come out pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaase” there was never, ever, a second of doubt for me that it was heaven. It has been nothing short of wonderful.

I know that when I go in next week I am not shipping my kids off to boarding school. I will come home from the office. Every day, even. I will eat dinner with them and read books and books and books. I will listen to Jay talk about his day. I will give them baths and sing the Wheels on the Bus. I will wake up on Saturday morning and make pancakes with Jay and put butter and honey on them, just like he likes. I will still be able to kiss his owies. Ella will still smile and coo for me.

I am still their mom.

I know this. I know that whether I am working at an office or home watching Thomas the Tank Engine DVDs that I am still mama. I love them when we are apart as much as I love them when we’re together.

But still.

My heart hurts.

And that ugly red circle is creeping closer and closer. And I miss them already. I can’t bring myself to say TGIF. Instead, I’ll say TGINM Thank God it’s not Monday. Because Monday is going to suck.

And I still have more forts to build and cookies to sneak before then.